Bloody Politics (6 page)

Samantha peered at me. “What were you looking for?”

“I'm not sure exactly. I guess I wanted to see if anything jumped out at me.”

“Did it?”

I shook my head. “No, not really. But all the while I was looking at that stuff I had this feeling there was something else. Something I was missing.” I scooped up several almonds Samantha had placed on the end table beside me.

“Why dredge up all that stuff those poor souls were working on before they died? Let the dead rest in peace.” She gave a little shiver, then sipped her bourbon.

“I'm not digging
them
up, just their research.”

“I thought you'd finally let all of that stuff go. Why go back into the past again?”

“Because I learned something yesterday that caused me to take another look. It made me think there was something else going on that I had missed.”

“What was it?”

“Schroeder, the police detective handling Natasha's murder investigation, called Casey and told him they'd found a bug, a listening device on Natasha's cell phone.” I watched Samantha's eyes widen in surprise.

“
What!
Who on earth would be tracing her calls?”

“Precisely what Casey and I said. Casey wondered about the possibility that she was more involved in Gary Levitz's drug business than she'd let on. We now know that's not true. And the only other possibility would be if Natasha was issued a cell phone that belonged to someone else. But that's not likely either.”

Samantha looked puzzled. “Where are you going with this?”

“I started seeing some connections. Karen was researching the same international banking topics Quentin Wilson was. They're both dead. Celeste Allard was researching Karen's office emails on those topics and some others I'd asked her to check. She's dead. And Natasha had all of Quentin Wilson's research files and had started asking questions. Now, she's dead. Karen and Natasha, Wilson and Celeste were all asking questions on those same topics.”

Samantha looked at me, clearly incredulous at what I'd just said. “Surely, you're not trying to make some connections with all those deaths, are you? I've gotta tell you, that's way more than stretching it.”

Having listened to myself say it out loud, it did sound far-fetched. “I know, it doesn't make sense, so how could it be possible? All I know is, I have a strong feeling those deaths were connected.”

“I still think you're looking for something that's not there. What connections are there other than the research?”

“For one thing, the reason Celeste Allard left for the Eastern Shore was because an intruder got into her D.C. apartment while she was out running one evening. She's certain of that because things were moved around on her desk. And the guy even opened drawers and cabinets in her bedroom and her closet and bathroom.”

Samantha screwed up her face. “That's creepy.”

“That's what I said. But Danny was with me that night, and he said it looked like someone was trying to send Celeste a message. A message that he could get to her. Anyway, she headed for the Bay that night, and she was dead within a week. Gas explosion in the house where she was staying alone.”

“Danny believed someone had gotten into her apartment?” Samantha's expression had now changed from skepticism to intense interest.

I nodded. “And there's another reason that makes me suspicious something else is going on. Natasha was going to bring me a copy of the notes she took from Quentin Wilson's notebook. That's what started all of this, remember? The Widow Wilson was curious when she found it in his desk drawer. So she called Natasha and asked her to come to her office to take a look. Natasha was convinced it was simply more of his research notes, but she told me she'd make a copy of anything interesting she found.”

I took a sip from the delightful white wine before continuing. Samantha stared at me in rapt attention, not saying a word.

“Natasha also said Sylvia Wilson indicated there were several politicians' names in that notebook. So Natasha and I made plans to meet Thursday morning. She was going to bring me a copy of her notes, but she never got to because she was murdered right before we could meet.” I stared off into Samantha's fireplace. “And now we know someone was listening in on Natasha's calls, so they would know exactly where to find her and when. We even set the time we would meet.” I met Samantha's rapt gaze. “I've never liked coincidences, Samantha, especially when bad things happen. I called Casey this morning and asked him if the police found any papers in Natasha's pockets or clothing. He called back right before the memorial service and said nothing was found. No papers, just car keys and a cell phone.”

I held Samantha's gaze and watched her expression change to worry.

“That's why I want to find out if there's a connection. I've decided to contact Sylvia Wilson and ask to speak with her privately. I want to find out what Quentin Wilson had in his notebook that may have cost Natasha Jorgensen her life.”

Samantha stared at me for a long minute before speaking. “Be careful, Molly. That woman can be treacherous.”

I gave her a crooked smile. “Don't worry. I've seen her in action. I'll be on guard. And don't worry. Your name will never come up.”

Samantha simply rolled her eyes. “Well, I really hope there's nothing in that notebook that's important. So you can let that poor girl rest in peace along with the rest of them.”

I had the distinct feeling no one was going to be resting in peace anytime soon. “Apparently there's one important name there. Congressman Ryker.”

Samantha's eyes went even wider. “Good God, Molly. Promise me you won't do anything rash. Talk to Danny first. When's he coming back?”

“Tomorrow. And I promise I won't get in anyone's face.” I gave her a sardonic smile.

Samantha drained her glass. “If there's anyone you should leave in peace, it's that man. Whatever Quentin or Natasha or Karen or any of them were investigating, it has nothing to do with you. You're not involved. So step away from all of this, Molly.”

I savored the last of the wine before adding to my friend's worry. “I would, except there is one more thing that makes me suspicious.”

“Oh, Lord. I'm afraid to ask.” Samantha left the loveseat and walked to the liquor cabinet to refresh her drink.

I waited until she was relaxed on the loveseat once again, bourbon in hand. “The security team that installed the system in my house and yard found a small listening device in my living room wall. A bug. Right above the desk where my computer is. The same computer where the intruder had opened my documents files. And rifled the desk drawers and pulled out Karen's daytimer.” I deliberately watched apprehension fill Samantha's gaze this time.

“You never told me that.”

“I know. I didn't want to worry you. Plus Danny and the team said it was probably put there for the previous resident. Some businessman. That made sense at the time. But now, I'm not so sure.”

Samantha stared at me, clearly worried this time. “Please be careful. You don't want to make any more enemies in this town. Trust me. I know.”

“I promise,” I said, even though I knew that was going to be impossible.

seven

Sunday

“So, do you think
I'm making connections that aren't really there? Samantha's hoping it's all my imagination.”

Danny held my hand as we walked around the edges of the Tidal Basin. The leaves had all turned now with the chillier nights. Yellow and orange, reds dotted here and there, accenting.

“No, I don't think you're imagining things. I'm not sure if those deaths are connected or not, but they do raise questions. I don't like coincidences either.”

Hearing that my suspicions had passed Danny's initial skepticism made me feel better. “I figure I'll know once I take a look at Quentin Wilson's notebook. If all I find is more research notes, then I'll chalk it up to imagination. But, I have a feeling there's something else there.”

“You're talking about Congressman Ryker, aren't you?”

“Yes, I admit it. Once I heard Ryker's name, I knew there was something else going on. With Ryker, there always is.”

“Okay, what's your next move, Corporal?”

I heard the tease in Danny's voice. “I'll call Congresswoman Sylvia Wilson's office first thing tomorrow morning and ask for a return call. I'll say it has to do with Natasha Jorgensen. That ought to pique her interest.”

“It should. Meanwhile, I think you should start a document file to keep track of what you've learned so far. Put it in order. It'll be easier to see what you've got. I assume you've been keeping notes.”

“Oh, yeah. I started writing notes in an old spiral notebook in my desk.”

Danny looked at me with a sardonic expression. “Don't tell me you've got a notebook too? Get it on the computer, Molly. There are too many notebooks floating around as it is. Wilson's notebook. Your niece Karen's notebook. And that young staffer Natasha was taking notes. Take my advice and put everything you've learned into one document file. It's easier to make sense of it all.”

I laughed. “You've got a good point.”

“Now, why don't we forget about politicians and enjoy what's left of this warm October Sunday? Why don't we drive over to the waterfront and see what fresh seafood is available. We can feast tonight.”

“Great idea, Squad Leader.”

Monday

I tabbed through the spreadsheet of Peter Brewster's rental properties. A string quartet was playing Bach softly from my computer's speakers. Bach's ordered brilliance in the background even made entering rental expenses and revenues easier. Amazing how that worked.

Marvin Gaye's “Grapevine” interrupted my concentration, and I grabbed my personal cell phone. Caller Unknown flashed on the screen as I answered. A woman's contralto voice greeted me. None other than the Widow Wilson.

“Ms. Malone? Congresswoman Sylvia Wilson here. You're with Senator Russell's office, I believe. My staff tells me you wished to speak to me. Something concerning Natasha Jorgensen. It's tragic what happened to that poor girl. Were you a friend of hers?”

“Yes, I was. Natasha was smart and savvy, and she's gone much too soon,” I said, wondering if I should try to ease into the conversation or simply jump in. As always, my natural forthright inclinations won out, so I jumped in. “The reason I called, Congresswoman, is because Natasha had been helping me with some research my niece Karen Grayson was doing before her death. Karen was on Congressman Jackson's staff. Her research involved recent legislation before the House concerning international banking. Natasha told me your late husband had done similar research before his death.” I paused. “She also told me you had questions about that research and she went to your office to check your husband's notes in hopes of finding answers.” I waited to see what Sylvia Wilson would say. I'd served the ball into her court. She could play it or simply let it drop at the net.

She played it. “Yes, that's correct, Ms. Malone. My husband had made some notes I couldn't understand. I was hoping Natasha could answer my questions. But unfortunately, she didn't know what the notes meant either. She was going to check her previous research for Quentin in hopes it would shed some light, but alas, she never got the chance. She was attacked that next morning under the bridge.”

I debated how to follow up on this without seeming too presumptuous. A fine balance. I didn't want to arouse suspicion on the Widow Wilson's part either.

“I spoke with Natasha before she went to see you, Congresswoman, and she and I planned to meet after she'd seen your late husband's notes. She had great respect for Congressman Wilson's judgment. She told me if he was interested in that subject, there must be something there. And it might make sense of my niece Karen's similar research on the subject.” That was a deliberate exaggeration, but I figured a compliment could help. It surely couldn't hurt. Both Quentin Wilson and Karen were dead and buried.

Sylvia Wilson paused. “That was good of her to say. But, I'm curious why you're so interested, Ms. Malone.”

“I'm simply trying to complete Karen's research and find what conclusions she was trying to make. As a tribute to her, I suppose. She was another talented staffer on the Hill whose life was cut short far too early. Like Natasha, Karen died violently. Shot in the head while she sat in her car in Georgetown one evening last spring.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that. That's … that's awful. Was it a mugger?”

“No, it was deliberate murder by her boss, Jed Molinoff, who was Congressman Jackson's chief staffer. Karen was ending their affair, and Molinoff panicked that it would come to light. He left a suicide note before he took his life last spring.” I let the melodramatic moment hang in the air, hoping my blatant emotional pitch would register.

“I understand your desire to do something in your niece's memory, Ms. Malone. So, yes, I'll agree to let you see Quentin's notebook. Do you want to come to my office or meet elsewhere?”

“Why don't we meet elsewhere,” I suggested, my old reluctance to walk through those Congressional office hallways reasserting itself. Too many memories from the past.

“All right. How about the Willard Hotel this evening? I've been to a couple of meetings there, and it's become a favorite.”

Her choice made me smile. The Willard was one of my senator father's favorite places in Washington. He was a savvy, respected senator and a historian-at-heart.

“You must have studied history, Congresswoman. The Willard played a large role in our Capitol's history. Many politicians preferred discussing important political issues in the Willard bar than in the hallowed halls of Congress.”

“Yes, I know. History was my late father's passion as well. There are some quiet corners in the main lobby where we can meet. I have a meeting that may run late, but I could be there by eight o'clock.”

“Eight o'clock would be fine, Congresswoman.”

Monday afternoon

Peter Brewster rounded the corner of his library office as I walked past. He had a preoccupied look of intense concentration. I'd seen that look a lot lately.

“How's it going, Peter? You've been so busy on the Hill these past two months, I rarely have a chance to talk with you when I arrive in the mornings.”

His boyish grin suddenly appeared. I thought the increased Senate demands had wiped it away permanently.

“Hey, Molly. It's getting better, now that the senator and I have caught up with all that research we had to do for Senator Dunston's committee.”

“You two have been buried in international finance documents and papers for weeks now,” I said as we approached the kitchen. Luisa was cheerfully reorganizing cabinets, I could tell. No doubt another item on her formidable to-do list.

“I finally divided up all the financial topics and assigned staffers to each group. Way more efficient. Oh, and thanks for doing some of those summaries for us. We were heading into the home stretch. Now we're beginning to see daylight.”

“Wow, I'm impressed,” I leaned against the doorjamb. “Did any of those research files I gave you from Karen help at all? They sounded like versions of the same topics. Really dry, if you ask me.”

“Well, you're right about that. I think the senator and I reached new levels on the caffeine-intake scale. We may even have rivaled you.”

“Not possible. I'm world-class. Tell the senator that when you see him. He'll laugh. I haven't seen him in ages, it seems. He's always gone when I get here before eight. And you're both still at the Hill when I leave at night.”

Peter laughed. “Sounds like you miss us. I'll tell him.”

“I'm not the only one.” I pointed to Luisa who'd moved on to another cabinet now. “Luisa is bored out of her skull with no caterers and guests to supervise these last two months. She's been reduced to working on her to-do list and reorganizing everything in sight. No cabinet or closet is safe. I'm forced to lock my office door when I leave in the evening.” I deliberately spoke louder than usual.

“I
heard
that,” Luisa sang out from the kitchen.

“She's got Albert upstairs turning mattresses. When she's not sending him all over town on errands.”

Peter simply laughed. “Well, all of you will be pleased to hear the senator has decided to invite his entire Senate subcommittee for dinner in a couple of weeks. So, we'll be back, getting in your way again, Luisa.”

“I'll look forward to it,” Luisa said. “And tell the senator I reorganized his tie rack this morning. The colors were all mismatched.” She gave us both a wicked smile.

This time I laughed out loud. Matching up ties was definitely beyond my patience level. “See, I told you. That dinner has come not a moment too soon. Luisa would be organizing your office next. I've seen that desk.”

“Don't even come close, Luisa. I have live creatures hiding beneath the paperwork. And they bite.” He laughed as he headed down the hallway.

I accompanied him toward the front entry, remembering something I'd wanted to ask. “Are you still keeping track of where all the Congressional members are living? You remember we were talking about the clusters of Congressmen shivering together, sharing townhouses, bunking in with each other.”

“Kind of. I've got an intern keeping directories now. Were you looking for someone in particular?”

“I was curious where Congresswoman Sylvia Wilson was living. Did she rent a condo somewhere posh?”

Peter opened the front door and paused. “I think I recall someone telling me she was living in the same townhouse where Quentin Wilson lived. I think she bought it for him when he first entered Congress five years ago.”

“Boy, was that a good investment. Real estate prices keep rising here.” I smiled. “By the way, your properties are showing a profit as well.”

“Always a good thing. I'll see you tomorrow, Molly,” he said as he headed out the door.

Hopefully, Albert had finished turning those mattresses and was already waiting in the car. I headed down the hallway toward the kitchen and more coffee. Meanwhile, something about Sylvia Wilson living in her recently departed husband's townhouse buzzed in the back of my brain.

Monday evening

I walked through the Willard Hotel's opulent lobby. Strolled, rather. I was in no hurry since I enjoyed the opportunity to step back in time. Richly upholstered armchairs were clustered together with antique end tables all around the expansive lobby, inviting private conversations or exhausted tourists who simply wanted to rest. Tall ceilings and art-filled walls spoke of another era. Another century, actually.

I spotted Sylvia Wilson seated in a corner, conveniently away from the other groups of people who sat, lounged, talked, and chatted in groups.

“Congresswoman Wilson?” I said, hand extended. “I'm Molly Malone. Thank you so much for meeting me.”

Sylvia Wilson's sharp eyes did a quick appraisal of me. Hair, wardrobe, makeup, shoes, jewelry. I doubt she missed anything. I wondered what grade I'd been given.

“So nice to meet you, Ms. Malone,” she said, giving me what looked to be her official smile. She indicated the empty armchair next to the table beside her.

I noticed a half-filled martini glass on the lamp-lit table as I sat. “Please call me Molly,” I said, placing on my lap the slender portfolio I'd brought. I noticed the congresswoman's briefcase beside her chair. “You're very kind to take time from your busy schedule, Congresswoman. I promise I won't waste any of it with too many questions.”

“Actually, Molly, I'm hoping you can answer some of
my
questions.” She reached inside the briefcase and withdrew a plain spiral-bound notebook, the kind bought in a drugstore. She paged through it. “Most of Quentin's notes have to do with rules and regulations on international banking, particularly transfers of funds. But after every section, he jotted down other things. Names, for
example.” She paused on one page. “Here's one. Epsilon Group. Have you ever heard of it? One of my staffers did a cursory check and learned it was an organization of international financiers, distinguished pro
fessors, and European finance ministers whose purpose was to educate the public about global financial issues. Writing papers and giving speeches.”

I was about to reply when the waiter approached. I ordered a coffee, not about to dull my wits around the Widow Wilson. I sensed I'd need them all.

“I know Karen was researching the same group,” I said. “She'd also learned the Epsilon Group had actually succeeded in getting some minor recommendations added to Congressional legislation in the last couple of years. I believe Congressman Jackson supported a bill with one of their recommendations. Karen worked on a lot of special projects for the congressman.”

Sylvia Wilson listened carefully. “I see. Congressman Jackson was on the International Monetary Policy and Trade Subcommittee, so that would be right in his area. I'm still curious why Quentin was interested.” She turned another page. “He's written down Congressman Edward Ryker's name. As well as Senator Dunston. Now Ryker is Chair of the House Financial Services Committee, and Dunston was recently appointed chair of the Senate Banking, Housing, and Urban Affairs Committee. So that makes sense. However, Quentin also wrote ‘Stuttgart Bank' beneath Dunston's name, then drew several dollar signs.” She looked up at me with a quizzical expression. “Does that ring a bell with Karen's research?”