Bloody Politics (7 page)

It might not ring a bell with Karen's notes, but those names definitely rang loud bells for me. I opened the portfolio in my lap. “Karen's notes made no mention of Dunston, so that's interesting. Also, no mention of a Stuttgart Bank. But the dollar signs obviously mean money. Probably money transfers.” I watched Sylvia Wilson nod, then I added. “But I do know that Congressman Ryker must have a connection with the Epsilon Group, because I attended one of their speeches last spring. I saw him there, acting really chummy with the speaker, Ambassador Holmberg, former EU Finance Minister.”

Sylvia Wilson sat back in her chair, clearly digesting what I'd just said. “Interesting. Quentin had also written the name Holmberg in his notes. In fact, he'd put arrows between Ryker's and Holmberg's names.” She turned the notebook around and held it out so I could see. Sure enough, Quentin Wilson had drawn an arrow linking the
two men's names. I quickly scanned the rest of the page, hoping
to see more, but she returned the notebook to her lap. However, I thought I glimpsed something at the bottom of the page.

“Had Karen come to any conclusions? What connection do these people have with each other? Are they all members of this Epsilon Group?”

“I don't know.” I glanced at the pages in my portfolio. I'd taken Danny's advice and transferred all my notes to a document file. “According to Karen's research, the Epsilon Group members are all from the financial community. I searched them myself and found the same information your staff discovered. It described the group as a consortium of learned and prestigious experts who'd served various roles in international finance and governance. Stuff like that. The only names I found were those who were listed as speakers, like Ambassador Holmberg.” I glanced up. “Could I take a look at the notebook? I think I spotted something written at the bottom of the page.”

“Surely.” Sylvia Wilson extended the open notebook.

I tried not to grab it greedily and glanced at the bottom of the page. Quentin Wilson had scrawled what looked like “son,” then “Stuttgart.” I made mental notes of the second repetition of Stuttgart.

“It looks like he repeated the word Stuttgart. Is that ‘son' in front of it?”

“Maybe. Sometimes Quentin's handwriting got squished together when he was in a hurry.”

Eager to see what else was written, I deliberately put on the most innocent expression possible—innocent for me. “Do you mind if I page through?”

“Go ahead. There are only a few more names mentioned. Perhaps you'll recognize them.”

I pulled out a ballpoint pen and wrote down the little I'd learned so far. Stuttgart Bank, Senator Dunston, Holmberg, Ryker, and the word sun or son. Someone's son? I turned the pages slowly, scanning and making notes of what Quentin Wilson had written.
Geneva
.
Milan
. They were definitely places. At the bottom was another name.
Spencer
followed by a question mark. Was that a first or a last name? Considering how many people I had met passing through Senator Russell's dinners and receptions, it was impossible to remember all the names. I searched through my memory anyway to see if there was a connection, but nothing came to mind.

“I wish the name Spencer rang a bell, but it doesn't. We meet so many new people in Washington. Plus Senator Russell entertains frequently, so there's a constant stream of strangers visiting the residence.”

A small smile tweaked the edges of Sylvia Wilson's mouth. “Yes, I've heard of Senator Russell's parties, and I confess I look forward to being able to attend sometime in the future. Right now, I'm hard-pressed to remember all the new faces and names I've met since I was appointed.”

I returned the notebook to her, and the thought occurred that in a different time and different circumstances, Sylvia Wilson and I might have become friends. She had a no-nonsense attitude about her that I liked. “I've made notes of those names and comments that were new to me. I'll take a look at Karen's daytimer and other notes to see if they're mentioned. I promise to keep you posted as to anything I learn.”

Sylvia Wilson closed the notebook and returned it to her briefcase. “I'd appreciate that. I certainly don't have time to delve into this area at all, and frankly neither does my staff. In fact, I'm still perplexed as to why Quentin would have wasted his valuable time on researching an innocuous group of financiers.” She shook her head with a faintly disapproving expression. Then she focused her intense gaze on me. “And I'm still curious why your niece and now you have spent time researching the same thing. I can understand your wanting to do something in your niece's memory. But I sense there's something else behind your search, Molly.” She looked at me with that half smile once more.

I toyed with my reply, then decided I owed the Widow Wilson an honest answer, considering how she'd been so cooperative. “Actually, there is another reason that has spurred my curiosity, Congresswoman. I returned to Washington last spring, and since then four bright, talented staffers who worked on the Hill have died. Two died violently in the streets—my niece Karen and Natasha Jorgensen—and two by accident—your husband and a young congressional staffer in Congressman Jackson's office, Celeste Allard. The only thing all four of them had in common was they each were asking questions about the Epsilon Group, international banking, and financial legislation. Such innocuous-sounding subjects, we both agree. But I have a suspicious nature, and it tells me something else is involved. Particularly since I learned the police found a bug on Natasha's phone.”

I paused and watched Sylvia Wilson's eyes widen in surprise. She stared at me with rapt attention. “Really? That means …”

“That means that whoever was listening to her calls heard your phone conversation with Natasha asking her questions about your husband's notebook. And, they overheard my phone conversation with her saying we would see each other the morning following her meeting with you. Natasha was going to tell me what she saw in the notebook.” I met Sylvia's shocked gaze. “Of course, we never got to meet that morning. I arrived at the towpath shortly after the vicious attack. I remember hearing sirens wailing in Georgetown. I thought she'd overslept so I walked toward the bridge, hoping to see her, but I saw the police instead.” I stopped and let Sylvia Wilson conjure the rest.

“Oh, my God … you were there?”

“Right afterwards. I watched police carry a shroud-wrapped body away on a stretcher. I had a sinking feeling even then.”

Sylvia turned her face away. “And you think her death was connected to your niece Karen's?”

“I don't know if it was or not. But they were both researching the same thing.” I paused before adding, “And I have Karen's research notes at home in my desk. This past summer, I uncharacteristically returned to my home one weekday morning, and I frightened away an intruder. Whoever it was had come in my locked back door. He stole nothing, but he had rifled my desk drawers and opened my computer files.” Sylvia Wilson's face paled slightly. “I had an expert security firm totally redo my home and surroundings. And in the midst of that, they found a listening device in my wall. Directly above my desk.” I sat back, letting my words sink in.

Sylvia Wilson stared at me for over a minute, white-faced. “It will take some time for me to digest all of this, Molly. You've certainly given me much to think about.”

“I'm sure I don't need to tell you to please keep this entirely to yourself. No one else should know.”

“I agree.”

“Oh, and if I may give you some advice, Congresswoman. I've heard you're living in your husband's home, which you had purchased. My advice is to hire a special firm such as the one recommended to me. Have that house totally protected from intruders of any kind. Secure it completely. I'll be glad to give you the name of that company, if you'd like.”

“I'd like that very much, Molly. And please call me Sylvia.”

“I think you're being very wise … Sylvia,” I said with a small smile of my own.

eight

Tuesday morning

Larry Fillmore took the
Capitol South Metro escalator stairs
two at a time, hurrying away from the throngs of commuters pouring out of the Metro station. Running his finger through his phone's directory, he pressed Spencer's name as he angled away from the mass of congressional staffers heading toward Capitol Hill. He listened to the phone ring three times before being answered.

“Good morning, Larry,” Spencer's deep voice sounded. “How's it going over there on the Hill? Are you keeping Congressman Jackson's staffers in line?”

Larry could hear the amusement in Spencer's voice. “No problems. They're all under control. By the way, I made sure Congressman Jackson had a copy of that European Union report you sent over. That should answer most of his questions.”

“Always happy to oblige, Larry. We want to keep the good congressman well-informed and allay any doubts he might have about the transfer of funds. Apparently Jackson had asked some pointed questions in that last subcommittee meeting.”

“Yeah, he and Chertoff started asking about the limits on funds, and how the recipient banks are chosen. That report should help answer any questions.”

“Good, good. We want to keep them content and quiet.” Spencer's chuckle came louder.

Larry stepped off the sidewalk and onto the grassy area bordering the walkway. He stopped beneath a tall oak, its leaves already turning a rusty red. “Listen, there's another reason I wanted to call you this morning before I get into the office. I accompanied Jackson to a dinner with some of his Omaha donors last night at the Willard. You'll never guess who I saw when I was leaving the hotel. A really odd couple talking together in a corner of the lobby.”

“I'm not good at guessing games. Who was it?”

“Congresswoman Sylvia Wilson and none other than Molly Malone.” Larry waited for Spencer's reaction. It came quickly.

“
What the hell!
The two of them
together
?”

“Yeah. I figured you'd want to know.”

“
Jesus!
What in hell would those two be talking about? Malone's best friends with the Calhoun woman.”

“Quentin Wilson's paramour, as the
D.C. Dirt
liked to call her,” Larry said, thin lips curving into a smirk.

“Sylvia Wilson hated Samantha Calhoun's guts from what I heard.”

“That's why I thought it was odd.”

“
Damn
,” Spencer mumbled.

Larry waited, expecting Spencer to say something else, but he didn't. Surprised, Larry volunteered, “I can start asking around if you want me to. See what Sylvia Wilson is up to.”

“Yeah, do that. Quietly, of course. Don't draw any attention.”

Spencer's voice sounded worried for some reason, so Larry ventured, “Don't worry. I've got my spies out there. I'll let you know what I learn.”

“Okay. I'll talk to you later,” Spencer said abruptly, then clicked off.

Larry checked his watch, then headed toward the Rayburn Office Building. Meanwhile, he paged through his phone directory for one of his many sources. Clearly, Spencer didn't like the idea of Sylvia Wilson having a t
ê
te-
à
-t
ê
te with Molly Malone. Larry had a feeling it didn't have anything to do with the late Quentin Wilson.

_____

I clicked out of the email program and shoved the computer mouse aside. Finished for now. Emails were never completely finished. I could only catch up. They multiplied when I wasn't looking. I leaned back in the desk chair and indulged in a long stretch. Spreadsheets were waiting, but I didn't feel like staring at the screen again quite yet.

I took a sip of my recently refilled coffee and reached for my personal cell phone. There was a call I needed to make. I was about to press Samantha's number, when I noticed a text message waiting. It must have come in when I took a coffee break. I saw it was from Loretta Wade.

“Have you had a chance to check Congressman Grayson's notes yet? I have a slight break in my normal deluge, so I could start delving into those old records.”

Natasha Jorgensen's death had wiped away the memory of my conversation with Loretta that morning by the Canal. I'd completely forgotten I'd promised her I would check Eric Grayson's research notebooks. Feeling guilty, I mentally revised my plans for tonight. While Danny was out with the veteran's group, I would retrieve Eric's notebook from the bank deposit box and go over it. Hopefully there would be some clues as to what my congressman brother-in-law was searching for years ago. I quickly keyed in a text message reply to Loretta, suggesting we meet for lunch in that small park near the Rayburn Building this week. I'd bring the notebook and let her have a look.

I checked my watch, then pressed Samantha's number. Mid-morning. She should still be home.

“Perfect timing, Molly,” she said when she answered. “Another ten minutes and I would have left to join good sister Bernice at Walter Reed. She's going to introduce me to some of the people who're coordinating wounded veteran care.”

“Wow, that's definitely more noble a venture than what I've spent all morning doing. Answering emails, placating overzealous congressional and senatorial staffers who have tons of questions.”

“Well, remember what the nuns told us. We each serve in our own way,” Samantha said, more than a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Oh, Lord. Hanging out with good Sister Bernice is rubbing off on you. You'll be quoting scripture next.”

“By the way, would you remember to ask Danny the name of the veteran organization he's working with? You told me he volunteers with a group that assists returning wounded vets.”

“As a matter of fact, he's going there tonight. I'll text him and find out the name. Meanwhile, I wanted to ask you a favor, Miss Thing.”

“Name it.”

“Could you ask your mice to check the gossip hounds to see what connections turn up on Congressman Ryker, Senator Dunston, and Ambassador Holmberg? I met with Sylvia Wilson at the Willard last night. She even showed me Quentin's notebook.”

“You're kidding.”

“No, she was clearly interested in finding out what those notations meant. Quentin had also written Stuttgart Bank and another name in there—Spencer, which I assume is a last name. I didn't recognize it.”

“Hmmmm. Spencer. I know a lot of Spencers, but let's see what comes up in connection with Ryker and Dunston and Holmberg. I'll start spreading the word.”

“Thanks, Samantha. I knew I could count on you.” I reached for my mug and took a deep drink of coffee. “Oh, and ask your mice to concentrate on financial information if they can. Apparently, Quentin Wilson discovered a connection between Ryker, Dunston, and Holmberg. Unfortunately, Wilson's notes were kind of cryptic. But he did draw arrows between Ryker's name and Holmberg's. And he drew dollar signs lots of places. Particularly under Dunston's name. So, I'm curious.”

“Now you've made me curious. Quentin was spot-on when it came to focusing on a subject, so if he found a connection, there's got to be something there.”

“That's what I'm thinking.”

“Frankly, I'm amazed Sylvia Wilson was so forthcoming with that notebook. You must have charmed the bejeezus out of her.”

I laughed softly. “I don't know about that. I think it was more a case of each one of us helping the other. I had information and so did she. So we shared, I guess you'd say. She was curious about why Quentin was spending so much time researching something that wasn't part of his congressional committee work.”

“That's understandable.”

I could feel the unspoken concern coming from my friend. “Don't worry, Samantha. Your name will never come out of my mouth in her presence.”

Samantha chuckled. “Thank gawd. Oh, did you get my email with the web link to the company that protects your financial information? I sent it this morning.”

“I haven't had time to check my personal emails yet, but thank you. I'll give them a call.” Another thought buzzed from the back of my brain and hovered right in front of me, claiming my attention. “And speaking of security, I want to make a suggestion for you. I'm going to email you the name and phone number of the contact person for the specialty security firm that took care of my home. And I want you to seriously consider having them totally redo your house and property.”

“I already have security, Molly. A very good firm too. Remember all those surveillance videos we watched last summer after Quentin died?”

“I remember. And I'm sure they are a very good firm for average people. But you're a special case, Samantha. And I want you to have the very best protection out there.”

“Thank you, Sugar. I think you're special too.”

I could hear the laughter behind Samantha's voice, so I decided I had to get her attention. “Listen, Samantha. Most of Washington knew you and Quentin Wilson were seeing each other. That's why I'm worried about you. You also knew about Quentin's research, and I think you should protect yourself. Just in case.”

“My God, Molly … now you're scaring me.”

I could hear the worry in Samantha's voice. “I'm sorry to scare you, but I don't think you should take chances with your safety. It won't hurt for you to have a total security makeover. Lock your place down tight. And have them sweep for bugs in the process.”

“Good Lord, I don't even want to think about that.”

“I know. But we have to protect ourselves. And if you're wondering if I'm overreacting, I can tell you I gave Sylvia Wilson the same advice.”

“You're kidding!”

“Nope. She wanted to know exactly why I was so interested in following up on Karen's research into this subject. So I told her exactly what I just told you. Three promising congressional staffers and a congressman are gone from Capitol Hill. And the only thing they had in common was that they were researching this same subject. I even told her about the bug found on Natasha's phone and the one found in my wall.”

“What'd she say to that?”

“Not much, actually. She blanched and stared at me wide-eyed. So I guess I got her attention.”

“Well, that takes some doing, from what I hear.”

“Oh, and I told her I'd heard she was living in the same townhouse where Quentin lived. And I recommended the exact same security firm and offered to send her their name. And
she
accepted my offer.”

Samantha laughed softly. “Damn, Molly. You're relentless, you know that?”

I could hear surrender in my friend's voice and exulted inside. “It's one of my few virtues, Miss Thing. You of all people know that.”

Tuesday afternoon

Raymond stood beside Spencer's wide office window, gazing down at Pennsylvania Avenue. Late afternoon and the October sun was arcing downward, inching toward a sunset. Another week and a half and Daylight Saving Time would be over. The autumn hours would abruptly shift and sunset would rush upon them. Night hastening right behind.

He sipped from the ample glass filled with Spencer's aged Scotch. Molten gold slid down Raymond's ragged throat. Another case had arrived on his doorstep this very morning. Thank the angels. Or Spencer, rather. Relief in a glass.

“
Dammit to hell
,” Spencer cursed again from the corner of his office. “What is it with women? Why can't they leave well enough alone? Why do they always have to go poking into things? Things that are none of their business.”

Raymond had to smile at the petulant sound in Spencer's voice. “The best laid plans oft go astray,” he offered as he walked back to the corner sitting area. The leather sofa received him with a sigh as he sat down.

Spencer looked over his glass with a scowl. “Don't get philosophical on me. I don't need that right now.” He tossed back a deep drink. “You gonna put Trask on Malone, or what?”

“Yeah. I'll have him watch her comings and going for a while. See who she meets, aside from that boyfriend of hers. He's there most of the time.”

“Yeah, you ought to run a check on him too. We don't know anything about him, except he was the one who brought in the security company, right?”

“That's what I figure. Judging from watching him talk to those guys when they arrived and when they were outside later, I could tell he obviously knew them. So, I'm betting he's former military, but we need to find out more. We can't follow the congresswoman around, so I guess your boy Fillmore will have to keep an eye on her.” He took another sip and let it slide down slowly, numbing his throat.

“I've already got him on it. Larry and his contacts can find out if the congresswoman stays on task with her own committee work. If she starts poking into other things, he'll find that out too.”

“Okay. That's about all we can do for now. Keep an eye on them both. If they start getting too close to something, we'll hear about it. Hopefully, neither of them will push this any further. Hell, they don't have anywhere to push. Jorgensen is gone. Wilson is gone. Anyone who had access to information has been neutralized.” He gave a crooked smile.

Spencer lifted his glass. “Let's hope you're right. I don't want to have a conversation with Montclair about any more leaks. It would not go over well.”

Raymond noticed the slightly anxious tone that crept into Spencer's voice. He rarely heard it. So he sought to reassure. “Let's hope this was a case of an excess of female curiosity. And that will be the end of it.”

“I'll drink to that,” Spencer said, lifting his glass. “Damn aggravating women,” he added, then tossed down the remainder of his Scotch.