Murder on Capitol Hill (16 page)

The rest of the article simply recounted the events of Caldwell’s murder and its aftermath.

Lydia dressed and drove to the MPD. Surrounding Jenkins’s office were media people clamoring to talk with him. Lydia told one of the officers in the bullpen that Jenkins was expecting her. Moments later he came back to say, “He wonders whether you could come back this afternoon.”

“No.”

Some of the reporters came over to Lydia and asked her about the reported break in the case.

“I know what I read this morning in the paper, that’s all,” she said.

“Come on, Miss James, why are you here if you’re not in on it?”

“Believe me, I was as surprised as…”

The young officer came out of Jenkins’s office for a second time and motioned for Lydia to go in.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Nothing good about this morning, kid.”

“From what I read in the paper you should be celebrating.”

“That’ll happen when the time comes. You still want to see the McNab file?”

“You said I could.”

“Things change, you’re wasting your time.”

Lydia sighed and sat up straight. “You know, Chief, I’m really getting very tired of people telling me that I’m wasting my time.”

“In a few days it won’t matter anyway.”

“Why?”

“Nothing. Look, this Caldwell thing is going to be over very soon. You can make book on that. There’s not going to be a need for any Senate committee because there won’t be anything left to investigate.”

“What is this so-called major break in the case?”

“I wouldn’t tell you if my life depended on it. In fact, my life does depend on it.” He leaned across his desk, said conspiratorially, “Do you really think I’d tell you, or anybody else, what we’ve got? Hey, Lydia, I may not be a genius but that dumb I’m not. This is the biggest case I’ve ever had, and sharing credit for breaking it doesn’t hit me as very intelligent.”

“You know who did it?”

“No comment.”

“I’m not with the media, I’m—”

“Got to go, Lydia.”

“When do you expect an arrest?”

“Soon, have a nice life.”

“I’m not leaving until I can see the McNab files.”

“I told you to forget it.”

“If you want, I’ll go outside and tell the press how the MPD has refused to cooperate with the Senate. I’ll tell them—”

“Don’t threaten me. I prefer to remember you as you were. Sorry, but that’s all the time I have.”

Lydia picked up her purse and briefcase, and went downstairs and left the building.

As she reached the end of the street, a car carrying four men turned the corner, just missing her. She stood at the curb and watched two of the men get out and waited for a third to exit through an open rear door. A couple of reporters who’d been hanging around the side entrance to the MPD approached the car. The driver jumped out and intercepted them.

Moments later, the fourth man in the car slowly came through the door. He was handcuffed. The other two men grabbed his arms and led him toward the entrance. He turned and looked down the street to where Lydia stood, then looked up at the sky. The flesh at the rear of his shaved head and neck folded over the loose collar of his white robe.

Before Lydia had time to mutter the name Mark Adam, he was whisked away from advancing newsmen and shoved through the door.

Lydia and Clarence, sitting on a couch in his apartment, stared at the television screen as the anchorman came on and said, “The top story tonight is a confession in the Senator Caldwell murder. Back with details after this.”

Rousing, dissonant march music, the newscast’s title and subtitle, commercials for antifreeze and a feminine deodorant. Then:

“Good evening, I’m Richard Bourne. A confession today in the ice pick murder of Senate Majority Leader Cale Caldwell. In an announcement at MPD headquarters this morning, Deputy Chief of Police Horace Jenkins had this to say…”

Jenkins was seen seated behind his desk, surrounded by reporters, reading from a piece of paper in front of him: “Mark Adam Caldwell, the older son of slain Senate Majority Leader Cale Caldwell, has confessed to his father’s murder. He is in custody here…”

A rush of questions. Jenkins held up his hand. “There’s nothing more I can say at this moment, ladies and gentlemen. The resolution of this murder has resulted from a painstaking and thorough investigation
by this department. It’s a sensitive case, and everyone concerned with it is determined to protect the integrity of the investigation and the rights of the accused.”

The anchorman took over. “Sources close to the investigation have informed us that the younger Caldwell’s confession was detailed and complete, and that the motive for having murdered his father derived from a long-standing personal problem within the Caldwell family.”

Followed by a commercial.

“Clarence, it just can’t be—”

“Why not?”

“It’s too… it’s just too simple, too pat. And if Mark Adam did kill his father, why confess to it? Or why wait until now? No, I can’t buy it.”

“Well, I do. Murder will out, it’s over, and now you can go back to making more time for me… for us. As you know, I’m a very selfish person.”

She managed a smile, put her arms around him—and the phone rang.

Clarence answered, shrugged and held out the receiver for Lydia.

“Hello,” she said.

“What about Jimmye McNab?” A female voice.

“Who
is
this?”

“Don’t believe what you hear.”

The line went dead.

Lydia told Clarence of the call.

“You didn’t recognize her voice?”

“No. But it sounded like she was trying to disguise it, make it sound deeper.”

Clarence gave her a sidewise look and put on a
recording of harpsichordist Wanda Landowska playing Bach’s dance suites. “Landowska to the rescue. Stop thinking and listen.”

Lydia sighed, leaned back and closed her eyes as the slightly twangy, mandolin quality of the harpsichord filled her ears and touched down to her soul.

After a while she said, “Clarence, I’m exhausted, drained, like somebody pulled a plug. I want to go home, hit the old sack. I’m sorry…”

She didn’t immediately move to leave the comfort of the couch, and he reached over and stroked her hair, her forehead. “Such deep, dark thoughts,” he said softly. “Your forehead is a mess of furrows.”

“I suspect it will be for quite a long time.” She turned to face him. “Remember the night of Cale’s murder, Clarence, when we talked about crime in terms of the cycle of fifths?”

“Sure. Like a piece of music, murder has resolved itself, too. It started in the key of
C
and has returned there, to the tonic chord.”

She smiled and stood up. “Unless we’ve reached a
C
-seventh.”

“Don’t get smart.”

“A
C
-seventh, instead of just
C
. Once you add the seventh to a chord, it stays up in the air, suspended, looking for its own tonic.”

He stood up too and put his hands on her shoulders. “If it
is
a
C
-seventh instead of the tonic
C
, that means it goes into another key.”

“Exactly. It could resolve to
F
and the piece will be over. Then again the
C
-seventh might only be the second chord in a new key we’re playing in.”

“And if that’s true, the ‘Caldwell Sonata’ could have a long way to go before it’s over.”

“That’s what frightens me, Clarence. I was listening to one of the cassettes you bought me. The tune was ‘Mack the Knife,’ and the group took twelve choruses on it, playing each one in a different key. They started in
C
, went up a half step each time until they eventually returned to
C
.”

“And?”

“And
I
think Mark Adam’s confession is only one half step toward a long series of key changes.”

“I won’t argue with you,” he said as he helped her on with her coat. “I’d rather make love, but you do look exhausted. Sure you don’t want to stay?”

“Thanks, yes… but also no. I’ll call you in the morning.”

All the way home she thought of the phone call and the unidentified woman’s reference to Jimmye McNab. The thoughts stayed with her as she sat in the tub and enjoyed the warm, sensuous feeling of muscles relaxing. She dried herself vigorously, slipped into a chocolate brown monk’s robe that reached the floor and turned on the television. She fell asleep, waking as the eleven o’clock news came on. She rubbed her eyes and tried to focus on the screen. The first words out of the anchorman’s mouth jolted her upright and to the edge of the couch.

“Extraordinary developments this day, ladies and gentlemen, in the Cale Caldwell ice pick murder. Not only has the deceased senator’s elder son, Mark Adam Caldwell, confessed to his father’s death, but we have just been informed that he has also confessed
to the murder of journalist Jimmye McNab. McNab, you might recall, was not only one of Washington’s most respected television reporters, she had also been brought up by the Caldwell family from infancy. I’ll be back with more details in a moment.”

The phone rang. It was Rick Petrone, aide to Senator Wilfred MacLoon.

“You’ve heard?”

“Yes. I’m shocked.”

“Everybody is, I guess. Anyway, Senator MacLoon would like a meeting of the Caldwell committee at nine. Can you make it?”

“Yes, of course. By the way, have you heard from Ginger?”

“She called, says she’s feeling fine. She’ll be in in the morning.”

“I think she should take more time to rest.”

“There’ll be plenty of time for that now.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Caldwell murder has been solved by the MPD, there’s no need for a committee.”

“I’m not so sure…”

“Okay, Lady Hawkshaw, have it your way. See you at nine.”

***

The meeting was held in a large committee room a few doors down from Wilfred MacLoon’s offices. Lydia was surprised that in addition to the regular members of the committee and selected staff members, Veronica Caldwell and Deputy Chief of Police Horace Jenkins were there. She told Veronica that she hadn’t expected to see her.

“Why not, Lydia? You should be very pleased with
yourself. It seems you were right, that there was a connection between Cale’s and Jimmye’s…” And then she turned away, to hide her upset, Lydia assumed, at this awful news about her firstborn son.

Lydia hesitated, then caught up with her just inside the committee room door. “Look, Veronica, I apologize for some of the things I’ve said and thought, but I’d like to say something else that you may welcome hearing—”

“Then for God’s sake say it. Say it and go back to your comfortable little law practice and leave me and my family alone.”

“I don’t believe Mark Adam did what he’s confessed to.”

“I wish it were true—”

“I know you do.” She touched Veronica’s arm. “Don’t just accept this, Veronica, for your sake and for your son’s. You demanded a committee to get to the bottom of things. Don’t let that committee dissolve because Mark Adam has said things that might not be true. He’s not a well person, Veronica, not responsible. At least you could…”

“
That
’s enough, Lydia. On top of everything I don’t need your amateur analysis of my son.” She turned and walked off to where some committee members stood, leaving Lydia feeling very much alone.

When she returned to the site of the meeting, Wilfred MacLoon had just arrived and had taken his place at the head of the conference table. Others settled into chairs. Lydia sat at the far end of the table, between Senator Jack Markowski and Horace Jenkins.

MacLoon lit a fresh cigar, opened a file folder, glanced around the table. “Glad everyone could make it this morning. I’d especially like to welcome Senator Caldwell and Deputy Chief Jenkins. I’m sure we all share the grief our colleague, Senator Caldwell, has suffered. The only bright spot is that finally the pain of all this will be alleviated by putting to rest the public speculation that has turned this tragedy into a media circus.” He looked down the length of the table at Lydia. “Now, let’s get down to business and do what we all agree must be done. Because the MPD has done its job, two murders have been solved. I congratulate the MPD and you personally, Chief Jenkins, for an exemplary piece of law enforcement.”

“Thank you,” Jenkins said.

Nuts to you, Lydia thought.

MacLoon continued. “Chief Jenkins and I conferred last night, and the upshot is we’re convinced—I know how this must pain you, Veronica—that the confessions will hold up. Is that correct, Chief?”

Jenkins cleared his throat, rubbed his eyes. “That’s correct, Senator.” He looked unhappily at Veronica Caldwell. “I hate to even talk about this thing with Mrs. Caldwell sitting here, but I suppose the fact that she is here shows what kind of woman carries the Caldwell name. You’ve got more guts than any ten other women I know,” he said, his voice faltering as he wondered whether he was putting it in the right words.

“Thank you,” Veronica said. “You are right, this
is
very painful and distasteful, but I’ve assured Senator
MacLoon that it is my job not to let personal feelings interfere with… justice. I’ll overcome the personal impact of it in the interest of seeing that I do my job… I love my son very deeply and I tell you now I will do all I can to help him, defend him… He’s a troubled young man, and regardless of what he has done… my love for him remains. I’m sure you understand that.”

Jenkins cleared his throat. “Like I said, this woman is incredible.” He turned to MacLoon. “The young man’s confession is complete for both homicides, and his rights were protected every inch of the way, so there’s no chance of—”

“Does he have an attorney?” Lydia asked.

Her question caused everyone to turn and to look at her. Jenkins answered her question in a voice that unmistakably reflected his annoyance. “Of course,” he said.

“Who?”

“His brother.”

“Cale, Jr.?”

“That’s right. He plans to retain other counsel for his brother in due time, but he was there the minute we went down to the cult and picked up his brother. Like I said, the accused’s rights were protected every inch of the way, not only by a qualified attorney but by his own brother.”