Bloody Politics (3 page)

three

Wednesday morning

Trask deposited the tall
carryout cup with the familiar green and white logo on the table beside Raymond. “I brought an extra coffee, double cream.” He dug into his navy-blue jacket pocket and pulled out a package of honey throat lozenges, then dropped them beside the coffee. “I figured you could also use some of these.”

“Hey, thanks,” Raymond gave him a tired smile. “You were right on both counts.”

“Did you stay here all night? You look like hell.”

“Naw, I went home at seven or so. That way you escape the worst of rush hour on the beltway.” He took a big drink of the creamed coffee and felt the heat slide down his throat. He glanced back at Trask and saw that expression he'd spotted once or twice before. When something else appeared briefly in Trask's ice-blue eyes. A flicker of compassion? Sympathy? Raymond wasn't sure. It never lasted long enough for him to decipher.

Trask sat in a nearby swivel chair, took a drink from his coffee, then pointed toward the smaller monitor screen. “Has Malone called Jorgensen yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Have you talked to Spencer?”

Raymond shook his head, then took another drink of coffee. A deeper one this time. “No, I want to have more information first. We need to find out what's in that notebook. According to Spencer, Wilson only overheard bits and pieces of conversation.”

“But you said Ryker's name was there.”

“Yeah … there's that. But Spencer said Ryker swore he and Ambassador Holmberg only talked about the bill and when it was coming up in committee. So, there may be nothing more than Wilson's speculations in that notebook. You know, his overactive imagination.” He shrugged. “After all, he was an ambitious junior congressman itching to advance.”

“With a prescription drug habit,” Trask said, mouth twisting with a crooked smile. “Or, so I've heard.”

The gray screen flickered into life then, the white cursor flashing. Another call coming in on Jorgensen's phone. Both men turned their chairs and stared at the screen.

_____

I leaned back in my desk chair and listened to Natasha's phone ring while I sipped my first mug of Luisa's coffee. “Hey, Natasha. Sorry I didn't call yesterday, but I was working late. I had to help Peter with some extra reports for the senator.”

“No problem, Molly. I figured I'd hear from you today.”

“The senator's new committee assignment has really piled on the research. He and Peter have been buried since late July.”

“I know what you mean. I've been taking home congressional reports for weeks now. Ever since I came over here. Nightly reading.”

“Antidote to insomnia, right?” I joked. “So tell me, what's up with Widow Wilson? She can't decipher the filing system?”

Natasha gave a short laugh. “Actually, it was kind of a strange phone call. It seems she found a notebook in Quentin's desk at the office, and she asked if I knew anything about it.”

I took a sip of coffee and let my imagination run free. “Oh, brother. Don't tell me he had a secret porn collection.”

“No, no, nothing like that. She said it was filled with notes about reports and articles he'd read. I thought it sounded like he was doing research for his subcommittees and told her so. But she said that the research was on international banking and monetary policy. And financial legislation. So, she was confused because none of that was related to his committee assignments. Which are now
her
committee assignments.”

My little buzzer went off inside. “Sounds like the same stuff you told me he was researching last summer.”

“That's exactly what I thought. Remember those files I gave you? They were filled with research reports and articles on those same subjects. So I'm thinking that notebook is where Quentin kept his research notes.”

“Did you tell her that?”

“Yeah, I did. I told her he'd gotten interested in that subject last summer and started researching it. That's all I knew.”

I knew there was a whole lot more to it than that, but I didn't want to share it with Natasha. That information had been given to me in confidence by Samantha. So I worked around the edges. “That makes sense to me. What did she say?”

“Well, that's when she asked me to come over and take a look at the notebook. It seems Quentin jotted down some other things that made her curious.”

“Like what?”

“Well, he'd written in Congressman Edward Ryker's name and his committee. He's the chairman, you know.”

That name burned its way through my brain. No longer the same heat, but singeing all the same. It had not lost its power over the years. “Yes, I know,” I said, unable to keep the chill from my voice. I also knew the reason Quentin Wilson had Ryker's name in his notebook. Wilson had overheard Congressman Ryker and former EU Ambassador Holmberg talking with each other about upcoming legislation in Ryker's committee. “Did he write down any other names?”

“You know, she rattled off a few, but I don't remember them now. One of the staffers was signaling me, so I was only paying half attention.”

“So you plan to go over and take a look at the notebook? Maybe you'll remember something else. Help out the struggling new congresswoman.” I deliberately let the sarcasm creep into my tone.

Natasha snickered. “Part of me doesn't want to, but in the spirit of congressional cooperation, I guess I'd better.”

Now it was my turn to snicker. “Congressional cooperation. We certainly need more of that. Harder to find nowadays.” An idea wiggled from the back of my brain. “Say, would you do me a favor, Natasha? If you take notes when you're going through that notebook, could you give me a copy, please? I'd appreciate it.”

“Sure, Molly. She kind of suggested that I take some notes. She wants me to go through my old daytimer from the office and see if there's any correlation. Of course I told her I would, even though it's really presumptuous of her to ask. After all, I'm up to my neck in work here in Chertoff's office.”

I laughed softly. “Ahhhhhh, yes. The spirit of congressional cooperation seems to be a one-way street for the Widow Wilson.”

“You got that right. Listen, I've got a call on another line. Why don't I call you tonight and tell you what I found? I'm going over to her office right after I leave here tonight.”

“Uhhhhhhh, tonight won't work for me. I'm already booked,” I demurred. This evening Danny and I would be enjoying fine food, fine wine, and each other. “Why don't we meet tomorrow morning at the Canal for a run? I can get there by six-thirty … I think.”

“Sure. I'll be finishing up by then, but we can do the last stretch together. Why don't we meet at that bridge on Thirty-first Street over the Canal? I'll be on the way back from the Key Bridge turn, so we can run together toward the Parkway. I'll make a copy of whatever notes I take. How's that?”

“Sounds like a plan. I'll see you tomorrow morning.”

“See ya.”

I was about to add my customary “take care,” but her phone had already clicked off.

_____

Raymond leaned back in the upholstered chair, still staring at the gray screen. The blinking white cursor didn't move. No more phone calls. Glancing over at Trask, he saw him smiling. That insolent, I-
told-you-so smile he'd seen before. Raymond let it slide. He didn't
have the energy to spare for petty aggravation. He had to stay focused.

“Well, that was informative.”

Trask snickered as he laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in the swivel chair. “Yeah, I'd say so. I knew Jorgensen was going to be a problem. I just didn't know when. Now there's Congresswoman Wilson sniffing around. That's the last thing those guys want.”

“Yeah, you're right.” Raymond turned the takeout coffee cup on the chair arm.

“I say we eliminate Jorgensen before she can pass along any more information. That way, Sylvia Wilson will hit a dead end in her snooping, and so will Malone. Once Jorgensen is gone, there's no one else who can answer questions about that notebook.”

That made sense, Raymond thought. Leave it to Trask to always cut to the brutal truth. Simple. Surgically simple. Excise Jorgensen, and then maybe they could seal up the wound. Maybe.

“You know, I got the feeling Malone knew more than she was letting on to Jorgensen,” Trask said, leaning forward in the chair, coffee cup dangling between his knees.

“Yeah, I got that too. Makes me wonder how much she knows about Quentin Wilson. Or, rather … how much her friend told her.”

“You mean Samantha Calhoun.”

“Yeah. The ‘paramour' as the
D.C. Dirt
called her.” Raymond gave a snort.

“Do you think Wilson told Samantha Calhoun about seeing Ryker talking with Holmberg that day?”

“I don't know. But it makes me wonder. I got the same feeling you did. Malone knew more than she was saying to Jorgensen. And the only one who could have told her was the Calhoun woman.” Raymond stared off into the office.

“First, we take care of Jorgensen. If we're lucky, that could stop all the snooping. And Jorgensen should be stopped before she meets Malone tomorrow morning and can hand off any more info.”

“Agreed. I'll run it by Spencer. I think he'll authorize it.”

Trask smiled a cold smile. “There's no time for him to go through a committee on this one.”

“Nope.
He'll
have to authorize it.” Raymond upended his coffee
cup.

“I was gonna get more coffee. You want another cup?” Trask asked, rising from the chair.

“Yeah, matter of fact. And wouldja bring me one of those breakfast sandwiches too?”

“Sure thing.” Trask headed toward the hallway.

“Are you gonna take care of her tonight?”

Trask glanced back over his shoulder as he put on his shades. “Nope. Tomorrow morning before daybreak. Under Key Bridge.” His cold smile returned. “Surgical.”

Later Wednesday afternoon

Raymond poured two fingers of Scotch into the crystal glass. He held the glass up to the sunlight shining through the corner window at the back of his office. The sun beam caught the crystal edges in the glass. It was the only thing he took from the house when he left. And that was only because she threw it at him. Nothing else. She wouldn't even let him say goodbye to the kid. But she saw him. He'd spotted her little face at the bedroom window, staring solemnly, brown eyes huge. He'd blown her a kiss before he got in the car and driven off. She'd seen that. He knew she did.

He swirled the Scotch in his glass. Funny thing, memories. Different ones popped out of the quicksand of your mind. Out of nowhere, you're back in time. He took a large drink, then pressed Spencer's name on his phone directory.

“Raymond, how're you doing?” Spencer's deep voice came over the line. “How's that case of Scotch holding out?”

“Funny you should ask. I'm halfway through the last bottle.”

“Well, then, I'll have another case sent out today. How's that cough doing?”

“It's okay,” Raymond lied. “The Scotch helps. So does hot coffee. Listen, we've got a problem. I've been monitoring that girl Jorgensen's phone since August. Nothing unusual showed up until yesterday. Sylvia Wilson called Jorgensen and asked questions about a notebook she found in Quentin Wilson's office desk drawer.”

“What kind of notebook? What was in it?” Spencer's voice had lost all trace of warmth.

“Sounds like Wilson took notes on all that international bank research he was doing. But he also had some names written down. Ryker's for one.”

“
Shit!
”

“I know. Jorgensen said she didn't know anything about a notebook and acted like she'd never heard Wilson mention Ryker before.”

“Dammit!”

“Yeah, then the congresswoman asks Jorgensen to come over to her office tonight and take a look at the notebook, take notes, even. Then compare them to any old office records Jorgensen may have.”

“
What the hell!
What is Sylvia Wilson up to? She's not on any banking subcommittees. Why is she poking around?”

“Beats me. It may be because Ryker's name is mentioned. And apparently there are other names, too, but the Jorgensen girl couldn't remember.”

“Wait a minute! Who else was that Jorgensen girl talking to?”

“That's another problem. After Sylvia Wilson's call, Jorgensen texted Molly Malone. Malone called her back this morning and asked questions.”

“Goddammit!”

“And it gets worse. Malone asked Jorgensen to make her a copy of any notes she takes. They're planning to meet early tomorrow morning along the canal where they both run.” Raymond held the phone while Spencer cursed again, a longer stream this time.

“
Crap!
We'd gotten everything quieted down, and now this,” Spencer complained.

“Yeah, my thoughts exactly. Well, you know what I'm going to say next. Trask and I agree Jorgensen needs to be taken out before she can hand off any more information to either Malone or Sylvia Wilson. She's the bridge. Eliminate her, and the other two hit a dead end.”

“
Damn
…” Spencer whispered the word this time.

“I know. You're worried about the rest of the committee.”

“Damn right. There's no time to even run this past them.”

Raymond detected a worried tone that he hadn't heard in Spencer's voice before. “You said they took on some new members. Any word about them?”

“Montclair said a couple are from Southeast Asia. Another one is Russian.”

“Well, if you think we'd better not make a move, okay. It's your call. We can only hope there're not many names in that notebook. But every time we think there's nothing more that can come out, something else appears.”