Poisoned Politics (12 page)

eleven

Friday morning

I clicked out of
one of Peter Brewster's rental property spreadsheets and moved to the next in the spreadsheet files. The familiar address at the top was my townhouse. Well, not mine. Peter Brewster had thrown in free rent on his Georgetown property in order to woo me into accepting his job offer last March. It worked. Once I'd seen the lovely two-story brick on P Street with its shady backyard patio, side patio, sunny kitchen, and Jacuzzi in the master suite
…
I was hooked.

I never regretted my decision to move back into the familiar neighborhoods from my days as a Georgetown University student, and from when I was married to my college sweetheart who became a fresh-faced young U.S. Congressman from Colorado after law school. Our two young daughters had played in the playground down the street. Memories were around every corner. But just as there were new children enjoying that playground now, I had decided to make new memories. New life replacing the painful memories of the past.

My personal cell phone's music cut through my wanderings in the past. Early Jefferson Airplane this time. Samantha's name flashed and I clicked on just as Grace Slick's voice rose.

“How're you doing, Miss Thing?” I asked as I relaxed into my leather desk chair. “I'm sure Eleanor's Network has spread the news far and wide.”

“I should say,” Samantha drawled. “My mice have been calling and texting me since the crack of dawn. I swear the phone woke me up.”

“Yay for your mice. I'm sure they're as relieved as I am that you're out of the police spotlight. And the
D.C. Dirt's
evil eye as well.”

“Well, to be honest, half of me is relieved. But the other half is sad dear Bernie is now going to be the subject of that trashy gossip rag.”

I couldn't resist. “Hey, Bernie's in his eighties. He'll be flattered. I bet his buddies are calling to congratulate him right now.”

She let out a bawdy laugh. “You are so bad, Molly. God, I love you! You always say exactly what I need to hear.”

I took a sip from my newly refilled coffee mug, listening to Samantha's laughter while I pondered bringing up the plan Eleanor and I had discussed the other night. She had given me the perfect opening. Now
…
how to phrase the subject of Samantha Calhoun's rehab?

“You know, Eleanor was worried sick about you, Samantha,” I wiggled in sideways. “She hated watching you being dragged through the mud as much as I did.”

“She's such a sweet old dear,” Samantha's voice gentled. “I'm amazed she hasn't washed her hands of me long ago. I know I've given her fits these last few years.”

Another opening
…
I couldn't pass that up. “You're lucky Eleanor's a forgiving sort. In fact, she was so relieved that you would no longer be under suspicion in connection with Wilson's death that she and I came up with a plan. A rehab plan, so to speak.” I held my breath, waiting for Samantha's reaction.

There was at least a ten-second pause before she spoke. “
Rehab?
Exactly
what
are you two planning to rehabilitate?” she asked, clearly amused.

Not exactly sure how to phrase it, I simply plunged in. “Your reputation, Samantha. The Widow Wilson may have opened the door, but there were scores of people who were waiting for an opportunity to drag you down in that mud. Jealousy, resentment, or just plain nastiness. Whatever. You handed them the opportunity when you refused to explain your whereabouts to the police the night of Wilson's death. If you had, this would never have become the scandal it did.”

“You're right. As much as it pains me to admit it, I made this horrible event worse by not cooperating with police earlier.”

Relieved by her honesty, I continued. “Eleanor said that there were a lot of people who'd envied you your social standing over the years and were waiting gleefully for you to step off that pedestal. Hell, Samantha, you didn't step off, you
jumped
off when you started your congressional dalliances a few years ago.”

“You're right about that, sugar,” she said with a low laugh.

“It's no laughing matter, Samantha,” I chided gently. “Eleanor and I and all your friends hate what's happened to you. That's why Eleanor and I came up with what we think is the perfect way for you to redeem yourself, so to speak. Rehab. Redeem. Re-establish. Whatever you want to call it. Our plan is a little unusual, but it's dramatic. And it'll totally flummox your enemies. Especially the Widow Wilson.”

Samantha chuckled. “I can hardly wait to hear the details. I love the idea of flummoxing enemies.”

Encouraged, I charged ahead. “Eleanor's offering to take you under her protective wing. You would accompany her to all the charitable functions and social events she attends every week. And they are considerable. You'll be busy seven days and evenings every week. Needless to say, there'll be no time for stray dalliances. Eleanor's Rules, if you will.”

“Stray dalliances
…
” she said with a genteel snort.

“I know, I know. You'd be serving a public penance, and that will stick in your craw. But, face it, Miss Thing, it will take something dramatic like that to re-establish yourself in Washington. How better than by Eleanor MacKenzie's side? No one would dare attack you while you're perceived to be under Eleanor's protection. They'd never risk losing favor in Eleanor's eyes, you know that.”

“Ah, yes, the Queen Mother would not be pleased.”

Sensing that Samantha was considering the idea at least, I continued to pitch. “You would be standing by Eleanor's side, doing good deeds, working with charities. It's a natural. You're already involved with umpteen charities.”

“You can stop ladling it on, Molly,” she said, laughing. “You've made your point. Yours and Eleanor's.”

I sent a brief prayer of thanks heavenward, even though I'd stopped praying years ago. “So, you'll consider it?”

“
Yes
, I'll consider it. No promises, though. God, it would be like joining a convent with Eleanor as the
real
Mother Superior. I don't know if I could do it, Molly. I love my freedom too much.”

“Just consider it, okay? That's all I ask. Eleanor doesn't think you'll do it, for the very reasons you mentioned.”

“Sharp as ever. You've got to hand it to her. Tell me, when did you two come up with this redemption plan? Was it at Eleanor's charity fundraiser the other day?”

“No, it was last night when she came to one of Senator Russell's senatorial dinners. One of the couples couldn't make it, so Eleanor was kind enough to fill in at the last moment. Peter was her dinner partner, which he thoroughly enjoyed, listening to him talk this morning.” A stray memory resurfaced. “By the way, I did meet Natasha Jorgensen at Eleanor's fundraiser. Congresswoman Chertoff had invited two of her staffers to the event with her, and she introduced me to Natasha.”

“That was nice of Sally. How'd you like Natasha?”

“She impressed me. Smart, savvy, with a sense of humor. That will help her survive on the Hill. Sally mentioned that the police came to the office and questioned Natasha about Wilson's prescription pill habit. Naturally, I couldn't resist following up on that when I spoke with her alone. Natasha admitted that she'd seen Quentin Wilson with pill bottles on his desk. But when I asked if she knew how long he'd also taken Vicodin, she looked really uncomfortable and acted nervous. She kept glancing away. I didn't let on I knew anything more.”

Samantha paused. “I'm sure that's because she didn't want to reveal to police she was the one who gave Quentin that staffer's name. The guy was an old college friend of hers.”

“
What!”

“I didn't tell you because I didn't want Natasha to get in any trouble. It's not her fault Quentin took too many pills.”

“Do you think Natasha lied to the police?”

Samantha released a long sigh. “I was hoping they simply asked about Quentin's pill-taking habit. Natasha's a smart girl, but she's probably afraid the police will try to implicate her. Good Lord! Quentin's death keeps ensnaring people. It's like stepping in quicksand.”

I noticed a message from Peter flashing on my computer screen. Time to get back to work. “Well, you can step out of that quicksand with Eleanor's help. Just think about it. Now, I've got to answer this message from Peter. Back to work.”

“I promise I'll think about it. And thank you for being such a dear loving friend. I appreciate it, sugar.”

There was a trace of the old Samantha's
joie de vivre
in those words. “Anytime, Miss Thing. That's what dear friends are for.”

Friday evening

Raymond blew out a long stream of smoke, then spoke into his cell phone. “He's all set up and ready, just waiting for the signal.”

“Has Levitz gone out or contacted anyone since he's been there?” Spencer asked.

“No, he's being a good boy, nice and obedient. Following all the instructions Fillmore gave him. He's staying inside his motel room, waiting for Mr. Smith to call.” Raymond chuckled softly then took another drag on his cigarette. “He's expecting a new driver's license and the location of a hotel in El Paso where he can stay. Or where he
thinks
he'll be staying.”

Spencer laughed softly. “Has our Mr. Smith been keeping him in his sights.”

“All the time.

“How's he going to, ah
…
finish it?”

“With the same pill mixture he saved from Wilson. That way there will be a match in dosage. Hypo to the neck. Kid will never know what hit him.”

“Good. We want it nice and neat. No loose ends.”

“As always. When do you want it done?”

“Tonight. Get it over with, so the news can come out and we can put this Wilson project to bed.”

“You got it. Tonight it is.”

twelve

Monday morning

I turned the pages
of the
Washington Post
, aiming for the editorial page, when my eye caught a familiar name headlining a smaller paragraph nestled below the fold on an inner page.

Sylvia Wilson, widow of recently deceased Congressman Quentin Wilson, appointed to late husband's seat in the U.S. House of Representatives.

I smiled and sipped my coffee while I read the official confirmation of the gossip that had buzzed through Washington for over a week. Point for Widow Wilson. Widows had been claiming deceased husbands' congressional seats for nearly a century.

Folding the paper, I went to the kitchen sink and rinsed out my coffee mug. Another beautiful August morning beckoned outside. I grabbed my briefcase and purse and left through the back door in the kitchen. A pungently sweet scent greeted me from the graceful mimosa tree beside the back patio. Laden with delicate pink blossoms, the sweet perfume engulfed me as I walked toward the front yard and sidewalk.

Bruce lay stretched out in his customary morning sunny spot on the bricks edging the upper flower bed. Like many Georgetown townhomes, the front yard sloped up so the gardens were tiered to accommodate the narrow frontage.

“Stay away from the birds, Bruce,” I called in my customary admonition. Bruce simply meowed and smiled his inscrutable kitty smile.

I was leaving a few minutes earlier than usual so I could finally make a phone call that had been niggling in the back of my mind for days, ever since I'd spoken with Natasha Jorgensen at Eleanor's fundraiser. Natasha had e-mailed me the name of a senior researcher that Quentin Wilson had used. Loretta Wade. Now that worries about Samantha no longer took my concentration, I could afford to indulge my curiosity.

Considering the story Samantha had told me about Wilson's eavesdropping experience and his subsequent research into financial legislation, I was curious what Wilson was looking for. Samantha said he seemed “obsessed” with the topics. I wondered if this Loretta Wade might know more. Slipping my cell phone from my purse, I paged through the directory where I'd entered Loretta Wade's name and office number at the Congressional Research Service. I clicked on her name and listened to the phone ring, finally changing to voice mail. Loretta Wade's voice came on and announced that she'd return my call as soon as possible. I'd detected a note of “no nonsense” to Loretta Wade's tone that I liked. After the beep I left a brief message identifying myself as a member of Senator Russell's staff calling in reference to a research question, then left my number and clicked off. I sensed Loretta Wade didn't like to waste time.

_____

I spied Casey leaving the Russell kitchen, coffee mug in hand. “Did you leave me any, Casey?” I teased as I approached. Mid-morning e-mails were vying with financial spreadsheets for my attention. Switching between them demanded more caffeine than usual.

“Don't worry, Molly. There's plenty left. Luisa just made a fresh pot,” Casey said with a big smile.

“Exactly what I need.” I headed straight for the coffeepot. “Spreadsheet columns are starting to blend into one another. That's a sign of severe caffeine deprivation.”

Casey leaned against the doorway. “I see the Widow Wilson has been appointed to her husband's seat. You were spot on, Molly,” he said then sipped his coffee.

I watched that beautiful black stream splash into my oversized mug. “It wasn't my prediction. It was Samantha's. She's the sage of Washington politics, not me.”

“Sage of Washington politics,” Casey said with a chuckle. “At least she's no longer in the Fairfax County cops' spotlight. That's the important thing. I have a feeling Samantha Calhoun can handle the
D.C. Dirt's
spotlight. By the way, have you seen it yet today? I thought you'd get a kick out of their announcement of Sylvia Wilson's appointment.” He reached inside his jacket and retrieved the slender newssheet and handed it over.

“Ahhhh, gossip and caffeine, perfect combination,” I said, then took a big sip. “Please tell me Samantha's not in here.”

“Nope. Not a word. But you will enjoy the Widow Wilson gossip. Looks like they've been digging around.”

Casey had conveniently folded the news rag right at the article about Sylvia Wilson. “Good. It's about time Widow Wilson got a dose of her own medicine.” I scanned the columns, recognizing the same information I'd heard from both Samantha and Natasha Jorgensen. Years of campaign donations to the Ohio Governor, rude and overbearing with Wilson's congressional staffers, old Ohio family, father a wealthy Cleveland real estate developer, and much, much more. I couldn't help smiling while I read.

“Well, well, looks like the
Dirt's
found all those disgruntled Quentin Wilson staffers. I hate to admit this, but I'm glad. After the way she went after Samantha, I hope the
Dirt
makes Sylvia Wilson's life hell.”

“Welcome to Washington, Widow Wilson,” Casey said with a grin, reaching inside his jacket for his ringing cell phone as he stepped into the hall.

I sipped my steaming coffee and headed back to my office and the waiting spreadsheets, while I debated calling Samantha so we could gloat over the phone together. Clicking my screen to life once more, I was about to dive back into a rental property income statement when my own personal phone rang. It had to be Samantha, I figured and got ready to gloat.

“Molly Malone,” I answered, expecting to hear Samantha's amused drawl. Instead, I heard the same no-nonsense voice from earlier this morning.

“Ms. Malone, this is Loretta Wade. I'm returning your call about a research subject Senator Russell is interested in.”

“Oh, yes, yes, Ms. Wade,” I quickly switched gears. “I wanted to talk with you about some
…
some research topics. I'd like to explain more. When would be the best time we could talk?”

“Well, we're talking right now, Ms. Malone. What is it that Senator Russell is interested in researching? He's already on the Senate Energy and Natural Resources Committee, subcommittee on Energy. And I know he's recently been appointed to the Banking, Housing, and Urban Affairs Committee.”

I hesitated, wondering how to explain to “no-nonsense” Loretta Wade that the research was for me and not Senator Russell. My plan was to invite Loretta Wade to lunch so I could explain face-to-face. Over the phone, I was afraid my request would sound weird at best, suspicious at worst.

“I can actually better explain what I'm looking for in person. I thought maybe I could meet you for lunch?”

Loretta Wade paused for a split second. “Excuse me?”

From the sound of Ms. Wade's tone, I knew my suggestion had come across way more than weird. “I know it may sound strange, but it's hard to explain over the phone—“

“Ms. Malone, I'm a busy woman. I've got a large staff to oversee and research requests waiting this minute. I take lunch at my desk and do not do business dinners. I don't have the time. So, you need to explain exactly what you want to research to me on the phone now.”

Oh, brother.
I figured I'd better think fast or Loretta Wade would hang up on me. I took a quick breath and plunged in. “The questions relate to Congressman Quentin Wilson's recent research requests into financial legislation. I was curious what he had learned because
…
because my late niece, Karen Grayson, was doing similar research before she died. I'm
…
trying to finish her work. Kind of like a tribute to her, I suppose.”

I held my breath, hoping I'd struck a sympathetic chord somewhere inside no-nonsense Loretta. I hadn't heard a click on the other end, so I knew she was still there, not saying anything. I ventured again. “I know it sounds weird or maybe even stupid
…
”

“No, it doesn't, Ms. Malone,” Loretta Wade's voice came. The brusque business tone was softened now, around the edges. “I knew your niece, Karen. She was a fine young woman, and I was sickened by what happened to her.”

Taken by surprise by the feeling behind her words, I paused for a heartbeat. “So was I. And thank you for saying that, Ms. Wade. It means a lot.” My instinct said to stop talking. Most of the time I failed to obey that admonition, but I did this time.

A big sigh came over the phone. “All right, Ms. Malone. Let me look at my calendar.”

I couldn't believe it. My appeal for sympathy worked. By invoking my beloved niece's name, I'd been able to establish some level of credibility with no-nonsense Loretta Wade.

“I still have one teenager at home, so my evenings are usually full. Let's see
…
how about Wednesday night? My son is at tennis practice. I can squeeze in dinner then.”

“That's great, Ms. Wade. Thank you so much.”

“It would be easier for me if we met somewhere closer to my house, so I can be home when he returns. I'm over in the Eastern Market area. You know where that is, don't you?”

“Sure I do.” I'd already gone wandering through Eastern Market's great Saturday morning market earlier this summer.

“Good. There's a tavern-style restaurant on the Eastern Market side of Eighth Street. Why don't we meet there, say six thirty?”

“That's perfect. Thanks so much for taking time away from your busy schedule. I remember how hectic that was, getting my two daughters to and from practices and lessons. They're all grown now.”

“Well, my other two sons are grown but Tommy's the baby. Once he gets into college I can relax.”

Surprised by her honest and open statement, I laughed softly. “I know what you mean. Hang in there, Loretta, the finish line is in sight. Okay if I call you that? I'm a first-name person by nature.”

“Sure thing, Molly. Right now, both of us should get back to work. I'll see you Wednesday night.”

“I'll put it on my daytimer, Loretta.” Somehow I got the feeling I was going to really enjoy Wednesday night's supper.

Monday evening

Rinsing a bunch of fresh spinach under my kitchen faucet, I grabbed some paper towels. Halfway paying attention to the D.C. metro-area news broadcast coming from the small television on the edge of the counter, I patted the spinach dry and chose a handful to add to the fresh tomatoes, onions, peppers, and mushrooms I'd chopped. Summer's harvest did not disappoint. My mouth was watering at the sight of those juicy red tomatoes.

I'd already eaten a small one. Couldn't resist. It was in my mouth before I knew it.

I tossed the salad ingredients into one of my larger salad bowls. What wasn't consumed tonight would be lunch tomorrow. The TV newscaster was describing all the traffic jams clogging roads from the District into Maryland and Virginia. Giving thanks once again that I didn't have to sit in rush hour traffic every day, I was surprised by the man's sudden change of subject.

“Breaking news. We've just received word that the body of a young male found in Houston, Texas, over the weekend may be the missing congressional staffer who was connected to the recently deceased Congressman Quentin Wilson.” I stared at the television as the news reporter wearing a suit talked into the camera. “Apparently, the cause of death of the young man found in Texas was a large overdose of sleeping pills and prescription drugs. If viewers will recall, Congressman Wilson also died from an apparent overdose of sleeping pills and prescription painkillers. It was rumored that Congressman Wilson had obtained the drugs from a staffer who worked for Congressional Research Service on Capitol Hill. Police are not releasing the name of the deceased, pending notification of his family.”

The news reporter's voice and demeanor changed from sharp and reportorial to warm and folksy as he announced a pancake breakfast for a local charity group next weekend.

That had to be the same guy Samantha mentioned.
Good Lord!
Samantha was right. Wilson's death had become like quicksand. It kept sucking people in.

I left the salad bowl on the counter and reached for my cell phone, skimming through my directory until I found Samantha's name. She answered after three rings.

“I knew that was you calling, Molly,” she said. “Yes, I just saw the news broadcast about the young staffer.”

“I figure it's gotta be the same guy we saw on your video. If police are releasing the information to the media, that means they've already identified the body.”

“Sad to say, I think you're right. It's simply awful how the ripples keep appearing from Quentin's death. Tragic. Somewhere this young man had a mother and father and family that loved him.”

“I wonder how Natasha Jorgensen is taking it.”

“Probably not well, especially if they were close. I wonder what he was doing in Texas?”

“Maybe he heard that police had learned of his delivery business and came to ask him questions. I'll bet he panicked and headed out of town.”

“This is all so sad
…
” Her voice trailed off.

“You'd better continue to keep your head down, Samantha. You haven't been mentioned in the sleaze rag for a couple of days. But this news will stir up all those stories again. So lie low.”

“Oh, I am. I'm keeping out of sight. My friends are coming here to visit. By the way, I'd love to have you for dinner, unless Danny has made you a better offer. I hope he has.”

I paused before telling Samantha how my last date with Danny had ended. “Danny's out of town until Friday. But he asked me to reserve this weekend for us. The entire weekend. He said we'd need it.”

Samantha let out a jubilant hoot. “Thank Gawd!
Finally!
I was about to come over and knock both your heads together and tell you to get on with it. You two were giving
me
a headache.”