Poisoned Politics (15 page)

“Look at it this way. It keeps us in business,” Trask said with an engaging smile.

Raymond started to laugh, until the cough started. And didn't stop. Trask signaled the waitress for more coffee.

fourteen

Wednesday morning

Casey leaned inside the
Russell kitchen, coffee in one hand, copy of the
D.C. Dirt
in the other. “You are really gonna enjoy this,” he said, grinning at me as he waved the paper.

I watched the stream of coffee pouring into my cup. “Don't tell me. Widow Wilson again. What's she up to now?”

“I don't want to spoil your fun. Besides, I've gotta pick up
Peter and the Senator. Don't forget, another reception tonight.” He dropped the news rag on the counter beside the doorway. “I'll be back before the caterers show up,” he called as he headed down the hall.

I took a small sip of the steaming black potion. Hot, hot.

Picking up the
D.C. Dirt
, my eyes immediately found the article that Casey had starred with his red pen. I scanned it as I walked back to my office. Only one paragraph. But oh, what was packed into those few sentences.

No evidence of a blackmail message accompanied photos sent to Congressman Wilson and his paramour. Why, then, were photos taken? And why does Sylvia Wilson have copies of the photos? Did she pay a detective to spy on her cheating husband? Did she threaten to use those photos against him in a divorce? Without Sylvia Wilson's family money, Congressman Wilson would have had difficulty running for re-election next year. Did Sylvia Wilson's threats drive her husband to suicide? Widow Wilson has stepped smoothly into the vacancy her husband's death created. Sources tell the
Dirt
Sylvia Wilson has always expressed an interest in politics.

I couldn't help smiling as I rounded the corner into my office. It looked like the Widow Wilson was beginning to reap what she had sewn. If you live by the sword, you die by the sword. Gossip in Washington was far more effective a weapon than burnished steel. More politicians had lost their “political” lives to gossip and innuendo. In the end, they might still be alive but were seriously weakened. Words were powerful.

My computer screen was buzzing with flashing e-mails, indicating new messages. I settled into my chair and grabbed my personal phone, then sent a short text to Samantha.

“Well, we've seen her dish it out. Let's see if Sylvia Wilson can take it.”

By the time I'd scrolled through my on-screen e-mails, deciding on which to answer first, Samantha had texted her reply.

“Washington ain't Cleveland, sugar.”

I laughed out loud.
Not by a long shot.

_____

Raymond settled into the cushioned lawn chair on his shaded backyard patio. Cicadas buzzed in the afternoon heat. No views of cranes or construction back here, just oak trees, elms, and maples edging his back fence, stretching as far as he could see.

He'd hoped he'd be safe from encroaching sprawl when he left Fairfax County several years ago and moved to adjoining Prince William County. It only took two years for the bulldozers to appear. How long before the trees would be decimated and thinned, as Caterpillars carved out another subdivision?

His cell phone rang into life on the glass table by his elbow. He took a big sip of brandy before answering. He knew who it was.
Spencer
. “What did you hear from Fillmore?” he asked in greeting.

“Not good news. He checked for research requests by congressional offices and Natasha Jorgensen's name showed up several times last month. So, Wilson wasn't the only one searching.” Spencer's voice sounded somber.

Raymond took another sip of Grand Marnier and felt its golden heat warm his throat. “She could have just ordered the searches for Wilson.”

“Maybe. But we'll need to see what's on Jorgensen's computer. That will tell us what she really knows.”

“Agreed. By the way, my guy accessed earlier phone records for Gary Levitz and there were lots of calls to Jorgensen. Several of them after Fillmore had his first conversation with Levitz. That's a big loose end, and you know how I feel about loose ends. Another good reason to check her computer.”

“
Damn
,” Spencer swore, his voice disgusted.

“Let's see what we find. Then you can check with the committee to see how they want to proceed with Jorgensen. You already know how I feel. Not that I have a vote.” He chuckled softly, the brandy protecting his throat.

Spencer snorted. “You might as well have. I'll get back to you by tomorrow on that.”

“Oh, yeah. I assume you want us to resume watching the Malone woman.”

“I think we need to, even if they're just casual acquaintances. Maybe they ran into each other by accident on the canal.”

“I don't believe in accidents,” Raymond sneered. “Unless I cause them.”

“Who will you put on Malone? Your main man is on Jorgensen.”

“I'll keep an eye on Malone. We already know she's got a pretty regular schedule working for Senator Russell. I'll start tomorrow.”

“Field work again?” Spencer said, a slight tease in his voice. “Be careful. And you'd better not use the Maytag uniform again.”

Thanks to the brandy's protective layer, Raymond was able to let out a loud laugh.

Wednesday evening

I stepped off the escalator onto the Eastern Market Metro plaza. At twenty minutes past six o'clock, rush hour traffic still clogged the avenues bordering the plaza. Peter had cheerfully excused me from this evening's pre-reception hostess duties so I could meet with Loretta Wade for what I'd phrased as a “research dinner.”

Turning my back on the familiar and famous coffee chain at the south end of the plaza, I headed toward the section of Eighth Street where the weekend market always set up. Crossing over Carolina Avenue, I noticed the surrounding cafes were already packed. I hoped Loretta Wade had made a reservation at that restaurant; otherwise, we'd be standing in line at the corner bakery and sharing deli sandwiches on a bench in the plaza.

I'd already explored the other stretch of Eighth Street when Danny and I came to sample some of the cafes across from Barracks Row. A Cuban cafe, a sports bar, and several interesting boutique shops were all mixed together with more cafes along the street. Side streets were filled with lovingly restored townhouses. Gentrification had come and gone. I still remembered when it was called “yuppiefication.” The end result was still the same. The turn of the century rowhouses were filled with an ever-changing stream of Washington wannabees. Few, if any, of the original residents remained.

Noise greeted me before I pushed open the door and stepped inside the tavern-style restaurant. All the tables were full in the patio section, and it looked like the inside café was packed. I scanned the crowded scene and noticed an African-American woman waving to me across the patio from a small table beside the screened windows. I wound my way around the tables and chairs, the smell of hops and dark beers tempting me. I spotted a patron's Guinness and my mouth watered.

“Over here, Molly,” the woman beckoned me forward.

“Loretta?” I smiled when I reached the table.

She nodded. “Have a seat. I already ordered a beer. I hope you're not a teetotaler, because you won't like this place.”

“No worries, there,” I said with a laugh as the waiter came up. “A pint of Guinness, please.”

“A woman after my own heart.” Loretta relaxed back into her chair and observed me.

Her close-cropped haircut sculpted her head perfectly. Not every woman could wear her hair like that and look attractive. On Loretta Wade, it worked. Her high cheekbones and huge dark eyes dominated her striking ebony face.

“You know, you still look like your pictures from years ago, Molly. How'd you escape the toll that time takes?”

Don't be so sure.
“Looks are deceiving, Loretta. The wear and tear is on the inside, trust me.”

Loretta gave an amused sniff. “Isn't that the truth. None of us escapes unscathed.”

Curious that she'd run a search on me, I joked, “Don't tell me Google has file pictures from all those years ago?”

“No, but remember where I work,” Loretta said with a smile. “I've got all the
Washington Post
files on digital now. No more of that microfiche nonsense.”

The waiter set my Guinness before me with a flourish, complete with a little shamrock design in the foam. “
Sl
á
inte
,” I said, trying to remember the Gaelic pronunciation as I lifted my glass and took a deep drink of the dark brew.
Ahhhhhhh. Mother's milk.
Loretta saluted me with her amber ale.

Licking the foam from my upper lip, I observed Loretta. I could tell from the length of those long legs under the table that she was tall, taller than I was, even. Long-waisted and very slender. One of those women who probably could eat all she wanted and never gain an ounce.

“Okay, which pictures did you pull from the
Post's
archives? I'm curious. Please say it wasn't those sorrowful ones after Dave's death.” I took another drink.

“No, no,” Loretta shook her head. “I got some from those early years when your husband was first in Congress. I was studying for my masters in history at George Washington University then. I hadn't met my husband Gabe yet. So I was still single.” A smile tweaked her lips. “Lord knows, that feels like a lifetime ago.”

“That's because it was,” I said with a laugh. “How long have you worked for the Congressional Research Service?”

She took another sip of beer. “Practically my entire Civil Service career. Started as a researcher and moved up. Thank God, because Gabe died ten years ago, so I've been raising my boys on my own since then.”

“You've only got one son at home, you said. Are your other two in college?”

“Michael's finishing his senior year at Cornell, and William's serving in the Navy on the
USS Enterprise
, in the Atlantic.” She lifted her chin proudly.

“Whoa, you're to be commended, Loretta,” I said, lifting my glass in salute. “You've done a fantastic job. William is serving his country, and Michael is at a fine school. Where's your youngest?”

“Brian goes to Gonzaga.” She smiled. “I had all three boys go there.”

I gave her another salute. “Fine school, Gonzaga. Great sports teams too.” I took another sip. “Raising kids alone is a hard job, I know. After Dave died, I had to raise my two girls on my own in Denver. It was such a different life for them than what I grew up with,” I said, unable to keep the slightly wistful tone from my voice. “Thank goodness, my mother and father visited frequently.”

“My dad drove a D.C. city bus until the day he died. We lived up on Georgia Avenue, near Walter Reed Hospital. When my sisters and I were growing up, he used to read articles from the
Post
to us every night. He'd go over the names of all the senators and congressmen and what legislation they'd voted on each week. “You know, my dad used to speak highly of your father.” She said with an amused smile. “He always singled out the ones who supported civil rights legislation. You father was one of them. Bless his heart.” She wagged her head. “That was a loooong time ago.”

“If I'm guessing right, I'd say you and I are about the same age, which means we were still in school then.” I snitched a toasted chip from the bowl in the middle of the table. “I was over in Arlington. Where'd you go to school?”

“Archbishop Carroll. We weren't Catholic, but my father insisted my sisters and I go there.”

“Sounds like my father. Both he and my mother insisted I attend Mount Saint Mary's. I had to beg them to let me go to Washington-Lee my senior year. Both my cousins, Nan and Deb, went there and it sounded like a lot more fun than the girls' school.”

Loretta laughed. “Fun wasn't on our schedules as far as our parents were concerned.”

The young waiter appeared by our table. We ordered a cheese and fruit platter. After munching on the ever-present peanuts, we wouldn't need dinner.

“So, tell me, Molly, was there a particular area that your niece Karen was focusing on? That will help me narrow it down. After we talked, I did a quick check to see which subjects Congressman Wilson was researching and made a list.” She reached into a purse beside her feet.

“Why, thank you, Loretta,” I said, surprised she'd acted so quickly on my request. “That will make it easier.”

“Wilson seemed to focus on international monetary policy and banking regulations. That covers a lot of ground. Do any of those topics match what Karen was researching?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. She left notes on her daytimer. I know that sounds kind of weird. But it looked like she was keeping track of any legislation that involved banking or monetary policy.”

“Do you know why?”

“No, not exactly. Just that she was keeping track of it. That's why I was curious about Congressman Wilson's searches. Did any of those topics cover legislation? You know, like legislation being considered by any House subcommittee?”

Loretta frowned at the list. “No, I just did a cursory check on general topics. But I can run a more specific search when I get the chance. See if he was looking at any legislation.”

The waiter reappeared then with a bountiful platter of rich and aged cheeses, crackers, and fresh fruit. Loretta and I started sampling the aged cheddar, perfect with the beer. And a rich brie, slightly melted and warm from the oven. Heavenly.

I savored the creamy fattening delicacy, closing my eyes in enjoyment. “Ummmmmmmm, this is so good, it's sinful.”

“Don't I know it. But my doctor said to cut back on those rich cheeses, so smack my hand after two more slices.”

“I'll try to remember, but no promises,” I said, then took a big sip of Guinness. “Listen, Loretta, I don't want to burden you with extra work. I imagine you've got your hands full supervising staff and keeping track of all those congressional demands.”