The woman’s voice went up an octave as she smiled brightly into the cameras. “And now, here’s Bernie with the weather.”
I stared as the image of Celeste disappeared from the screen, replaced by a large map of the Washington metro region, a smiling meteorologist standing beside.
A cold hand reached inside my gut and squeezed hard. I pushed away from the bar stool and bolted down the winding mall corridor, heading for the canal exit. Outside. I had to get outside.
_____
I drained my second glass of wine and held it up for the waiter at the harbor-front café.
He scurried over to my umbrella-shaded patio table. “Another Fat Bastard, ma’am?”
“Please. And more of those cheese things.” He hastened off, and I scavenged the last morsel of cheese and baguette on the table while I watched the Potomac flowing peacefully past the Washington Harbor. I barely remembered how I wound up here. I’d stumbled out of the mall and wandered for blocks along the C&O Canal on the towpath. Then I started winding through the lower Georgetown streets leading to the condos and cafés that bordered the river until I came to Water Street and the newly developed harbor front. Danny and I had had dinner here only a couple of weeks ago.
I looked over my shoulder to the luxury condos that rose above and surrounded the cafés, coffee shops, and businesses that clustered below. Karen and I had breakfast at one of the upper-level cafés the day she died.
The wide river sparkled in the late afternoon sun. All manner of craft floated by, from kayaks to sleek yachts. Theodore Roosevelt Island wildlife refuge was to the right, the Lincoln Memorial and Kennedy Center were across the water straight ahead, and to the left was the once-notorious Watergate complex. It was a truly stunning view. When I was a child only flour mills, warehouses, and other industrial buildings enjoyed the same view that all of the café’s patrons were enjoying right now.
“Here you go, ma’am,” the college-aged waiter said, placing my refilled wineglass and the appetizers in front of me.
I reached for another cheesy bite, but it was too late. The rich French Chardonnay had beaten the cheese into my system with the first glass. I was buzzed, and I didn’t care. At least I couldn’t hear the accusatory voice in the back of my head.
Celeste is dead. And you’re partly responsible. If you hadn’t asked her to poke around in Molinoff’s files, she wouldn’t have gotten into trouble at her office. Celeste would have stayed here in Washington, and not gone to the Eastern Shore to some old closed-up house with a leaky gas stove.
I recognized Sober-and-Righteous’s scolding tone and flinched inwardly. Sober was right. I should never have involved her in my quest to investigate Jed Molinoff. Celeste would be alive today if I hadn’t.
Taking a big sip of the round fruity wine, I nibbled more cheese, letting Sober run roughshod over my conscience. A sleek yacht motored up to the harbor’s dock, filled with partying couples making merry. The tourists passing by ogled the boating party and tried to discreetly snap photos.
Runners sped by as well as cyclists, despite the signs warning them to dismount and walk their bikes. Hopefully the strolling tourists would pay attention as they took in the gorgeous views. A collision was only a misstep away.
I glanced to the side and noticed one of the tourists, a man with a gray backpack, was aiming his camera in my direction. In my buzzed state, I lifted my glass as he clicked away.
The partying couples started dancing to a quiet salsa beat, martini glasses in hand. I sipped my wine and watched the tourists watching the boaters. Tourists feeding the pigeons. Tourists taking photos. Photos of the river. Of the views. Of the buildings behind me. Pretty pictures. I let myself enjoy the salsa beat. Then my cell phone jangled atop the table.
“Hey, Molly, how’re you doing?” Danny asked.
I let his warm voice settle over me, joining the Chardonnay. “Not okay. Celeste’s dead.”
Danny was quiet for a second. “How?”
“Her house on the shore blew up. Gas explosion, the police say. They think the stove ignited it.”
“Where are you?”
I took another sip. “I’m here at Washington Harbor trying to drown my guilt, drinking Fat Bastard and eating cheese. Where are you? Still away consulting?”
“Actually, I’m driving across Key Bridge right now. I was on the way to your house to see if you’d like to go out, but since you already are, I’ll meet you there.”
“Danny, you don’t have to babysit me,” I protested.
“I’m not. I’m coming to keep you company, that’s all. See you in a few minutes.”
He clicked off and I went back to watching the tourists watching the sights. The tourist with the backpack was gone.
_____
“It’s not your fault, Molly. You told me Celeste had already gotten into trouble with Molinoff for asking questions he didn’t like. Plus she’d seen Karen and him together.”
“Yeah, but I made it worse. I should never have asked her to help.” I nibbled the tasty fried calamari Danny had ordered.
“She called you, remember? She’d already been checking into Molinoff, confronting him about Fillmore. And that’s what got her on his radar screen. Not you and your email searches.”
I wagged my head. “I disagree. I think the email searches are what made Jed send the burglar.”
“You don’t know that. Look, you don’t know what was going on in Celeste’s life other than what she told you. Maybe that newscast was correct. Maybe she really did suffer from depression. Maybe this accident was really a suicide.”
I toyed with the steak Danny had also ordered. “I hear you, but somehow I still feel responsible. Even if it doesn’t make any sense. Even if it sounds crazy.”
“I don’t think it sounds crazy, Molly,” Danny said, leaning both arms on the table. “I just think you’ve suffered another horrible loss of someone you care about. You admitted you’d adopted Celeste. And now she’s gone. A little over a month ago, you lost your niece.” His voice dropped. “Face it, you’ve had a helluva past few weeks. I don’t think you’re in any position to sit in judgment of yourself. You’re simply trying to make your way through a really rough time.”
I sliced into the filet and let the rich flavors melt in my mouth. Laden with cholesterol and fat, but damn, it was good. Danny’s reasoning settled over me as I savored the beef. Maybe he was right. I didn’t know anything about Celeste’s private life. Maybe she had problems I wasn’t aware of. None of us really knows what’s going on inside someone else. Sober mumbled in the background but didn’t contradict.
“Any idea if Molinoff went to the police yet?” he asked, sinking back in his chair. Shirtsleeves rolled up, tie off, jacket over the chair.
“Casey hasn’t said a thing, and I’m certain he’d tell me if his detective friend had called with information.”
Danny took a drink from his Scotch, then sliced into the filet. “So, what’s your next move, Molly?”
I savored another bite while I let my mind shift from guilt back to the problem that I’d wrestled with the entire weekend. I took another bite, then sipped the black coffee I’d ordered for myself.
“I’ll ask Casey tomorrow if he can check with Detective Schroeder. See if he’s called Jed yet. If he hasn’t, then maybe that will spur him to do so. If he has called him, then I’ll wait to hear if Jed gave any new information.”
Danny paused, filet nearly to his mouth. “And if Jed hasn’t complied?”
I sank back into the wire café chair, coffee cup in both hands while I stared out at the Potomac flowing past. “Then I’ll have to explain my situation to Senator Russell and Peter and offer my resignation. I don’t want my actions to reflect on people I’ve come to respect and care for.”
Danny returned to his steak while I stared out at that la
zy river. A tidal river. Whenever bad weather whipped the Atlantic nearby, storm surges swept up the river on its strong currents. The Potomac was used to stormy weather, be it political or meteorological.
Glancing at me with a crooked smile, Danny pointed to my plate. “Better finish that filet. You’re going need your strength.”
Twenty
I spotted Casey heading toward the Russell kitchen. Taking a deep breath, I went down the hall after him. Better to get this process started. Delay would only eat away at my resolve. And right now, resolve and bravado were the only things I had keeping me on track.
“Casey, can I ask you something?” I said as I entered the kitchen. “Have you heard yet if Lieutenant Schroeder called Jed Molinoff ? I was curious if he learned anything new.”
Casey kept his eyes on the black stream of coffee filling his mug. “Matter of fact, I heard from Schroeder earlier this morning. He called Molinoff yesterday and tried to pry some more information out of him. But he didn’t get anything new. Even when Schroeder asked him flat-out if he’d returned to Karen’s car after leaving the reception.”
“What’d he say? Did Schroeder give a hint?”
Casey shrugged. “Sounded like Molinoff stonewalled. Told Schroeder that the kitchen worker had to be mistaken.” He walked toward me while he drank his coffee. “Sorry, Molly. I know how much you were counting on that.”
You have no idea, I thought to myself, as I felt my gut squeeze. “Sorry is putting it mildly. Do you have a minute?” I beckoned him to the hallway again. “Let’s go outside to the garden. Tonight the Pacific Northwest congressional delegations will descend on us, so this may be our last quiet minute.”
“What’s up, Molly?” he asked, following after me.
I stepped out onto the patio and stared out at the roses for a minute, then confessed. “This will probably be my last reception for the senator. I’ll be handing in my resignation tomorrow.”
No mistaking Casey’s surprise. “Why? Has something happened? Is your mother all right?”
“No, she’s fine and my family’s fine. This is all me, Casey. My decision and mine alone.”
“I’m listening.”
“Last Friday I did meet with Jed Molinoff. He denied seeing Karen or anyone else on the streets. I knew he was lying, so I threatened him.”
“With what?”
“I told him if he didn’t tell the police what he knows, then I was going to the press. I promised that by the time I finished telling the story of their tawdry love affair, he’d be the king of sleaze on the television tabloid news.”
“You didn’t.”
“Yeah, I did. And I meant every word. Jed went white as a sheet. He saw someone that night. I’m sure of it. But he won’t confess unless I force him to.”
“Was Danny with you?”
“He was the muscle that kept Jed from bolting.”
Casey observed me for a long minute. “And that’s why you’re resigning?”
“I don’t want my actions to reflect upon Senator Russell or any of you. So it would be best if I remove myself from the senator’s staff beforehand, so you folks can have total denial that you knew anything.”
“Damn, Molly.”
“That about sums it up.” I took a deep drink of my coffee, while I watched Casey dig his ringing BlackBerry from his coat pocket.
“When are you going to tell Peter?” he asked as he scanned the phone screen.
“After everyone leaves tonight.”
Casey began backing away, phone to his ear. “Don’t say anything yet, Molly.”
I took my time walking back to my office at the end of the hallway, admiring the antique-filled rooms and surroundings I’d become accustomed to these last few weeks. Clearly, working for Senator John Russell had provided the most comfortable and lavish office setting I’d ever experienced. I would miss it. But not as much as I would miss the people who’d become my “office family.” I was surprised how quickly I had assimilated into the Russell routine. Karen had been right. This was where I belonged. It was in my blood.
Who knows what kind of job I’d be able to land next. Probably not in Washington, and certainly not in politics. Not after I’d ratted out a congressional chief of staff. Speaking the truth was not necessarily considered a virtue in Washington.
I settled at my desk and reached for the mail that Luisa had placed beside the computer. Sorting through the usual letters, I noticed a larger manila envelope. It had a type-written mailing label addressed to me but no return address.
That got my attention. I turned the envelope over several times, checking for any powdery substances or anything else strange. Nothing was evident, so I used the letter opener to carefully slice the envelope open. There were photographs inside. Three 8 x 10 photos. I slid them from the envelope.
The photos appeared to have been taken at night because the light looked strange, harsh. The first showed a man standing beside a parked car, leaning over the driver’s window. The next showed the man entering the front passenger side of the car. I stared at the photos, noticing the car’s license plate. Karen’s license plate. That was Karen’s car.
Was that Jed? I wondered, scrutinizing the photos. Was that person in the driver’s seat Karen? I flipped through to the last photo and stared at it. My heart raced. This photo had zoomed in closer so that I could definitely see Karen behind the wheel and Jed Molinoff in the passenger seat beside her. They appeared in the midst of conversation. No mistaking it.
Oh, my God. That is Karen with Jed beside her. Glimpsing the small print in the lower left corner of the photo revealed the date and time. 10:08, the night of her death. I checked the back of all three photos for more identifying marks. Nothing.
Who in the world would have taken photos of Karen and Jed that night? The clarity of the pictures was excellent, despite the harsher light. Whoever took these photos was a good photographer, that was obvious. But who would do that? Was there some voyeuristic neighbor who spied on the senator’s guests whenever there was a party? Even if that were true, why would that photographer send the photos to me?
I studied the photos again. Here was proof that Jed Molinoff deliberately lied to police. He had gone to Karen’s car after he left. Proof that the kitchen worker was telling the truth. The police would have reason to question Jed now. And he couldn’t lie his way out of it.
“Caterers will be here around noon, Molly,” Casey’s voice sounded from the doorway.
I beckoned him inside my office. “You won’t believe what I just received in the morning mail.” I held out the photos.
Surprise registered on Casey’s face immediately. “Who sent these to you?” he asked in a low voice.
“I haven’t a clue. There was no return address and no markings.” I showed him the empty envelope.
Casey examined it, holding the envelope up to the light. “Date and time on the photos. Proves Molinoff was in her car.”
“Who would take these photos, Casey, and why would they send them to me?”
Casey handed them over. “I don’t know, Molly. But it certainly saved you and your family a helluva lot of trouble.” He peered at me. “No need to call in the press now.”
“You’re right,” I replied, letting the realization settle over me. Somewhere deep inside my chest, a muscle relaxed. “But who would be taking photos? This photographer is a pro. And knows how to take night photos.” I peered up at Casey. “Are there surveillance cameras in this neighborhood?”
Casey gave me a little smile. “Who knows? This is Washington, remember? There are diplomats, international businessmen, government officials, and all the regular politicians who people these neighborhoods. In addition to the Old Establishment types.”
I studied the photos again. “That still doesn’t answer the question why the photographer would send
them to me.”
Casey’s BlackBerry sounded, and he backed away toward the door. “Just be glad he did.”
There was a beep on my office phone indicating a text message had arrived. Peter, advising me about tonight’s reception. I slid the photos back into their envelope and was about to return to my computer screen. But first, I sent a text message of my own to Danny.
_____
Danny’s eyebrows shot up the moment he saw the photos. “Where’s the envelope?”
I handed it over. “No markings, no return address. But whoever it was knew I worked for the senator and knew Karen was my niece. Why else would they send them?”
Danny held up the envelope, then scrutinized the photos again. “Well, whoever took them has done surveillance work because he knew exactly what kind of camera to use and how to capture these shots at night.”
“I racked my brain all morning and afternoon trying to figure out who the photographer is, and the closest thing I can come up with is a ‘voyeuristic neighbor’ theory. They would know about Karen’s death and that I work for the senator.” I leaned back into my office chair and took a drink of lukewarm coffee.
Danny placed the photos back on my desk. “You know, it doesn’t really matter who sent them. The question is, what are you going to do with them now?”
I stared at the photos beside my computer. That question had also been bouncing around my head in between working on Russell accounts. Clearly, I needed to turn them over to the police. But …
“I’m going to take them to Detective Schroeder. But first, I’m going to scan them into my computer. Then I’m going to send copies to Jed Molinoff and suggest he reconsider his refusal to cooperate with police.”
Deadly Politics (A Molly Malone Mystery) Page 22