Deadly Politics

by Maggie Sefton

  “Okay, time for you to talk now. I’m tired of guessing.”

  Karen looked at me over her coffee mug. “The serious relationship is with someone in my office.”

  “Hmmmmm, that can be tricky.”

  “It’s my boss, Jed Molinoff.”

  I made a face. “Not good, Karen. Not good at all.”

  She released a long sigh, as if relieved at the telling. “It was at the beginning of last year when we were in paranoid campaign mode. Working those late nights. Sleeping on the office sofas, eating cold pizza … I don’t know how it happened. Suddenly we looked at each other, and it was different somehow. We just fell into it, I guess, and we haven’t been able to stop since. God knows I’ve tried.” She shook her head. “But as soon as I go back into the office, it starts all over again. Jed starts talking to me, and I get this yearning … I don’t know what it is.”

  I knew what it was. And had experienced it myself in the heat of an intense, hard-fought campaign. Being thrown together with people like yourself, shared emotions, shared dreams, it was hard to separate the adrenaline of the action from a real attraction.

  “I know what you mean, Karen. I’ve been there. But even so, you’ve got to stop it. The sooner, the better. Gossip can do more damage than you know.”

  “It gets worse,” she said from behind her cup. “He’s married with children.”

  This time, I flinched. Damn.

  “You’ve got to put an end to it now, Karen. Tonight. No more working late. No more spending time together. This affair is toxic to you and your career. Once Congressman Jackson finds out—and he will, everyone always finds out—he’ll want you to leave. You know that.”

  She closed her eyes. “I know, I know … how could I have been so stupid! I know better. I never thought something like that would happen to me.”

  “Loneliness makes us do stupid things. I can attest to that.”

  “And you’re right. Congressman Jackson would keep Jed because he’s so dependent on him. Jackson depends on me, too. Even so, I’d be the one to go.”

  “Tell Molinoff today. Don’t wait until Monday. It’s good you’re coming home with me. That way, if he tries to call and pressure you, we’ll be around tomorrow for moral support.” I reached over and squeezed her arm.

  Karen stared at the tablecloth, her finger tracing an invisible pattern. “I’m not sure if Jed would pressure me to stay or not. We had an argument earlier this week, and he’s been acting differently toward me ever since.”

  “Sounds like a serious argument.”

  “Well, I didn’t think it was,” her voice still betrayed surprise. “But Jed reacted strangely, not like himself at all. It surprised me how upset he got about it.”

  “What was this disagreement about?”

  “That’s what’s so puzzling. There was no disagreement. Not at first. I simply asked a question about one of the congressman’s campaign contributors—what he knew about the group—and he brushed off my questions. Told me not to worry about them. He’d visited with the head of the group, and they were a private think tank, that’s all. Then he reminded me the congressman needed all the money he could get for this upcoming race.”

  She drank from her mug, staring out at the Potomac again. “I thought that was strange. He’d never said that about any other contributor. That made me curious, so I pushed and asked exactly what kind of ‘political think tank’ they were. Why was this group different? I mean, I’m an analyst. That’s what I do. I ask questions. That’s when he jumped down my throat. Told me to drop it and get back to work. The congressman didn’t pay me to bother donors to his campaign. Then he added that this group had been donating to politicians for years on both sides of the aisle.” She paused and sipped her coffee. “You know, Molly, that hurt; his berating me like that. We’ve always been on the same page about everything. Of course, that made me even more curious about the group.”

  “What’s their name?”

  “The Epsilon Group. It’s low profile. Invites distinguished professors, economists, politicians, and international figures to gather periodically and brainstorm different issues. That’s what I’ve been able to find out so far.”

  “Sounds like a good idea. I’m surprised I haven’t heard of them. Have any of their ideas gone any farther than brainstorming?”

  Karen nodded. “Apparently, yes. I tracked several of their policy statements over the past two decades and found three or four that wound up in legislation; either national or in a state legislature.”

  I watched Karen as she talked. There was something she wasn’t telling me. “Sounds like a great organization. We need more brainstorming and less politicking. What was it about the group that concerned you, Karen?”

  She resumed tracing a pattern on the white tablecloth. I waved away the approaching waiter, not wanting to disturb Karen’s concentration.

  “I’d seen that name before, years ago. It was in my father’s notebooks. I’d forgotten he’d mentioned it. I hadn’t looked at those notebooks for years.”

  Now I was curious. Karen’s father was Dave’s eccentric older brother, Eric. Eric Grayson had been a successful district attorney in Denver when Dave died. Eric had taken Dave’s death as a call to action, somehow. I had never fully understood, but Eric became consumed with the idea of “carrying his brother’s torch.” He was quickly appointed to Dave’s remaining term and easily won the seat on his own that fall. “Continuing David Grayson’s legacy of reform,” he called it and moved his wife and teenage daughter to the nation’s Capitol. He served in Congress for ten years until he and his wife, Cheryl, died in a car crash outside Washington.

  “What kind of notebooks?”

  “Dad used to take notes on legislation he was working on, research he’d done on each bill, stuff like that. We’d sit up late at night and talk about all the bills before Congress. Dad had other notes there, too. Personal recollections, I guess you’d call them. That’s why I read the notebooks after he died. It was kind of like having Dad sitting across from me again.” Her voice had turned wistful.

  “What did his notes say about the Epsilon Group? Anything bad?”

  Karen shook her head. “No, not at all. But he indicated that he was researching them. That’s why I didn’t remember it until I noticed the Epsilon Group on the list of donors this year. Something about the name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it at first. That’s why I dug out Dad’s notebooks and went through them.”

  “What were you looking for?” I asked, puzzled.

  Karen turned her clear blue gaze to me. “Hard to explain, Molly. Something about the words my dad used made me think he was curious about the group and was looking into them. I knew my dad so well, we were so alike. I guess that’s why I started checking them. It was like, if Dad was curious, I should be too.”

  I stared into her open, direct gaze. That was Karen Grayson. Her father’s daughter, through and through. Mirror image of Eric Grayson’s dedication and sense of service. It made sense. Karen idolized her father. I sensed that by checking on this group, Karen believed she was continuing her father’s work. In reality, I guessed it was more a way to keep her father’s memory alive in her heart. Loneliness can indeed make us do strange things.

  “That’s understandable, Karen,” I said. “But you might want to back off a bit. Especially considering your relationship with Molinoff. Your soon-to-end relationship, actually. You don’t want him holding a grudge. That could get really ugly.”

  Karen nodded. “You’re right, Molly. I think—”

  Her cell phone rang then, and I knew our quiet breakfast was about to end abruptly. Well, at least I’d been able to give some maternal advice—for what it was worth.

  Karen put her hand over her other ear and leaned on the table, listening intently to the caller. She answered in short, clipped rep
lies, leading me to believe that the caller was none other than her boss, and lover, Jed Molinoff.

  “I’ll be over shortly. And, Jed, we’re not going to your boat today. No. We need to talk.” A long pause rolled by, then Karen replied in a firm voice, “Yes, today. We need to talk now, Jed. I’m coming right over. Bye.” With that, she flipped off her phone.

  “I’m impressed, Karen. You were strong and decisive. Good job. Now, go over there and tell him it’s finished. Today. Don’t let him talk you out of it. Some guys are wheedlers and they’ll try all sorts of things to entice you back. I’ve seen it happen. If he does, don’t be afraid to use guilt. Remind him of his wife and children. Sounds like he’s conveniently forgotten about them. That should get his attention.”

  Karen stared out the window again. “I wanted you to know, Molly, for the record, that I have tried breaking up with Jed before. I didn’t want you to think I’d completely lost my moral compass. It’s just, whenever I tried, I couldn’t finish. Jed would start kissing me and … and I’d fall right back into it again.” She turned her clear blue gaze to me. “I promise you this time will be different. This time I will do it. No matter what Jed says or does.”

  The earnestness of Karen’s gaze touched me, and I reached across the table and squeezed her arm. “I believe you, Karen. And I want you to know that I’m so very proud of you. Of everything you’ve done over there on the Hill during your career. You’re a credit to your father and to the family. Don’t let this stumble cause you to doubt yourself. We’re all human, Karen, and we all make mistakes. All of us. I just wanted you to know that. For the record.” I smiled.

  Karen’s eyes started to glisten, so I glanced away and signaled the waiter.

  _____

  The phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. He leaned back in the outdoor café chair and took a sip of his beer before answering. “Yes?”

  Raymond’s scratchy voice came over the line. “There’ll be some additional arrangements needed tonight. Bring your camera.”

  “That’s different. She must really have them spooked.”

  “It’s complicated. Turns out Congressman Jackson’s chief staffer Jed Molinoff had a thing going with this girl, while the wife and kiddies were back home in Omaha. Problem is, she and Molinoff just had a nasty breakup today. A big argument, according to him. Now she’s quitting Jackson’s office, and she’s carrying a grudge the size of Nebraska.”

  “Molinoff sounds like a loose cannon.”

  “You might say that. So bring the camera. Text file is on its way. Call me after completion.”

  “Roger that.”

  He clicked off and went back to his beer and watching tourists feed the pigeons beside the Potomac.

  _____

  “Baked Brie, Ms. Malone?” the grad-student waiter asked, holding a tray filled with the tempting selections in front of me.

  “When haven’t I wanted baked Brie?” I admitted as I chose one. “I remember you from the Senator’s reception last night. What’s your name?”

  “Ryan, ma’am. Ryan Bonner,” he replied with an engaging grin. “Take another, Ms. Malone. They’re small.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, and they have no calories, either. Tell me, Ryan, do you work many of Senator Russell’s parties?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Bud and Agnes and I work all of the senator’s functions, ever since he came to Washington.”

  He nodded toward the bartender and the older woman with the graying Dutch Boy haircut I’d spoken to at the last reception. She was offering glasses of wine to the crowd that filled Senator Russell’s living and dining rooms. Noticing Ryan’s buzzed short blond hair, I wondered if he might be in the Reserves. Maybe that was how he was paying for his education.

  “Which agency do you work for, Ryan?”

  “Preferred Professionals, ma’am,” he said, moving away from where I stood. “Mr. Brewster has all the contact information if you need it.”

  I’ll bet he does. “Thanks, Ryan. And you can drop the ‘ma’am’, okay? Call me Molly.”

  “Yes, ma’am … Molly,” he grinned before he turned toward the crowd again.

  From my post alone in the archway, I spotted Bud, the bartender, efficiently offering drinks. Agnes was working her way back and forth between the thirsty crowd and the bar, effortlessly balancing her tray filled with glasses. It was good to have names. I could probe Nan and Deb about Preferred Professionals and see what they knew about the agency. Now that I was the senator’s accountant, all expenses came under my scrutiny.

  Glancing about the animated clusters of Midwestern politicians and staffers, I spotted Peter Brewster earnestly listening to an older, balding gentleman holding forth—as only a politician can—complete with finger-waving and head-wagging. Senator Russell was beside the fireplace, surrounded by several men I guessed to be junior congressmen. I noticed Russell was also holding forth, minus wagging head and fingers.

  An attractive middle-aged woman approached, wine glass in hand. My instinct said “congresswoman,” but I was damned if I remembered her name. I needed time to study that congressional directory.

  “Ms. Malone,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Congresswoman Sally Chertoff from Iowa. I believe I spotted you at Senator Karpinksy’s service earlier today.”

  “You’re right, Congresswoman. I was there along with most of congressional Washington, it seems. That was quite a tribute.”

  “It certainly was. His death is a huge loss to the Senate. I once read that your father and he worked together on civil rights legislation years ago and were instrumental in getting it passed.”

  Shreds of old memories tugged at me. Proud memories. “Yes, indeed. They stood up and made a difference when it counted. The newspapers used to call them the ‘two lions of the Senate.’”

  “I never had the pleasure of knowing your father, but I’d say that was a pretty apt description of Senator Karpinsky,” Congresswoman Chertoff said. “I had a chance to meet him last year when our House Financial Services subcommittee on International Monetary Policy was conducting a hearing. Senator Karpinsky asked to speak with us in a closed-door session. He was impressive, even at eighty-six.”

  “Isn’t Congressman Randall Jackson on your committee?”

  “Yes, he is. And Randall and I were talking a minute ago about how much we’ll miss having Karpinsky as head of the Senate Banking committee. We were really looking forward to his guidance and support when our bill comes up before the House. Now that he’s gone, we’re not sure how much support we’ll have for tougher language on regulation.” She placed her empty wine glass on Agnes’s convenient tray.

  Another congressman beckoned across the room, and Chertoff excused herself. “It looks like someone needs to speak with me. Nice meeting you, Ms. Malone. I hope we can talk again.”

  “Call me Molly, Congresswoman, and stay strong,” I said as she moved away.

  I scanned the room again, looking for my niece this time, and saw her in the corner in her trademark navy blue suit talking to a tall slender man with light brown hair. Watching the anxious expression on Karen’s face, I sensed the man she was speaking with was Jed Molinoff. He leaned toward Karen, talking and gesturing vehemently. The mother in me wanted to casually wander by, in case Karen needed to escape. But I knew better. Karen had to break off this relationship herself for it to take. She didn’t need rescuing.

  “Chardonnay tonight, or some Pinot Grigio?” a woman’s low voice came beside me.

  I turned to see Agnes smiling at me, offering her tray of wines like she had yesterday evening. Her face showed sun wrinkles as well as laugh lines. Lots of laugh lines. Her smile seemed even more familiar tonight, as if my memory was sifting through faces.

  “I’ll try the Pinot Grigio this time, Agnes,” I said. “Ryan told me your names. At least the three of you. Are there other
s the senator uses regularly?”

  “Casey has also been with the senator from the beginning.” Agnes gestured to the crew-cut, retired military type discreetly wandering the edge of the room. I recognized him from Thursday evening’s reception. “Of, course, Casey is a permanent employee, while we’re just temps.”

  “Security,” I said before sipping my wine. Clean and crisp. “Better safe than sorry, I guess.”

  “Times have changed a lot since your father’s days in the Senate.”

  This time, I turned and studied Agnes. She stood calmly, with that amused smile of hers. “I knew I’d seen you before, Agnes. Were you at some of my parents’ parties?”

  “I was at most of them. Your father liked my sense of humor. And he liked that I could work around politicians whether they were drunk or sober or in full rant. He used to call me Aggie.” Her smile spread. “I remember when you first started creeping around the edges of those parties. I also remember when you used to hide behind your father’s library sofa, eavesdropping on politicians.” She chuckled.

  The name did the trick. Suddenly, a memory of Aggie spying me behind the sofa one evening—and not saying a word—crept from the back of my mind. “I remember! I held my breath waiting for you to squeal on me, but you didn’t. Good Lord, Aggie, that’s been years ago. I cannot believe you remembered.”

  “Ohhhhh, I remember a lot. Your father was one of my favorites. That’s why I enjoyed working his functions. Plus, I sensed your father already knew you were hiding. And you knew he knew.” She laughed softly. “He doted on you, Molly.”

  More memories wiggled free from the underbrush. “You’re right, Aggie. Dad let me get away with murder. I also remember your working our functions. Dave’s and mine. You were blond then, and your hair was longer.”

  Aggie nodded. “I used to turn down other jobs to work yours. It was always a pleasure to watch you and your husband together. You made a great team.”

  “Yes, we did,” I said, allowing some of those pleasant memories to surface and dance before my eyes. “That was a long time ago, Aggie. Another lifetime, it seems.”