Deadly Politics

by Maggie Sefton

  “Still, it was pretty brazen. Prowling through Karen’s apartment. Rifling her desk. Listening to her phone messages.”

  This time, Danny folded his arms and leaned on the table. “How do you know he did?”

  “I checked the messages when I was there, and the last one was left earlier that very morning. Yet the light wasn’t flashing, which meant somebody listened to them. The landlord wouldn’t. Only Jed Molinoff would do that. And that bothers me.” I stared at the current. “When I saw Jed’s tracks at Karen’s place, I chalked it up to his guilty conscience. But now that I’ve talked to Karen’s friend, I think I’ll make some inquiries of my own about Jed.”

  Danny peered at me. “What’re you planning to do, Molly?”

  “Start asking questions. Check out Jed Molinoff with some of my old contacts and see what turns up. Gossip and rumor being what they are in Washington, I’m sure I’ll learn something. I already asked Celeste to check the records for Karen’s emails these last couple of months. See if something turns up. Jed’s worried about something. Maybe there’s some financial irregularity involving fundraising. Something that might reflect on Jackson. Maybe Karen found out and wrote Jed an email about it.”

  “That sounds like pure speculation, Molly.”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, I know. But my instinct is starting to buzz on Jed Molinoff. Something’s up with him and it’s not just hiding an affair. He’s worried about something else. And I want to find out what it is.”

  _____

  I sipped my coffee while sitting on my secluded back patio examining the pages of Karen’s daytimer. Karen made as many notations on the pages as I did. Along the side, over the top and bottom, scribbling on every date square. Focusing on the month of March—the month she died—I scrutinized every square, every notation.

  “Jed meeting H.” “H speaks tonight at 7 p.m.” “H & J meet.” “H & D meet.” “H & R meet.”

  “J” could mean Jed or Congressman Jackson. There was no clue as to which one. And who were H, D, and R? I could only guess at the other initials. Karen’s notes were cryptic, almost as if she were writing in code for herself. Dates were filled with meetings, calls, appointments. Email addresses and phone numbers were scribbled everywhere.

  I tapped my finger on the daytimer. Was there anything else I could check? Anything I’d missed? I glanced to the box at my feet. Karen’s personal files from her office. Setting my coffee aside, I sorted through the files. There were reports on agricultural subsidies, personnel files, another report on Nebraska fundraising. Then, a file marked “Miscellaneous.”

  Checking the sun’s angle, I guessed it was approaching late afternoon. As I sipped my coffee, I paged through the file, noticing copies of emails sent to vacation rentals, social correspondence, and emails with scribbled phone numbers. Vacation ads for cruises were torn out of newspapers and interspersed with letters, invitations, and other personal correspondence. My heart squeezed knowing that Karen would never get to enjoy those vacations. Such a short life cut off so young.

  I caught myself and pivoted away from the quagmire of loss. Pausing at one email, I noticed it was from a Hill colleague dated last year, offering Karen a tempting position at a higher level. One year ago. That was probably when she was first immersed in that affair with Jed. Her good judgment clouded. Damn.

  Draining my coffee, I continued paging through the personal emails and letters. Then I found several emails held together with a clasp. Subject line: Epsilon Group. I noticed the dates and turned to the latest one, skimming them one by one. The first email dealt with Epsilon’s contribution to Congressman Jackson’s campaign. Another for Jackson’s charity. Then a message about a speaker’s forum. Ambassador Holmberg speaking on Global Markets: Risk or Reform. More emails on financial policy papers. More and more. Then one on Jackson talking points for a speech he made in Chicago. Another on the legislative subcommittee where Jackson served. Debating the language to be used in the banking bill being considered. Emails inserting and revising language for the bill.

  Karen had apparently put together every email concerning Epsilon. Noticing that the next-to-last page had her handwriting, I paused. She’d circled a name in the email above. “Ambassador Holmberg.” Then below, she’d written in her neat script, “Holmberg—met with Jackson twice. Met each member subcommittee. Contributions. Holmberg also with Senator Dunston.” Senator Dunston was now the chairman of the Senate Banking, Housing, and Urban Affairs Committee. Senator Sol Karpinsky’s old seat. A powerful position. I flipped to the last page. More notes on scheduled Epsilon forums since January.

  I stared off into the garden from my shady patio perch. Now some of Karen’s daytimer notes made sense. Was “H” Ambassador Holmberg? Was “D” Senator Dunston? And who was “R”? Both Karen’s daytimer notes and her saved emails indicated she was keeping track of the Epsilon Group and its connections to Jackson and other members of Congress. I was left with lots of questions but no answers. Whatever was going on inside Karen Grayson’s mind died the moment that 9mm bullet tore through her brain.

  Glancing at my watch, I saw it was almost time to leave for dinner with my family in Virginia. I returned both the file and Karen’s daytimer to the box. I’d have to check those numbers with Karen’s cell phone calls. See if there were any matches. It was a safe bet that most of the Washington, D.C., area codes were fellow Hill staffers.

  I also made a mental note to myself to copy down those out-of-state phone numbers. I could check them out later.

  Eleven

  “I’m so glad you were able to join us tonight, Molly. I know how busy you are over at the senator’s.” Eleanor McKenzie’s bright blue eyes lit up. “He’s still entertaining the congressional hordes, I take it.”

  “Right you are, Eleanor,” I said as we strolled along the brick walkway that ran through the garden of her gracious Cleveland Park estate. “But I simply couldn’t miss one of your soirees. They’re such a highlight of the Washington scene. I’m so glad you’re still doing them. The pianist was wonderful, incidentally.”

  “You’ve settled in remarkably well from what I observe and hear.” She gave me her knowing smile.

  Eleanor’s Network. Still at work. “Lord knows what they’re saying about me.” I watched the guests milling about the oak tree-shaded gardens, grazing at the tables spread with catered delicacies.

  “Don’t worry, dear, I would tell you if there was anything unpleasant making the rounds.” Eleanor looked over her gathering with an experienced hostess’s eye. “I always look out for my favorites, you know that.”

  That I remembered. Eleanor took my dear friend Samantha Suffolk and me under her wing when we were both teenagers, growing up as senators’ daughters.

  Since our fathers were two of the most respected and influential men in the Senate, both our mothers decided they wanted another set of “eyes” supervising any outside social gatherings arranged for politicians’ children. Eleanor McKenzie stepped in as watchdog. Widow of a prestigious senator and former secretary of state, Eleanor was uniquely qualified and experienced to keep an eye out for any unacceptable behavior. She missed nothing.

  Of course, Samantha and I provided Eleanor a challenge. We both shared a devilish sense of humor and usually paired up at some of the terminally tedious social functions we had to attend in the late sixties. As senators’ daughters, we were always under a magnifying glass. Still, Samantha and I would concoct bizarre pranks that couldn’t be traced to us. Both our fathers would have grounded us until graduation.

  Eleanor, however, had an uncanny ability to sniff out our plots before they came to fruition. She also would take us aside and give us her version of The Rules: “Never do anything you wouldn’t want printed with photographs on the front page of the Washington Post.” That was usually enough to keep us in line. Samantha and I called her the Queen Mother. And she always singled us out
for special attention.

  I laughed softly. “Thank God, Eleanor. It’s good to know someone is looking out for me. Samantha and I depended on your good graces to save us all those years ago.”

  Eleanor shook her head. “Ahhhh, you girls were a pair. You really tested my wits. Both of you were as smart as whips and would see through any speeches that worked on the other girls. But you two, well, headstrong is a word that comes to mind. And rebellious. Qualities that are always risky, especially in Washington.”

  Memories crept from the edges of my mind. Samantha and I were both rebels at heart who couldn’t risk overt rebellion. Rebels who had to be good. Fortunately, Samantha and I had an escape. College. Even senators’ daughters were officially “let off leash” after high school. Once we checked into our respective universities, Samantha at Ole Miss and me at Georgetown, we discreetly cut loose. We’d get together on holiday vacations and share experiences over pizza and illegal D.C. beer. Virginia was as dry as a cornfield in July.

  “Well, I think I got all of the rebellion out of my system long ago, Eleanor,” I said, glancing over the garden and the string quartet that was playing.

  “I wish we could say the same about Samantha.” Eleanor brushed a fly away with her lemon-yellow silk sleeve. “She seems to have saved up most of her rebellion for this stage of life.”

  I smiled to myself. Samantha’s affairs. They could fill a book. Ever since her powerful and elderly husband—the senior senator from Alabama—died, Samantha went from being the power behind the throne and model of wifely propriety to the Merry Widow. Emphasis on merry. She indulged in a series of “strategic affairs” as she called them. Samantha and I had seen each other twice in these last five years, so I was always belatedly learning about the various liaisons. Amazed at her brazen flouting of propriety, I’d once teased her about it. Samantha simply laughed and said she’d been “saving up” all those years. Now, she intended to spend it.

  I’d always sensed Samantha’s rebellion stemmed more from the broken heart that never fully healed. Samantha had lost her young husband, the love of her life, within the first three years of their marriage. Eddie Tyler, a dashing Annapolis Naval graduate, had gone straight from his graduation from flight school to his first assignment in Vietnam as a Navy pilot. His plane was downed over the Gulf of Tonkin months later, in an incident that was never fully explained. Samantha went into seclusion with her baby daughter in Mississippi and didn’t return to Washington until 1977. That was the same year Dave and I came to town when he was appointed to a vacated Colorado congressional seat.

  From the moment of Samantha’s return, I saw that there was a part of my dear friend that was walled off. Unavailable. Of course, the always stunning and vivacious auburn-haired Samantha was still there, and it wasn’t long before Washington swains were succumbing to her charms. But even I was surprised when she chose an old family friend and colleague of her late father as her next husband. Widowed Senator Beauregard Calhoun was a sweetheart of a man. Big-hearted, big-drinking, and one of the wiliest dealmakers in the Senate. He and Samantha made quite the pair.

  “I have to admit, I stopped keeping up with Washington gossip when I started working for that Denver developer a few years ago. What taboo has Samantha broken now? I thought she’d broken them all.”

  “Oh, the usual,” Eleanor said with an airy wave of her hand. “Multiple affairs, usually with younger men. All of them junior members of Congress. With no regard to whether they’re married or not.” She tsked without making a sound.

  “Ah, yes. I asked her about that a couple of years ago. I assumed it was because her husband had been so much older than she was. She told me she chose her conquests carefully. Each one was starting to make his mark. She said she was ‘grooming them.’”

  That comment brought a royal sniff from the Queen Mother. “Grooming them, indeed. Well, she’d best downplay her mentoring projects before they attract any more attention. She’s been particularly blatant this past year.” She looked me in the eye. “I wish you would have a talk with her, Molly. She’ll be back in town soon. Apparently she’s away on vacation to one of those spas she frequents. Why don’t you visit her? Maybe you could convince Samantha that she’s risking more than her reputation.”

  This time, I had to chuckle. “Eleanor, you know better than anyone that Samantha doesn’t care about her reputation. She was the wife of one of the most powerful men in the Senate for over twenty years. In fact, she was the one who kept him going those last six years. She read the bills and conferred with staffers, and she was watching over his constituents and coaching him so he could say the right things on television. I swear, she should have held the pen when he signed legislation.” I took a deep drink of my Pinot Grigio. “Talk about the power behind the throne. She was the power. So she’s practically untouchable in this town now.”

  “No one’s untouchable, Molly. Not in Washington. You know that.”

  Unfortunately, I did. “Have you heard anything?”

  Eleanor glanced off toward the musicians and her guests. Someone waved, beckoning her to join them. Hostess duties never ceased. “Ohhhh, just a ripple of discontent. Rumors. Snide comments. It seems to have arisen more these past few months. Maybe because she was seeing Senator Karpinsky again. Going on holidays with him after his release from the hospital. Rumor has it she was with him the night he died.” She tsked again.

  I was searching for something to say, when a familiar voice boomed behind us.

  “Wonderful pianist, Eleanor. And Molly, good to see you again. None of us can resist Eleanor’s events, can we?”

  I turned to greet my old friend, Senator Baker. “Good to see you, too, Senator. And you’re right, Eleanor’s events are one of the best things about returning to Washington.”

  “I’m going to leave you two to discuss the pianist’s fine points while I return to the garden and my guests. I confess that catching up with Molly has made me forget my hostess duties.” Eleanor swept away in a rustle of yellow silk.

  “Molly, you’re looking wonderfully well, considering what’s been happening in your life recently. I’m so very sorry about Karen. She was a sharp, dedicated staffer with a lightning-quick mind. I had the pleasure of meeting her when Congressman Jackson and I were both supporting some bipartisan legislation on farm subsidies two years ago. It was a tragic loss.”

  “Thank you for your kind words, Senator. It has been a difficult time for all of us,” I replied, then quickly changed the subject. I no longer wanted to dwell on the subject of loss. It was the gateway to a spiral that went only one way: down. “Tell me, what’s happening on the Banking Committee now that Senator Karpinsky is gone?”

  Baker chuckled. “Back on the job, eh, Molly? Accounting, my ass.”

  I couldn’t resist a grin. “Just curious, Senator. Rumors float like pollen on the breeze here.”

  “Don’t they ever? Well, you’re right. It will be a different committee now that our watchdog is gone. We’ll just have to wait and see how it goes with the new chairman, Senator Dunston. But I’m afraid his previous statements lean toward reducing oversight on financial institutions, not tightening it. And, of course, that could affect the outcome of Congressman Jackson’s efforts with his Financial Services subcommittee bill.”

  Now that we’d meandered into the arena I wanted to discuss, I changed to the subject I had in mind. “Tell me, Senator, what’s your opinion of Jackson’s chief of staff, Jed Molinoff ? Karen told me he was a mover and shaker. If he is, then I want to keep my eye on him. What’s your impression?”

  “Your curiosity again, Molly?” Baker grinned. “I’d say that Karen’s assessment of Molinoff was right on. When Jackson and I met to talk about those farm subsidies, Molinoff was always Johnny-on-the-spot with reports, new research data, analysis. You name it, Jed seemed to have it in his hand. Or up his sleeve.” Baker chuckled at his own
joke.

  I joined him, wondering how much of Jed Molinoff’s quick response was provided by my niece, Karen. Suppressing my resentment, I added, “Thanks for your insight, Senator. I wanted to confirm Karen’s opinion with an outside source. Just in case Senator Russell has any dealings with Congressman Jackson’s office. Who knows? With the two of you trying to build bridges, the Senate might get some meaningful work done.”

  Baker guffawed. “Molly, when did you become an optimist?”

  A middle-aged man I didn’t recognize suddenly walked up to us and placed his hand on Baker’s arm. “Sorry to interrupt, Alan, but I wanted to let you know that Ambassador Holmberg will be speaking next week at Dumbarton Oaks. Remember when we talked about him? He was the one who helped oversee the changes to the European Union’s Central Bank.”

  “Well, if he’s coming, then I definitely want to attend,” Baker said. “When is he speaking?”

  “I’ll send you an email,” the man said as he backed away. “I apologize for interrupting your discussion, Alan, I just wanted to tell you before I forgot.”

  “I appreciate it, Fred. Take care,” Baker said with a wave. “Fred’s a good man. He’s with the Commerce Department, and we’ve found ourselves attending some of the same meetings around town involving global financial markets.” He drained his beer.

  “Who’s that speaker again?” I asked, zeroing in on the name I’d seen in Karen’s daytimer.

  “He’s Ambassador Holmberg, a finance minister at the European Union. He lectures all over the world on global finance. I first heard him speak at a symposium put on by the Epsilon Group last year.” He shook his head. “It’s a rapidly changing world, and I’m afraid our country will lose ground to the rest of the world if we’re not careful.”

  At the mention of the name “Epsilon Group,” my little buzzer went off. “I’m not familiar with the Epsilon Group, Senator. Who or what is it?”