“Hah,” Emile said, laughing, “and the humor is in the mispronunciation.”
The guest laughed along with Emile, but Mac had the feeling that he hadn’t found the subtle putdown amusing.
French ditties played by a guitarist, bass player, and accordionist drew the Smiths in the direction of the terrace, large enough to hold sporting events, where at least a hundred people had gathered. Smith found the accordion’s sound to be grating unless, of course, accompanying Edith Piaf. But the smile on Annabel’s lovely face said that she was enjoying the music, and Mac reminded himself to keep his musical prejudices to himself.
Uniformed waiters circulated through the crowd, deftly balancing large trays with red and white wines and an assortment of canapés. Two bars had been set up on the perimeter of the space for those wanting something stronger. The Smiths had just plucked glasses from a passing tray when the hostess, Celia St. Clair, appeared.
“Annabel darling, how wonderful that you could be here.” To Mac: “And with your devilishly handsome husband on your arm. Perfect!”
Mac never knew how to respond to such comments, so he simply smiled.
“A perfect evening for a party,” Annabel said. “I love the music.”
“So do I,” said Celia through a sigh. “Emile and I try not to think about Paris too often, but the music always takes us back.”
“Yes, it certainly has a French flair,” Mac said.
Celia looked from wineglass to wineglass. “Good,” she proclaimed, “you’ve fortified yourselves. You will excuse me. The dinner buffet will start in an hour. I’ve hired a new chef, direct from Avignon. He’s quite remarkable. Enjoy. Mingle. I’m sure you know many of my guests.”
With that, she floated away to other knots of people.
“You didn’t know that I was devilishly handsome, did you?” Mac said into Annabel’s ear.
Annabel took a step back, looked her husband up and down, and cocked her head, sending her red tresses falling to one side. “Yes,” she said with a serious voice, “I quite agree that you are devilishly handsome, Mr. Smith—considering your age.”
“Of course. And I find you to be a ravishing beauty—considering—”
“Let’s join those people over there,” Annabel said as she poked her index finger into his chest.
Celia had been right. The Smiths did know many people at the party. They’d met the new French ambassador and his wife, and stopped to chat with Chris Matthews from the cable channel MSNBC. A senior U.S. senator had gathered around him a half dozen people and, based upon their laughter, was evidently telling amusing stories. Ford’s Theatre’s resident director gushed over the upcoming season, and a feature writer from The Washingtonian buttonholed Mac to request some time with him for an article on presidential appointees to the federal courts whose confirmations were being stonewalled in Congress.
They ended up chatting with two other couples, one of whose husbands taught with Mac at GW, the other man’s wife a frequent browser at Annabel’s pre-Columbian art gallery in Georgetown.
“Wine?” a waiter asked.
“Yes, please,” Annabel said.
“I’m ready for a bourbon,” Mac said. “Excuse me.”
He got in line at a bar. As he waited his turn, a congressman with whom Mac had served on a panel at GW slapped him on the shoulder.
“Hello, Charles,” Mac said.
A man accompanying the congressman extended his hand. “Hal Gannon,” he said.
“Oh,” Mac said. “Nice meeting you, Congressman. I’m an old friend of a friend of yours, Lucas Bennett in Tampa.”
“Are you?”
“Yes,” Mac said. “I was just talking to Luke about his daughter, Laura.”
He waited for a response. When there wasn’t one, he continued.
“I understand that she’s interning with you.”
Gannon looked beyond Mac as though searching for a savior.
“What? Oh, sorry. Yes, Laura is an intern with me this session. She’s a nice young lady.”
“Her dad’s been trying to reach her,” Mac said. “I called your office and spoke with your chief of staff. She said that Laura had taken a few days off.”
“Has she? I can never keep track of my interns.”
The congressman was about to pull away when Annabel joined them.
“Annabel, say hello to Congressman Gannon,” Mac said.
“It’s nice meeting you,” Annabel said. “Mac is a friend of the Bennetts in Tampa and—”
“Excuse me,” Gannon said. “There’s someone I have to catch up with. Great meeting you both. My best to Luke Bennett when you talk to him.”
“He was voted the most handsome member of Congress,” Annabel commented as she and Mac strolled to a relatively secluded corner of the terrace.
“So I read.”
“He is good-looking,” she said.
“Yes, I suppose he is.”
Annabel took in her husband’s serious expression. “Something bothering you?” she asked.
“Congressman Gannon. He didn’t seem especially pleased when I brought up Luke Bennett’s daughter, Laura.”
“He did seem distracted,” Annabel said.
“I had the feeling that it was more than that,” Mac said, “but maybe I’m wrong. Let’s eat. The buffet is open.”
The chef that Celia had imported from Avignon was on his game that night, and Mac and Annabel thoroughly enjoyed the meal.
“Time to say our good-byes,” Mac suggested.
“Excuse me.”
They turned to face a small, wiry man dressed in a white dinner jacket, large red bow tie, and with a red rose in his lapel. A dandy, Mac mentally summed up.
“My name’s Paul Wooster. I noticed you talking with Congressman Gannon earlier in the evening.”
“Right,” said Mac.
“I’m from Tampa. The congressman represents my district.”
“We have friends in Tampa,” Annabel said, “an attorney.”
“Really? Anybody I know?”
Mac laughed. “Tampa’s a pretty big place, Mr. Wooster. Our friend is Luke Bennett.”
“I’ve met Mr. Bennett a few times,” Wooster said. “Don’t you hate it when you say you’re from someplace and people assume that you know everybody who lives there?”
“Especially if you’re from New York City,” Annabel said. “What brings you to Washington?”
“Oh, I get up here fairly often. I’m a marketing consultant with a pretty diverse client base. You? Are you in government?”
“No,” said Mac. “I’m an attorney. Annabel owns an art gallery in Georgetown.”
“Modern art?”
“No, pre-Columbian.”
“I don’t know much about that. How long have you been friends with Congressman Gannon?”
“We just met tonight,” Mac said.
Wooster cast a quick look around before saying, “I hope the rumors about Congressman Gannon aren’t true.”
Mac had tired of the conversation with this stranger. He said, “It was good meeting you, Mr. Wooster.”
“Oh, sure, don’t let me hold you up, and forget what I said. It’s just that I’m a real fan of Hal Gannon and would hate to see some personal scandal get in the way of all the good work he does here in D.C. A pleasure meeting you.”
As Wooster walked away, Annabel asked Mac, “What was that all about?”
“I’ll tell you when we get home.”
Forty-five minutes later, in pajamas and robes, they sat on their terrace nursing snifters of cognac.
“And Fred Mayer told you that there’s a sexual scandal brewing with Gannon?” Annabel said.
“That’s right. Of course, Fred is about to go to work for Pete Solon, who’s going to run against Gannon. He’s not an entirely unbiased source.”
“Another D.C. congressional scandal,” Annabel said, sighing and sipping her cognac. “What is it that makes men think that they’re immune from the rules once they get el
ected?”
Mac laughed. “Maybe it’s the hearing aids they start wearing.”
“Hearing aids? What does that have to do with anything?”
“I was just thinking of what Tom Brokow says when asked about the hearing aids he wears. He claims they’re not hearing aids. They’re Viagra drips. Maybe elected officials start wearing Viagra drips once they reach Congress.”
“If you say so, Mac.”
“I say so, Annabel. Time for bed.”
CHAPTER
11
Paul Wooster had been invited to the party by the chief of staff of a powerful Republican senator with whom he’d become friendly. In Wooster’s line of work, becoming friends with people was coin of the realm.
He’d been in Washington for the past three days making contact with people who might have something to offer his client, who was paying him handsomely along with a generous expense account, enabling him to stay in the best hotels and dine in the finest restaurants. On this trip he’d opted for the iconic Willard hotel at Pennsylvania Avenue and Fourteenth Street, a block from the White House and with an illustrious history going back to 1850. It was said that the term “lobbyist” was coined there; people wanting something from the government hung around the opulent rococo lobby hoping to catch the attention of government movers and shakers, including a long line of presidents, to plead their cases. Such bending of an ear in search of a favor seemed quaint compared to today’s obscene buying of influence.
For Wooster, the Willard represented the class of establishment to which he was entitled, and he spent freely, capping off each day with drinks in the Round Robin & Scotch bar, where he imagined sitting next to Walt Whitman, Mark Twain, and other notables who’d frequented the hotel, many making it their home for long stretches.
This night, his last in the city for this trip, was special, though, and when he left the St. Claire party he made a beeline for the bar, hoping that she would show up as promised.
He’d been served his first drink when she walked in and surveyed her surroundings. She’d given Wooster a description of herself, detailed enough that he recognized her—blond hair, blue eyes, five feet six inches tall, and wearing a lime green dress. The thought came and went to Wooster that she hadn’t mentioned that she was older than he’d expected, or was a woman who obviously had to work hard to keep off the pounds. Appealing in a fleshy way. He could see why Gannon had been attracted to her.
He motioned to her, and she took the barstool next to him.
“Ms. Montgomery?” Wooster said.
“Yes. Mr. Wooster?”
“That’s me. Glad you could come. “Drink?”
“A Manhattan,” she told the bartender, “and make it with rye, not bourbon. And an extra cherry, please.”
“Classy drink, a Manhattan,” Wooster said.
“I like it,” she said. “What are you drinking?”
“Gin and tonic. So, your friend who put us in touch says you’re with the opera. You sing?”
“Heavens no,” she said, and laughed. “I’m on the board. Do you like opera, Mr. Wooster?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been to one. How about we get on a first-name basis? I’m Paul.”
“I’m Rachel.”
They touched the rims of their glasses.
“My friend tells me that you’re a private investigator Mr.—Paul.”
“That’s right, only it’s not like you see on TV or in the movies. I only carry a weapon on special occasions and—”
“Is this a special occasion?”
“It could be, only no guns necessary. So, Rachel, tell me about your relationship with Congressman Gannon.”
His words brought a deep frown to her face. Her lips compressed, and her eyes came alive. “Maybe this isn’t the place for this conversation,” she said. They’d been virtually alone in the bar, but it had begun to fill up.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “We could go to my room, only don’t think I’m on the make.”
“Why would I think that?”
“Some women would take it that way. It’s a nice room. You can see the White House from it. I’ll order up food and drinks, and we can have a nice private chat.”
She seemed reluctant, which annoyed him. He didn’t care whether they went to his room or not, but he wondered whether she was about to back off, suffer a memory lapse, decide not to tell him what he needed to know.
“Suit yourself,” he said with deliberate casualness, and drank.
“I just hope I’m doing the right thing,” she said.
“That’s up to you, Rachel.” He twisted on the stool and faced her. “Look, I’ve been straight with you. I’m working for people in Tampa who don’t want to see this hypocrite Gannon get another two years in the House. I don’t give a damn about politics, but I sure as hell do care when voters vote for a guy who holds himself up as a bastion of morality and family values and then makes a mockery of it the way he lives.” When she didn’t respond he added, “Don’t you agree?”
She didn’t answer his question. Instead she said, “It’s just that I’m well known here in D.C. and don’t want to be made a fool of.”
“Of course.”
“And I don’t give a damn either about politics or whether Mr. Family Values Harold Gannon gets reelected or not. I just want to see him hurt the way he hurt me.”
“Understandable, Rachel.”
She looked as though she might begin to cry, and he hoped she wouldn’t, not in a public place.
“I just want that bastard Gannon to get what he deserves, that’s all,” she said, dry-eyed. And my name doesn’t get involved in this. Right?”
“Right. I just need your experience as background.”
Whether someone else reveals your story and who you are isn’t my problem, he thought.
“A refill?” Wooster asked.
“In your room,” she said, finishing her drink and patting her red lips with a cocktail napkin. “Let’s go.”
* * *
By the time her third Manhattan had been delivered by room service, and over mini–lobster rolls, Rachel Montgomery had recounted for Wooster the affair she’d had with Hal Gannon and the way it had unraveled, every detail of it, how they’d met, what he was like in bed, the need to keep the affair secret above all else, the gifts he’d bought her, and how he’d told her he loved her and was about to divorce his wife.
“He promised to marry you?”
“Yes, of course. Maybe not in so many words, but it was understood. We were a couple, for Christ’s sake. I told my closest friends. My God, how he deceived me.” Her words were now slightly slurred and moisture clouded her eyes.
The tears came, causing Wooster to wince and to look away. He was well aware that she was the quintessential woman scorned, and he made a mental note not to believe some of the strident claims she made. He’d wanted to make physical notes while she talked, and would have liked to activate the small tape recorder he carried in his briefcase, but he was concerned that doing more than passively listening might turn her off. He’d remember enough of what was said to make notes after she was gone. He was good at that.
She reminded Wooster more than once of the conditions she’d set for telling him about her affair with Gannon—her name would never be used, and Wooster would use her story only to reinforce what he already knew, that Gannon was a womanizer of the first order. It was an empty promise. She’d told her “closest friends” about the affair with Gannon, which meant that they’d told their closest friends, who probably told anyone who would listen, close friend or not.
“It must be hard for you to talk about this,” he told her when the session was wrapping up.
“Actually,” she said, “it feels good, and I hope you and the other candidate use it to good advantage.”
“We will,” he said. “You can count on it.” He took a bite of his lobster roll and asked, “What about other women who’ve had affairs with Gannon? You mentioned the airline stew
ardess. Who else?”
“His intern.”
“Laura Bennett?”
“Is that her name? You know about her?”
“She’s been mentioned to me,” Wooster said. “What do you know about her relationship with Gannon?”
“Just what I’ve been told.”
“Who told you?”
“Oh, God, I don’t remember. Somebody mentioned that the rumor was circulating about Gannon and his intern.”
“I’ll follow up on that,” said Wooster. “I really appreciate this, Rachel.”
“I have to go.”
“Sure. I’ll walk you down and get a cab for you.”
After getting her into a waiting taxi and paying the driver plenty to cover the fare, he returned to the Willard’s bar and enjoyed a leisurely single-malt scotch. The trip to D.C. had been fruitful.
He left the bar and placed a call on his cell phone to Tampa.
“Wooster here. I’m making great progress but need another day or two in D.C. There’s an intern I have to look into.”
“Stay as long as you need to, Paul.”
“Great. Thanks. I’ll check in tomorrow.”
He ended the call and went to his room, where he made notes of everything Rachel had said, adding it to other notes from his stay in Washington.
Laura Bennett.
Was this intern Laura Bennett related to the Tampa attorney Lucas Bennett? The couple at the party, Mac and Annabel Smith, were Bennett’s friends, they’d said.
Mac? Short for what? His wife was beautiful. Annabel? An old-fashioned name. Mac was an attorney, his wife a gallery owner. He wondered if maybe he should make contact with them, plead the need for some legal advice, or pretend to want an education in—what was it that she’d said?—pre-Columbian art? What kind of art was that?
He’d figure it out in the morning.
CHAPTER
12
After trying the number for Laura Bennett’s cell that he’d gotten from her father, and reaching a dead phone, not even a voice mail prompt, Mac Smith called Brixton into his office and told him what he’d been doing.
“How long has she been out of touch with her family?” Brixton asked.
“Three or four days. I tried Congressman Gannon’s office where she’s been interning, but she’s not there, taking a few days off, they said.”
Margaret Truman's Internship in Murder Page 9