Bruce lay stretched out in his customary morning sunny spot on the bricks edging the upper flower bed. Like many Georgetown townhomes, the front yard sloped up so the gardens were tiered to accommodate the narrow frontage.
“Stay away from the birds, Bruce,” I called in my customary admonition. Bruce simply meowed and smiled his inscrutable kitty smile.
I was leaving a few minutes earlier than usual so I could finally make a phone call that had been niggling in the back of my mind for days, ever since I’d spoken with Natasha Jorgensen at Eleanor’s fundraiser. Natasha had e-mailed me the name of a senior researcher that Quentin Wilson had used. Loretta Wade. Now that worries about Samantha no longer took my concentration, I could afford to indulge my curiosity.
Considering the story Samantha had told me about Wilson’s eavesdropping experience and his subsequent research into financial legislation, I was curious what Wilson was looking for. Samantha said he seemed “obsessed” with the topics. I wondered if this Loretta Wade might know more. Slipping my cell phone from my purse, I paged through the directory where I’d entered Loretta Wade’s name and office number at the Congressional Research Service. I clicked on her name and listened to the phone ring, finally changing to voice mail. Loretta Wade’s voice came on and announced that she’d return my call as soon as possible. I’d detected a note of “no nonsense” to Loretta Wade’s tone that I liked. After the beep I left a brief message identifying myself as a member of Senator Russell’s staff calling in reference to a research question, then left my number and clicked off. I sensed Loretta Wade didn’t like to waste time.
_____
I spied Casey leaving the Russell kitchen, coffee mug in hand. “Did you leave me any, Casey?” I teased as I approached. Mid-morning e-mails were vying with financial spreadsheets for my attention. Switching between them demanded more caffeine than usual.
“Don’t worry, Molly. There’s plenty left. Luisa just made a fresh pot,” Casey said with a big smile.
“Exactly what I need.” I headed straight for the coffeepot. “Spreadsheet columns are starting to blend into one another. That’s a sign of severe caffeine deprivation.”
Casey leaned against the doorway. “I see the Widow Wilson has been appointed to her husband’s seat. You were spot on, Molly,” he said then sipped his coffee.
I watched that beautiful black stream splash into my oversized mug. “It wasn’t my prediction. It was Samantha’s. She’s the sage of Washington politics, not me.”
“Sage of Washington politics,” Casey said with a chuckle. “At least she’s no longer in the Fairfax County cops’ spotlight. That’s the important thing. I have a feeling Samantha Calhoun can handle the D.C. Dirt’s spotlight. By the way, have you seen it yet today? I thought you’d get a kick out of their announcement of Sylvia Wilson’s appointment.” He reached inside his jacket and retrieved the slender newssheet and handed it over.
“Ahhhh, gossip and caffeine, perfect combination,” I said, then took a big sip. “Please tell me Samantha’s not in here.”
“Nope. Not a word. But you will enjoy the Widow Wilson gossip. Looks like they’ve been digging around.”
Casey had conveniently folded the news rag right at the article about Sylvia Wilson. “Good. It’s about time Widow Wilson got a dose of her own medicine.” I scanned the columns, recognizing the same information I’d heard from both Samantha and Natasha Jorgensen. Years of campaign donations to the Ohio Governor, rude and overbearing with Wilson’s congressional staffers, old Ohio family, father a wealthy Cleveland real estate developer, and much, much more. I couldn’t help smiling while I read.
“Well, well, looks like the Dirt’s found all those disgruntled Quentin Wilson staffers. I hate to admit this, but I’m glad. After the way she went after Samantha, I hope the Dirt makes Sylvia Wilson’s life hell.”
“Welcome to Washington, Widow Wilson,” Casey said with a grin, reaching inside his jacket for his ringing cell phone as he stepped into the hall.
I sipped my steaming coffee and headed back to my office and the waiting spreadsheets, while I debated calling Samantha so we could gloat over the phone together. Clicking my screen to life once more, I was about to dive back into a rental property income statement when my own personal phone rang. It had to be Samantha, I figured and got ready to gloat.
“Molly Malone,” I answered, expecting to hear Samantha’s amused drawl. Instead, I heard the same no-nonsense voice from earlier this morning.
“Ms. Malone, this is Loretta Wade. I’m returning your call about a research subject Senator Russell is interested in.”
“Oh, yes, yes, Ms. Wade,” I quickly switched gears. “I wanted to talk with you about some … some research topics. I’d like to explain more. When would be the best time we could talk?”
“Well, we’re talking right now, Ms. Malone. What is it that Senator Russell is interested in researching? He’s already on the Senate Energy and Natural Resources Committee, subcommittee on Energy. And I know he’s recently been appointed to the Banking, Housing, and Urban Affairs Committee.”
I hesitated, wondering how to explain to “no-nonsense” Loretta Wade that the research was for me and not Senator Russell. My plan was to invite Loretta Wade to lunch so I could explain face-to-face. Over the phone, I was afraid my request would sound weird at best, suspicious at worst.
“I can actually better explain what I’m looking for in person. I thought maybe I could meet you for lunch?”
Loretta Wade paused for a split second. “Excuse me?”
From the sound of Ms. Wade’s tone, I knew my suggestion had come across way more than weird. “I know it may sound strange, but it’s hard to explain over the phone—“
“Ms. Malone, I’m a busy woman. I’ve got a large staff to oversee and research requests waiting this minute. I take lunch at my desk and do not do business dinners. I don’t have the time. So, you need to explain exactly what you want to research to me on the phone now.”
Oh, brother. I figured I’d better think fast or Loretta Wade would hang up on me. I took a quick breath and plunged in. “The questions relate to Congressman Quentin Wilson’s recent research requests into financial legislation. I was curious what he had learned because … because my late niece, Karen Grayson, was doing similar research before she died. I’m … trying to finish her work. Kind of like a tribute to her, I suppose.”
I held my breath, hoping I’d struck a sympathetic chord somewhere inside no-nonsense Loretta. I hadn’t heard a click on the other end, so I knew she was still there, not saying anything. I ventured again. “I know it sounds weird or maybe even stupid …”
“No, it doesn’t, Ms. Malone,” Loretta Wade’s voice came. The brusque business tone was softened now, around the edges. “I knew your niece, Karen. She was a fine young woman, and I was sickened by what happened to her.”
Taken by surprise by the feeling behind her words, I paused for a heartbeat. “So was I. And thank you for saying that, Ms. Wade. It means a lot.” My instinct said to stop talking. Most of the time I failed to obey that admonition, but I did this time.
A big sigh came over the phone. “All right, Ms. Malone. Let me look at my calendar.”
I couldn’t believe it. My appeal for sympathy worked. By invoking my beloved niece’s name, I’d been able to establish some level of credibility with no-nonsense Loretta Wade.
“I still have one teenager at home, so my evenings are usually full. Let’s see … how about Wednesday night? My son is at tennis practice. I can squeeze in dinner then.”
“That’s great, Ms. Wade. Thank you so much.”
“It would be easier for me if we met somewhere closer to my house, so I can be home when he returns. I’m over in the Eastern Market area. You know where that is, don’t you?”
“Sure I do.” I’d already gone wandering through Eastern Market’s great Saturday morning mar
ket earlier this summer.
“Good. There’s a tavern-style restaurant on the Eastern Market side of Eighth Street. Why don’t we meet there, say six thirty?”
“That’s perfect. Thanks so much for taking time away from your busy schedule. I remember how hectic that was, getting my two daughters to and from practices and lessons. They’re all grown now.”
“Well, my other two sons are grown but Tommy’s the baby. Once he gets into college I can relax.”
Surprised by her honest and open statement, I laughed softly. “I know what you mean. Hang in there, Loretta, the finish line is in sight. Okay if I call you that? I’m a first-name person by nature.”
“Sure thing, Molly. Right now, both of us should get back to work. I’ll see you Wednesday night.”
“I’ll put it on my daytimer, Loretta.” Somehow I got the feeling I was going to really enjoy Wednesday night’s supper.
Monday evening
Rinsing a bunch of fresh spinach under my kitchen faucet, I grabbed some paper towels. Halfway paying attention to the D.C. metro-area news broadcast coming from the small television on the edge of the counter, I patted the spinach dry and chose a handful to add to the fresh tomatoes, onions, peppers, and mushrooms I’d chopped. Summer’s harvest did not disappoint. My mouth was watering at the sight of those juicy red tomatoes.
I’d already eaten a small one. Couldn’t resist. It was in my mouth before I knew it.
I tossed the salad ingredients into one of my larger salad bowls. What wasn’t consumed tonight would be lunch tomorrow. The TV newscaster was describing all the traffic jams clogging roads from the District into Maryland and Virginia. Giving thanks once again that I didn’t have to sit in rush hour traffic every day, I was surprised by the man’s sudden change of subject.
“Breaking news. We’ve just received word that the body of a young male found in Houston, Texas, over the weekend may be the missing congressional staffer who was connected to the recently deceased Congressman Quentin Wilson.” I stared at the television as the news reporter wearing a suit talked into the camera. “Apparently, the cause of death of the young man found in Texas was a large overdose of sleeping pills and prescription drugs. If viewers will recall, Congressman Wilson also died from an apparent overdose of sleeping pills and prescription painkillers. It was rumored that Congressman Wilson had obtained the drugs from a staffer who worked for Congressional Research Service on Capitol Hill. Police are not releasing the name of the deceased, pending notification of his family.”
The news reporter’s voice and demeanor changed from sharp and reportorial to warm and folksy as he announced a pancake breakfast for a local charity group next weekend.
That had to be the same guy Samantha mentioned. Good Lord! Samantha was right. Wilson’s death had become like quicksand. It kept sucking people in.
I left the salad bowl on the counter and reached for my cell phone, skimming through my directory until I found Samantha’s name. She answered after three rings.
“I knew that was you calling, Molly,” she said. “Yes, I just saw the news broadcast about the young staffer.”
“I figure it’s gotta be the same guy we saw on your video. If police are releasing the information to the media, that means they’ve already identified the body.”
“Sad to say, I think you’re right. It’s simply awful how the ripples keep appearing from Quentin’s death. Tragic. Somewhere this young man had a mother and father and family that loved him.”
“I wonder how Natasha Jorgensen is taking it.”
“Probably not well, especially if they were close. I wonder what he was doing in Texas?”
“Maybe he heard that police had learned of his delivery business and came to ask him questions. I’ll bet he panicked and headed out of town.”
“This is all so sad …” Her voice trailed off.
“You’d better continue to keep your head down, Samantha. You haven’t been mentioned in the sleaze rag for a couple of days. But this news will stir up all those stories again. So lie low.”
“Oh, I am. I’m keeping out of sight. My friends are coming here to visit. By the way, I’d love to have you for dinner, unless Danny has made you a better offer. I hope he has.”
I paused before telling Samantha how my last date with Danny had ended. “Danny’s out of town until Friday. But he asked me to reserve this weekend for us. The entire weekend. He said we’d need it.”
Samantha let out a jubilant hoot. “Thank Gawd! Finally! I was about to come over and knock both your heads together and tell you to get on with it. You two were giving me a headache.”
I laughed softly. “I figured you’d be pleased. I also think you’ll get a kick out of Danny’s rules for the weekend.”
“Rules? Something kinky, I hope? I’ll have my lingerie shop send over something appropriate. Now, tell me. What are ‘the rules’?”
“Very simple, actually. No wine, no liquor. Just us.”
Samantha laughed so hard, I had to hold the phone away from my ear. Meanwhile, I snitched a chunk of juicy tomato and popped it into my mouth. Delicious.
_____
“On the evening newscast. Perfect,” Spencer’s deep voice sounded over the phone.
“Yeah, I thought so. The kid’s wallet and ID were right there. Houston cops couldn’t miss it. I figured it would take until today for the local cops to pick up on it. They were already looking for him.”
“Yes, Larry Fillmore called and told me he’d heard various staffers were questioned last week, so police already knew Levitz left town.”
Raymond took another drag on his cigarette as he slowed his pace down K Street. Damn! He couldn’t even talk and walk at the same time anymore. He veered from the sidewalk into Farragut Square’s small park on the corner at 17th and K Street. “Things will start to die down now. Wilson is dead and buried. Widow Wilson has taken over his seat. And the sleazy staffer who sold drugs on the side has taken the same poison he was delivering. Nice and tidy ending.”
“Let’s hope. I told Larry to start leaking info about photos of Wilson and Calhoun to his D.C. Dirt source. Let the press start to speculate about it. Were they blackmail photos? Then, drop hints about Wilson’s widow. Gradually build suspicion that she was going to use the photos in a divorce. That ought to put the matter to rest. Logical conclusion that Wilson ended it all after learning about his wife’s plan to divorce him and use the photos.”
Raymond chuckled. “Sounds good. I’ll give my guy at the Post a heads up. Maybe he’ll bite. See if we can get some mainstream coverage on that. At the least, it’ll be fun to watch the Widow Wilson squirm.” Raymond relaxed against the green bench and laughed. Spencer’s laughter already echoed across the phone.
thirteen
Tuesday
I switched songs on my iPod as I leaned against the stone bridge wall on 31st Street that arched over the C&O Canal. The canal ran parallel between Georgetown’s main drag, M Street, and the Potomac River only two blocks away. I checked my watch again: 5:35 a.m. Early enough so not many cars drove past me on the bridge. High-rise office buildings and condo apartments lined most of the two blocks between me and the river. Riverfront views were as gorgeous as they were pricey.
But I didn’t even bother looking toward the river; my attention was fixed on the towpath, the half-dirt, half-paved trail that bordered the canal. Barge-pulling mules once trod that path three hundred years ago. Now, runners and tourists used the path, which ran all the way to Great Falls in Virginia.
It was a perfect early August morning—before the heat rose and there was only a whisper of humidity. Since I’d forced myself to get up an hour earlier than usual, I knew I should really take advantage of this gorgeous weather and start my morning run. Instead, I stood waiting and watching. Watching for tall, slender, blond Natasha Jorgensen to come striding along. She’d told me she ran along the
canal every morning between Rock Creek Parkway and Key Bridge, starting at five thirty. Surely, I hadn’t missed her. I’d gotten to my 31st Street stone bridge perch by five fifteen.
I peered down the stretch of canal towpath that led from the parkway, searching for signs of a woman running. I’d seen several runners since I’d arrived, but they were all men. All except a lone slender gray-haired woman, and I doubted young Natasha had suddenly decided to go gray.
Then, my eyes picked up a speck behind the overhanging trees. I waited, and sure enough, the figure of a woman appeared, running along the towpath. I yanked out the earbuds and shoved my little music player into my pocket as I headed from the bridge down to the towpath along the canal. The runner was tall, blond, and slender, so I gambled it was Natasha and waited for her to pass me to confirm.
A scant two minutes later, Natasha Jorgensen passed by and I set off in her wake, picking up my pace. I called out, “Hey, Natasha!”
Natasha jerked around and stared at me, wide-eyed, clearly startled. I waved and smiled as I closed the distance, and I watched a look of recognition flash over her face.
“Hey, Molly!” she said as I pulled beside her.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you,” I said, matching her stride. “I remember you said you ran really early here, so I thought I’d give it a try. Escape the summer heat, you know?” Thanks to my regular running with Danny, my stamina had increased these last four months so I could run at a good pace and talk without losing my breath.
“I love it early like this,” Natasha said, glancing around. “It’s so pretty and you can really hear the birds without so many cars driving up above.” She pointed to the main thoroughfare of M Street above.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” I ventured. “Some people don’t like to talk while they run.”
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