Murder in Foggy Bottom

by Margaret Truman

  “I didn’t do anything, Nancy. I had to give them a statement, tell them what happened to that plane this morning. I think I probably solved everything for them.”

  Lazzara smiled. “Your husband’s been very helpful, Mrs. Lester. Well, you two get on home and enjoy some dinner. Nice meeting you, ma’am. Good night, Al. Pleasure meeting you.”

  Lazzara watched them walk hip-to-hip to the car, Al Lester’s arm about his wife. The agent smiled. Nice guy, nice couple. They reminded him of his own mother and father.

  His pleasant reverie was short-lived. He returned to the hangar, where things distinctly not as pleasant were taking place, including the arrival of the dismembered bodies of the passengers and crew of the Dash 8.

  9

  Late Afternoon That Same Day

  Washington, DC

  Jessica kicked off her shoes as she came through the door of her apartment and dropped her heavy briefcase on her way to the bedroom. She quickly got out of her pale yellow linen suit, mauve blouse, slip, and panty hose, pulled on a crinkled purple-and-pink lightweight jogging suit, and went to the second bedroom, which functioned as a home office. The digital readout on her answering machine indicated two messages. She listened to the first: “Jess, it’s Cindy. I’m in shock over what’s happened to those planes. You must be, too. Give me a call when you get in. Dying to talk about this weekend. Weather’s supposed to be magnificent.”

  Jessica returned the call.

  “You’re back,” her friend said. “Your teaching day?”

  “Yup, although I didn’t get much teaching done. All they wanted to talk about were the aviation accidents.”

  “Accidents?” Cindy said. “Try murder.”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “Some sick fiends shot them down with missiles.”

  “About this weekend, Cindy, I’ll have to play it by ear.”

  “Because of the missiles?”

  “Yeah, because of the missiles. We’re on twenty-four-hour call.”

  “You’ve got to make it, Jess. Perfect weather. It’s rained the past two weekends. Horace called me last night. He was out at the Maryland shore yesterday and says he saw a least bittern.”

  “Really? That’s an unusual sighting, almost as unusual as the piping plover.”

  “I won’t take no for an answer about the weekend, Jess. Everyone’s going to be there.”

  “I’ll try, Cindy. Have to run. Other calls to return.”

  Jessica leaned back in her office chair and allowed her gaze to play over the wall above the desk. It was covered with color pictures of birds she’d photographed on ornithologic trips over the years. An inveterate bird-watcher and, in recent years, photographer, she had been searching for rare species since she was a teen growing up with her parents and two brothers in New Hampshire. Hers was, as her mother often said, a “bird-friendly home”—a half-dozen feeders hung from nearby trees, and an especially large one was suspended right outside the kitchen window. Jessica watched the comings and goings of dozens of varieties of birds the way other teens watched television, fascinated with their habits and mannerisms, their alertness, their distinctive songs and sounds, and the frantic flapping of wings when vying for perch space.

  In springtime, the birdhouses her father built became homes for new families of birds—wrens and finches and English sparrows. Once, a nesting pair of Baltimore orioles, who’d ventured farther north than Jessica’s well-worn bird book said was normal, arrived and built their drooping nest in a large elm in the backyard. Jessica spent hours watching them create their home and feed their young, carefully noting everything through powerful binoculars bought for her as a birthday present.

  She’d carried her love of birds into her adult life, finding time at college to spend days in the fields and woods, binoculars and camera ever-present around her neck, her bird book (a new one given to her as a high school graduation gift) in the large pocket of a safari jacket she always wore when enjoying her hobby. There was a time when she considered pursuing a career in biology or ornithology, but a parallel fascination with geography, history, and current events tipped the scale in favor of an undergraduate degree in history, a master’s in diplomacy, and a serious stab at a Ph.D. in international relations; she was a thesis away from being granted it.

  These days, working and living in Washington, DC, her most treasured personal time was spent out of the city searching for birds she’d not spotted before and that would be checked off in her book (another new one as a college graduation present). And there were trips to other parts of the country with a national bird-watching group to which she belonged.

  The unpleasant realization that she would not be out with her friends that weekend caused her to frown as she went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of grapefruit juice and turned on a small TV set on the counter. It was tuned to CNN; the FBI press conference had just begun. The agency’s director, a former judge who didn’t look old enough to head the nation’s preeminent law enforcement agency, was introduced and stepped to the cluster of microphones. He spoke bluntly and without emotion.

  “This morning, three civilian airliners crashed in three different parts of the country. It is an unprecedented event in the history of domestic commercial aviation. The crashes occurred in New York, California, and Idaho. A full and thorough investigation by all involved agencies is under way to determine the causes of these crashes. The Federal Bureau of Investigation is working closely with officials from the National Transportation Safety Board in this effort.

  “As is generally the case in the early stages of such an investigation, unsubstantiated rumors are floated, and unsupported conclusions are reached before the facts are brought to light. Every lead, no matter how seemingly insignificant, will be examined, and every avenue of investigation, involving every appropriate investigatory agency, will be pursued.

  “Thank you.”

  Reporters hurled a barrage of questions as the director stepped away from the mikes. His place was taken by a public affairs spokesman: “Please understand that because the investigation is in such an early stage, it would be inappropriate to attempt to answer your questions at this time.”

  One especially loud reporter shouted, “Why is the FBI holding this press conference and not the NTSB?”

  The Bureau spokesman stopped, turned, seemed about to reply, then left the platform, trailed by a cacophony of other questions.

  Jessica snapped off the set. The answer was obvious: It must have already been established that criminal acts were involved in the plane crashes. That put the Bureau squarely in charge.

  She went to the living room, stretched out on the couch, and closed her eyes. The ringing phone woke her.

  “Hello?”

  “Jessica? I was getting worried about you.”

  “Why?”

  “I left a message. When you didn’t call I—”

  “Mea culpa. I got your message and forgot to call back. I was watching the FBI press conference.”

  “So was I. I’ve been in meetings about it.”

  “I don’t wonder. What’s new?”

  “Nothing you haven’t heard on TV. Look, I’m heading out of town in a few days, not sure how long I’ll be away. How about dinner tonight?”

  “I’m on call, but there’s always my trusty beeper, provided the restaurant hasn’t banned them along with cell phones.”

  “In DC? Nah. Primi Piatti? Seven?”

  “Sounds good. Where are you going?”

  “I’ll fill you in at dinner. Seen any new birds lately?”

  “I’ll save that for dinner, too.”

  Celia Watson sat sobbing on a couch in the living room of the home she’d shared for more than thirty years with her husband, Wally—she preferred to call him Walter and always had—and their two daughters and a son. The call informing her that her husband had, in fact, been among the fatalities on the plane that crashed outside Westchester County airport had come only five minutes ago. It perhap
s shouldn’t have been such a shock for her. She knew he was scheduled to catch that particular flight because he’d called from the airport. But there was always that chance, wasn’t there, that something had caused him to miss the flight? She’d heard stories like that before.

  But while there had been time to accept the likelihood that he’d gone down with the plane, hearing it officially was very different. She cried into her twenty-year-old son’s shoulder, saying over and over, “Why, why, why?”

  Joe Potamos had been called by his editor on his cell phone once the names of passengers on the downed Dash 8 had been released and told to get to the Watson home for a statement. He sat in his car for a long time in front of the nicely maintained middle-class house on a pretty street in northern Virginia. He considered calling Gardello back at the Post and telling him he wasn’t about to ask any widow how she felt about her husband burning up in a plane crash. But that would have been impetuous; one of the things his anger management counselor kept repeating was that Potamos had to gain control of his hasty nature.

  He looked in his rearview mirror and saw a remote truck from a TV station pull up, which prompted him to get out of the car, go up the walkway bordered by pansies and impatiens and marigolds, pause at the door, then knock. A young man answered.

  “Look,” Potamos said, “I’m really sorry to intrude on you and the family in this moment of intense grief and pain, but I’m Joe Potamos from the Post and I was wondering whether you or Mrs. Watson would like to make a statement.”

  “You’ve got to be joking,” the son said.

  “Hey, I know this is an imposition but I’m just doing my job. What’s the . . . what’s the mood here?”

  “You creep, you sadistic son of a bitch,” the son said, and slammed the door in Potamos’s face.

  He returned to his car, started it, thought, Sometimes I hate this job. But it’s nice to be hated. He mouthed an opening line to the story: “The mood at the Watson family’s home was joyous and happy, like a celebration. ‘We finally got rid of the fat, old bastard, and can live like kings off the insurance.’ ”

  Bile stung his throat. He spit out the window, pulled away, and headed back to the District.

  “. . . and so Jessica was waiting for a cab and I drove her home.”

  Mac Smith was with his wife, Annabel, on the terrace of their Watergate apartment. The sun was setting over the Potomac, creating a warm orange glow to the end of a sunny yet emotionally gray day in the nation’s capital. Their Great Dane, Rufus, slept at their feet.

  “How is she?” Annabel asked, sipping from the Gibson Mac had made.

  “Seemed fine. We talked about the plane crashes and this rumor about missiles bringing them down.”

  “Still just rumor? I haven’t caught up on the news.”

  “Evidently.”

  “I like Jessica,” Annabel said. “Shame how her marriage to that FBI guy worked out, or didn’t. I wonder if she ever sees him.”

  “Not something I’d ask,” said Mac. “Probably not. He was an undercover specialist, remember?”

  “Sure, I do. The last time I saw her, which was a month ago or so, she said she was seeing someone from the State Department.”

  “Work is the best place to meet someone, they say.”

  “We didn’t meet at work.”

  He chuckled. “Probably wouldn’t have liked each other if we had. When you told me you were a lawyer, too, at that embassy party, I thought, What a shame.”

  “Why?”

  “I never liked lawyers.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t hold it against me.”

  “So am I. Besides, you weren’t like most lawyers. Is Jessica still roaming the hills and meadows?”

  “Yes. She talked about birds a lot more than the guy from State she’s seeing. It’s such a passion with her.”

  “Maybe that’s what happened with her first marriage. It’s not that passion is for the birds, but maybe she felt too much passion for them, not enough for her husband.”

  “Mac, that’s unworthy of you.”

  “Just speculating. Another drink?”

  “Thanks, no. Oh, look.” She pointed at a bird that flew by the terrace. “How pretty. I’m crazy about birds.”

  “Don’t start.”

  She giggled and squeezed his hand. “You’re the only bird I care about. You’re like a . . . like a cardinal.”

  “Not an old crow?”

  “Or an eagle. What do I remind you of ?”

  “A . . . I don’t know much about birds. But you’re a . . . a . . . a canary. A flamingo. A beautiful robin. Ready for dinner?”

  “Yes. The drink was excellent. What are you in the mood for?”

  “Duck? Quail? Pheasant under glass?”

  “Pasta.”

  “Sold. Let’s go.”

  10

  That Night

  Washington, DC

  Jessica arrived at Primi Piatti early; she was early to most appointments.

  “Ah, Ms. Mumford,” said the maître d’, “what a pleasure to see you again.” He led her through the large, Art Deco room to a table for two in a far corner, held out her chair, and asked if she’d like a drink while waiting for her dinner companion.

  “A Negroni, dry, please.”

  “The usual,” the maître d’ said.

  Jessica laughed. “I didn’t realize I’d ordered enough Negronis here for it to be the usual.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Of course not,” she said, waving her hand. “I just found it amusing.”

  A few years ago, “the usual” for her would have been an extra-dry martini, straight up. But after spending a week in Florence and being introduced to the Negroni— a martini with the pleasantly bitter taste of the aperitif Campari—she’d ordered them ever since.

  She tasted her drink and looked at her watch. He was late; no surprise. He’d made the reservation for seven; it was a quarter past. Then, she saw him enter. Escorted to the table by the maître d’, Max Pauling leaned over to kiss her on the cheek, slipped into the chair opposite, and said, “Sorry I’m late.”

  “For you, this is early,” she said pleasantly.

  “Having your usual?” He nodded at the drink.

  “Yes,” she said, thinking: I give up. “They’re good here. The splash of club soda in summer makes a difference.”

  “So you always say.”

  Pauling ordered a Bloody Mary without the vodka—a “Virgin Mary” in America, a “Bloody Shame” in England.

  “On the wagon?” she asked.

  “For tonight. Hate to dull the senses when I’m with you.”

  They raised their glasses and touched rims.

  Pauling took her in and liked what he saw, as he always did. He considered Jessica Mumford a strikingly beautiful woman, although such an evaluation, he knew, was highly personal, the eye of the beholder and all that.

  He’d first seen her a year ago across the John Quincy Adams State Drawing Room, one of several opulent diplomatic reception rooms on the eighth floor of the State Department. The rooms, wonderfully handsome compared with the building as a whole, house one of the nation’s greatest collections of American antiques and antiques accessories, valued at more than $50 million. The rooms’ perpetual renovation and the addition of rare items were funded by wealthy members of State’s Fine Arts Committee. A paid curator manages what is, in reality, a museum.

  Pauling had been back from Moscow only a few months and was still getting his bearings at State when he attended the reception for the new Russian minister-counselor of trade assigned to their embassy. He didn’t know many people, and spent the first half hour browsing the room’s treasures under the watchful eye of a dozen uniformed security guards—a precious Philadelphia highboy, yellow-and-red-damask-covered eighteenth-century furniture, rare Oriental rugs, and three huge crystal chandeliers. He’d stopped to listen to what the string quartet was playing—a Russian piece he’d heard at Moscow concerts, a Borodin
theme based upon an Asian melody?— when he saw a woman talking with a trio of Russian diplomats wearing dark suits and dark expressions. He was instantly attracted to her, a visceral reaction; she was an inch taller than the men surrounding her, with blond-and-silver hair worn short and wet, high cheekbones, a nose long and fine and slightly arched, a clean purity to her profile. He wouldn’t have moved to her if she hadn’t glanced across the room and locked eyes with him, as though sending a signal that an overture would not be dismissed, provided it was an intelligent one. Not a woman who suffered fools easily, Pauling thought, but this fool will try, as he navigated knots of people and stopped a dozen feet from her and the Russians. She graciously concluded her conversation and came directly to him.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hello,” she said, a smile passing across her lovely face. “Buy me a drink?”

  “The price is right,” he said.

  “A Negroni,” she said. “Dry.”

  “You like to challenge bartenders?”

  “I love to challenge bartenders, and others,” she replied.

  Drinks in hand, they moved to a relatively quiet corner of the room.

  “I’m Max Pauling,” he said.

  “I’m Jessica Mumford. You work at State?”

  “I think so. I’ve been here a month.”

  “What division?”

  “Counterterrorism, Russian desk.”

  “You work for Barton then.”

  “Colonel Barton.”

  She winced. “Yes, Colonel Barton. Where did you come from?”

  “Moscow. I was with the embassy, a trade rep.”

  Her expression said she knew what he really did in Russia.

  “You?” he asked.

  “An analyst, Russian section. I also teach at GW.”

  “Took some courses there before I went to Moscow.”

  “Not one of mine.”

  “No. I would have remembered . . . you.”

  “Especially if I’d flunked you.”

  “I’m not used to failing.”

  “No, I don’t imagine you are.”