Murder in Foggy Bottom

by Margaret Truman

  “She ought to look for a man elsewhere,” Mac said while rubbing Rufus behind the ears. “Hang around IRS hearing rooms, or attend accountants’ conventions.”

  Annabel laughed.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Suggesting Jessica look for an accountant. Max Pauling told her his ex-wife is dating one.”

  “Smart lady.”

  “That’s what Jessica said. Know what, Mac?”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry for Jessica, and happy for me.”

  21

  That Same Evening

  Washington, DC

  Roseann Blackburn and Craig Thomas had driven from the Four Seasons to the historic Tabard Inn, on N Street NW, in Thomas’s car. He offered to drive her home after dinner but Roseann declined, and Thomas knew why. She didn’t want to run the risk of her boyfriend, Joe Potamos, seeing her arrive in another man’s car.

  The taxi ride gave her a chance to ponder the evening, and, more important, what to tell Joe about how she’d spent it.

  They’d started with a drink in the inn’s lounge, then moved to the brick-walled outdoor garden with colorful umbrellas over the tables, and sculpture that was, surprisingly, artistic rather than merely decorative.

  “So, Roseann Blackburn, tell me all about yourself,” he said after he perused the wine list and ordered an Oregon pinot noir he could vouch for.

  “Everything?” she said lightly.

  “No, be selective. What’s it like playing the piano in places like the Four Seasons? Does it ever get—well, boring?”

  “Sometimes, but whenever it does, I focus on the music and try to play a tune differently than I’ve ever played it before, find some new chord to use, a change of tempo. Music never bores me.”

  “I took piano lessons as a kid but they didn’t take. Where are you from? When did you start lessons? Did you start with classical music? Were your mom and dad musicians?”

  And so it went for the next two hours, scores of questions gently asked over crab salads, lobster and rosemary, a hefty loaf of raisin pumpernickel bread, and blackberry brulée tarts. At one point, Roseann wondered whether she should be annoyed at so many questions but she wasn’t. This was obviously a man who was sincerely interested in other people, a man filled with natural curiosity. It felt good talking about herself. She was basically a shy, private person, secure only when a piano separated her from the rest of the world. But everything about Thomas exuded kindness, especially his eyes.

  They lingered over coffee. Roseann said, “I’ve been babbling away about myself, something I never do.” Then, unexplainably, she began to cry, softly.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you with all my questions,” Thomas said.

  “No, no, you didn’t upset me,” she said, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with her napkin. “It’s just that . . .”

  “It’s just that what?”

  “Things have been topsy-turvy lately, not going the way they were supposed to go.”

  His smile was comforting. “Obviously, your musical life isn’t in turmoil. Your boyfriend?”

  She nodded and swallowed against further tears. When he didn’t respond, she said, “I’m absolutely nuts about him, madly in love, but sometimes I wonder why.” She spent the next five minutes talking about her relationship with Potamos, its ups and downs, highs and lows, the happy times and those other times, like tonight, when she wanted to drop a piano on his thick head. When she’d finished, she blew a stream of air at an errant strand of hair that had fallen over her forehead, smiled, then laughed and said, “I can’t believe I’ve done this.”

  “Had dinner with me?”

  “No, talked like this about Joe and my personal life to—to a stranger.”

  “I understand,” he said, motioning to their waiter for the check. “If I’d known how much in love you were with him, I wouldn’t have asked you to dinner.”

  “I’m glad you did. I’d better go.”

  “Sure. Drive you home?”

  “No, I’ll take a cab, thanks.”

  They went to the bar, where Thomas told the maître d’ a taxi was needed for the lady.

  “I understand your friend Potamos has an interest in a murder that occurred not long ago,” Thomas said casually as they waited.

  She thought for a moment, then replied, “Oh, the Canadian, the man who was killed in the park.”

  “Yes. Jeremy Wilcox. He was a friend of mine.”

  “Oh? I’m sorry.”

  “We worked pretty closely at the embassy.”

  “That’s right, he did work there. I never even thought about that. Joe has been trying to find out more about it.”

  “So I hear. I might be able to help him.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. There’s an aspect to it that no one knows, at least outside of a few of us at the embassy. Have him call me.” He handed her his business card.

  “I already have one,” she said.

  “I thought you might have tossed it in the trash the minute you left the reception. I’m serious, Roseann. I’d like to talk to Mr. Potamos.”

  “All right, I’ll—”

  The cab arrived. Roseann shook Thomas’s hand. “Thanks for a lovely evening, although I didn’t intend to have you end up playing shrink.”

  “I enjoyed every minute of it. Safe home.”

  She had the cab drop her two blocks from the apartment, in front of a convenience store that carried Joe’s favorite ice cream flavor—peanut butter chocolate—and bought a half gallon. He was at the computer when she arrived.

  “Hey, I was getting worried about you,” he said, getting up and kissing her.

  “I went out for a bite with friends. Here.” She handed him the ice cream.

  “Hey, thanks.”

  Later, in pajamas, they sat up in bed eating ice cream.

  “I love you, Joe,” she said.

  “Even though I can be an idiot sometimes? Or because for a few minutes a day I’m not an idiot?”

  “Maybe that’s what I love about you.”

  “Lucky me.”

  They put their empty dishes on the night table and made love. After, and when what had been left of their ice cream had melted into cold soup, Potamos let Jumper lick from the bowls while Roseann went to the bathroom.

  How do I finesse this? she thought as she looked in the mirror. He’ll be pleased to have a lead on the murder story, but I’ll have to tell him about going to dinner with Craig.

  Tomorrow, she decided. It can wait until tomorrow.

  “Joe, I didn’t go out to dinner last night with friends. I went out with a man I met at the State Department when I played that reception a few days ago.”

  Potamos had been reading the paper and enjoying an English muffin and coffee. He lowered the paper and looked at her across the kitchen table. “You went out with this guy?”

  “Yes. He was at the Four Seasons, and you and I were fighting, and . . . he’s with the Canadian embassy, in public information. He says he was a good friend of the embassy person who was murdered, the one you’ve been digging into, and says he can tell you some things that no one else knows about the murder.”

  “Yeah? What’s his name?”

  “Thomas.”

  “Thomas what?”

  “Craig Thomas. And, Joe, all we did was go to dinner and talk. He’s a gentleman. We shook hands when I left the restaurant. Here’s his card. He wants you to call him.”

  “I will. You have a thing for this guy, Roseann?”

  “No, Joe, I have a thing for you.”

  He considered pressing her about Thomas and their dinner together but thought better of it. She’d been honest with him, and he was sure there wasn’t more to it than she’d said there was. Besides, he reminded himself as he stood up, he was lucky she was there at all, considering how he’d been acting. He touched the back of her neck as he passed her chair, felt her fingertips on his hand, and went to the phone.

  22

&n
bsp; The Next Morning

  The J. Edgar Hoover Building

  “You’re confident about this?” Russell Templeton asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Sydney Wingate, one of the Bureau’s handlers of special agents working undercover, responded.

  FBI Director Templeton sat at a round table in his office with Wingate and with Joe Harris, head of the Bureau’s counterterrorism division. “Joseph?” Templeton said, looking at Harris, to whom Wingate reported.

  “It looks solid,” Harris said. He consulted a computer printout. “We’ve had someone inside five—no, make that six militia groups. Recently, I’m talking about. These are the six our intelligence indicated were most active and likely to mount some sort of an attack in the near future. It’s a crapshoot, as you know. With more than five hundred identified hate groups in the country, and damn near fifteen hundred web sites, you hope you choose right. In this case, it looks like we did.”

  “The Jasper Project.”

  “Yes, sir. We got lucky in another way. They blew Scope’s cover a day ago. He’s fortunate to be alive. But he is alive—very much so—and got out of there with the goods.”

  “Where is he?”

  “We’ve got him secluded in Virginia, one of the safe houses,” Wingate said. “He’s finished his report, and I’ve seen the documentation he brought with him. He’s done a hell of a job.”

  Templeton glanced at a paper on his desk and read aloud from it, paraphrasing: “Traxler, Donald, nickname ‘Skip,’ sixteen years’ service with the Bureau, plenty of commendations, nothing negative in his file. Divorced, no children, former wife with State Department, teaches part-time at GW. Worked undercover past eleven years, speaks fluent Spanish, passable German, psychological profiles negative.” He stopped reading and grimaced as something on the paper stopped him. “What’s this report from the psychiatrist?”

  Wingate said, “Not too bad. It was after his last undercover assignment in New York. The debriefing psychiatrist passed him, but commented that he felt Traxler was prone to taking greater risks than prudent, and tended to be scornful of authority. Not an unusual profile for someone in his line of work. It’s high-risk to begin with.”

  Templeton picked up another sheet of paper. “This shooting death of a member of the Jasper group— Traxler?”

  “Yes, sir,” Wingate replied. “As I said, his cover was blown and he had to shoot his way out. They sent two men from the ranch after him. He killed one, disabled the other. Our agents in the area have things under control with local authorities. Assailant unknown. They won’t push it.”

  “Will Jasper push it?”

  “Unlikely. He’s already gotten the word out in the community that it was a hunting accident. Wouldn’t look too good to his followers that he had an FBI agent in his compound for almost six months and didn’t know it.”

  Templeton sat back, rubbed his eyes, and took in Harris and Wingate. “Is Jasper and his organization national?”

  “National?”

  “Yes. The three aircraft downings occurred in three diverse geographical areas—New York, Idaho, California. They’ve got followers in all those places?”

  “These militia groups are forming alliances every day, sir. The networks they’re establishing make them especially dangerous.”

  “So we might be talking about groups other than Jasper’s.”

  “Affirmative. But Jasper is the point man. Scope’s nailed that down.”

  Templeton sighed. “All right,” he said. “If what Scope says is true, and if his proof holds up, I’ll take it to Justice. Until then, it stays strictly with us. No leaks. I want a personal briefing by Scope at three this afternoon, all of it laid on the table. Be here, too. Any questions?”

  “Just one concern,” Harris said. “State has an operative in Moscow trying to run down the source of the missiles. Barton at State briefed me on him. Should we coordinate with them?”

  “I don’t see why,” Templeton said. “If we’ve got the ones who used the missiles, how they got them is of secondary importance. I want an immediate mobilization order issued, all regional resources moved into place within striking distance of Jasper’s ranch. Quiet but fast. Get an authorization for aircraft, as many as we need, to move manpower and armaments out there, tactical units, the mobile communications center, firepower necessary to make damn sure it goes without a hitch.”

  Harris ran his hand over his shaved head. “A little premature, sir, without Justice’s okay?”

  “With what you’ve told me, getting the go-ahead from Justice won’t be a problem. Everybody wants action, including the White House—especially the White House. I want every scrap of intelligence we have on Jasper and his ranch, who’s there, what weapons they have, number of women and children—they have women and children, don’t they?”

  “Yes, sir,” Harris said. “Everything you’re asking for is in Scope’s report. I’ll have it here by noon.”

  “Good. No mistakes. This won’t be another Waco!”

  23

  That Same Day

  “You’ve reached the public information office of the Canadian embassy. No one is available to take your call at the moment. Please leave your name, number at which you can be reached, and a brief message, and your call will be returned as soon as possible.”

  “This is Joe Potamos from The Washington Post. I’m calling Mr. Thomas, Craig Thomas. Please have him return my call at his earliest convenience.” Potamos gave the numbers for both his Rosslyn apartment, and Roseann’s.

  Potamos hung up, sat at the piano, and picked out “Chopsticks,” slowly, with his index finger. Roseann had left the apartment to meet with her agent; Potamos was due in a half hour for a story conference with Gil Gardello. He continued to doodle at the keys until he realized there wasn’t any way he could make the conference on time. He tried Craig Thomas’s number again before leaving but received the same recorded message.

  “You be good,” he told Jumper, gently holding her snout and peering into her soulful brown eyes. He was out the door when he heard the phone ring, rushed back to the apartment, and snatched up the receiver.

  “Joe, it’s Roseann. I wanted to remind you we’re having dinner tonight with Bill and Jane Mead.”

  “Yeah, right. Thanks.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be at a meeting?”

  “I would be if I wasn’t on the phone with you.” He knew it was an edged comment the moment he said it, and apologized—into a dead phone.

  Gardello’s story conference was in full swing when Potamos arrived at the Post’s Fifteenth Street headquarters, and he received a disgusted look as he joined the six other beat reporters in the cramped office. Potamos looked around. He was easily the oldest in the room, with the exception of Gardello, who was approximately his own age. Gardello outlined stories that were to be pursued over the coming days and assigned them to each individual reporter. The last assignment went to Potamos: Investigate reports of a growing rift between the District’s school board and the superintendent of schools.

  Potamos said nothing while Gardello wrapped up the meeting with a moment’s pep talk on the importance of local news. Potamos was the first on his feet and was headed for the door when Gardello stopped him: “Stay a minute, Joe.”

  “What’s up?” Potamos asked when the two were alone.

  “You heard my assignment about the school board and super, right?”

  “Right.”

  “You have any problem with it?”

  “Problem? No, I don’t have a problem.”

  “You didn’t look especially interested.”

  Potamos shrugged. “What do you want me to do, Gil, break out the champagne?”

  “Sit down, Joe.”

  “I have to get out of here,” Potamos said, “get cracking on the story, maybe do street interviews with kids, ask them how they feel, who they think is right, the superintendent or the board.”

  “Sit down, Joe!”

  Potamos slumped in a chair.


  “I want you to listen to me, and listen hard. You are hanging on here by a thread, a goddamn thread. You are a disruptive force at the paper, and you’ve rubbed damn near everybody wrong, top to bottom. Lately, I’ve been spending more time than I want to saving your Greek ass, and I don’t like it. I’ve got better things to do. I’m all through warning you, Joe. Either straighten up and fly right, beginning with the school board story, or you’re not journalism, you’re history.”

  “Okay. I’ll do the school story.”

  Gardello’s tone softened. “I like you, Joe, I really do. You’ve got a lot of talent, lots of street smarts and good sense when somebody’s pulling your chain. But I can’t keep covering for you, damn it! What’s with this Canadian thing you’ve been chasing down?”

  “What Canadian thing?”

  “The guy who was murdered in the park. Wilcox. Jeremy Wilcox.”

  “What about it?”

  “You’ve been poking your nose into it even though I told you—what, a week ago?—to drop it.”

  “Where do you hear that?”

  “My boss, Joe, who got it from somebody she knows, only I don’t know who that somebody is and I don’t care. I do care that my boss cares, and wants the story to stay where it is, another unsolved DC murder.”

  Potamos sat up straight and showed his first spark of interest since arriving. “Somebody’s putting the arm on this paper to drop it?”

  Gardello swiveled in his chair and looked away.

  Potamos chewed his cheek before saying, “Gil, if this is just another unsolved DC murder, why would someone care that I keep looking into it? On my own time, I might add.”

  “I don’t care when you’re doing it, Joe, I’m telling you to stop.”

  When Potamos didn’t respond, Gardello added, “I mean it.”

  “Yeah, I know you do, and I appreciate everything you try to do for me. Okay, I’m off the case. Who cares that some Canuck trade rep gets whacked in a park? Not me. Anything else?”