Bloody Politics

by Maggie Sefton

  Thursday evening

  I took another sip of the delicate and luscious Pinot Noir Danny had opened and settled back into the sofa cushions, my head resting in the crook of Danny’s arm.

  “I guess it’s crazy to hope there was someone who witnessed the attack. Like some guys who were sleeping under the bridge. I remember you saying drunks slept under that Key Bridge overpass.”

  Danny took a sip of wine, then shook his head. “Those guys would have taken off fast. Waking up to see some guy killing a girl that close. They’ve gone to ground by now. No way would they talk to the cops. They could wind up being accused.”

  “That makes sense, I guess. If you can make sense of anything this awful.”

  “Washington is as dangerous as any other big city. People get mesmerized by all the beautiful buildings and parks and places like the Canal. They forget predators can be lurking in those beautiful places. They let their guard down. That’s when they’re vulnerable. Sounds like Natasha had been running along the towpath for a long time. She probably assumed that running early in the dark of the morning was as safe as in the daylight.”

  Danny was right. Washington was seductive in its beauty. Far too easy to become entranced. “It’s just so tragic. Natasha was smart and talented. She had such a bright future. Just like Karen.” Painful memories of my late niece’s violent death crept from the back of my mind.

  “And that’s another reason this is so painful for you. It reminds you too much of Karen. Thank God you weren’t the one to actually find her, Molly. Once was enough.” Danny leaned over and kissed my temple, his lips warm from the wine.

  I took another sip of the rich wine, pondering what Danny had said. More old memories crept from the dark. “Actually, it would have been the third time I walked in on death.”

  Danny grimaced. “Damn, I forgot about Dave. Sorry I said anything.”

  The painful memory from long ago returned—my walking into our home to find my young husband Dave facedown on his desk in a pool of his own blood, gun in his hand. “It’s okay. We’ve lost lots of bright talented people over the years. Too many.”

  I stared out into the fireplace; the three logs Danny had placed on top of each other still blazed with the flames, sending a wonderful warmth toward us on the sofa. A remembered thought slipped in, dancing over the flames in the fireplace. “I keep remembering something Samantha said when I called her this morning. She was fond of Natasha, so I wanted her to hear about Natasha’s death from me and not the newspapers. Samantha said ‘What is happening? We’re losing these wonderful people.’”

  Remnants of the consumed top log collapsed onto the others in a shower of sparks. Danny got up and took the fireside poker to prod the remaining logs. “She’s right. Quentin Wilson died nearly three months ago.”

  “Yeah. And after she said that, I couldn’t stop thinking of them. Karen, Celeste, Quentin Wilson, and now Natasha. All of them have died within the last six or seven months.”

  “Didn’t that Hill staffer die too? You know, the one who was providing Wilson with the drugs. I thought you told me he committed suicide out of town. The cops were closing in on him, I guess.” He sat down on the sofa again and pulled me closer.

  “Yeah, you’re right. I don’t know anything about him other than what Natasha told me. They were old friends from Minnesota. She said he was smart and funny and really a good guy. So he probably had a bright future, too, until he started delivering drugs on the side.” I took a deeper sip of wine. “Too many deaths, too close together.”

  “Thinking about it won’t make more sense of it, Molly. Take it from someone who’s had way too many encounters with death. Bad things happen to good people as well as bad people. We can’t help that. Or them. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

  I nestled in closer, seeking his warmth. “I know what you’re saying. Good people die in terrible accidents every day. Bad things happen. It’s just …”

  I couldn’t find the words to explain what was bothering me, because I wasn’t really sure what it was. But there was something about those recent deaths that I was missing. Some connection I hadn’t spotted yet. Why I felt that way, I didn’t have a clue. It was simply a feeling, and I couldn’t shake it. Ever since Samantha asked “What’s happening?” I’d been asking myself that same question and finding no answer.

  “It’s just that Natasha’s death reminds you too much of Karen’s. Hers was a deliberate murder, but Natasha’s was a brutal, senseless killing. Poor Natasha was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “You’re right,” I said, nestling into his warm embrace.

  “We’re going to change our running routine starting tomorrow morning. No more towpath. We’ll come back next spring, and we’re going to switch locations. I don’t want you running alone outside when I’m out of town. Promise me. You can run at my gym instead.”

  I felt his warm lips on my neck. That was a promise I could easily make as I let Danny take the wine glass from my hand.

  six

  Friday morning

  I tilted the oversized coffeepot and watched a hot, black ribbon of Luisa’s primo-blend coffee pour into my mug. She ordered it from some specialty shop in Colorado. I inhaled the rich aroma before I drank, then returned to the tabloid newspaper spread out on the Russell kitchen counter. Leave it to the sleaze rag, the D.C. Dirt, to reel in more readers with lurid headlines in bold type.

  CONGRESSIONAL STAFFER’S THROAT SLASHED

  IN BLOODY ATTACK! IS THERE A KILLER LOOSE

  IN GEORGETOWN?

  Natasha Jorgensen, former chief staffer for the late Congressman Quentin Wilson, had found a welcoming place in Congresswoman Sally Chertoff’s office. Super smart and quick, according to her friends, Natasha had a bright future ahead of her until she ran beneath the arching span of Francis Scott Key Bridge early Thursday morning. Friends say Natasha had been running along the C & O Canal towpath for years, but usually later in the morning when there were more runners about. Thursday morn, Natasha chose to run earlier than usual, when it was still dark, no doubt unaware of the predators that lurked in the shadows. Jorgensen was attacked, her throat slashed, and left to bleed to death along the scenic Canal towpath. Police think the attack may have started as a sexual assault, then turned fatal when Jorgensen tried to fight off her attacker. With no witnesses, the police have no leads yet as to the killer’s identity.

  I stared at the dramatic prose and remembered Danny’s comment last night about predators hiding in the dark.

  Luisa bustled into the kitchen then, two plastic grocery store bags in hand. “Goodness, Molly. Is that your second mug of coffee already? I swear I saw you filling up when you first came in before eight.”

  “Guilty,” I confessed, holding up one hand. “I came in early to catch up. Yesterday I was only able to finish half of what I needed to.” I took a deep drink, savoring.

  Luisa pointed at the tabloid newssheet, and she visibly recoiled. “That was a horrific attack! Simply awful. To think someone was under the bridge lying in wait for your young friend.” She shuddered visibly. “What monster would do that?”

  “A sick one, Luisa,” I replied as Casey entered the kitchen, coffee mug in hand. Both of our caffeine habits were considerable.

  “How’re you doing, Molly?” Casey asked as he refilled his mug. “I trust you changed your running route this morning.”

  “Madre de Dios,” Luisa waved her hand as she returned to emptying grocery bags. “You need to get a treadmill, Molly, and run inside your house. Stay off the streets. It’s dangerous out there.”

  Casey and I exchanged smiles. “Don’t worry, Luisa. Danny and I went running on the track at his sports club this morning. And I promised him I would not run along the towpath again without him. In fact, we’re staying away until spring. Winter will be coming soon anyway.”

  “Thank the Lord,” Luisa decreed, giv
ing me a maternal nod as she opened cabinets. “You’ll be much safer with the Colonel.”

  I had to smile at Luisa’s continued use of Danny’s former military designation. Ever since Danny had expedited some paperwork for Luisa and Albert’s oldest son in the Marines, they had been Danny’s biggest admirers.

  Casey caught my eye and beckoned me into the hallway. “See you later, Luisa,” I said, following after him.

  “What’s up?” I asked once we were in the hallway and away from the kitchen. No one else was about. Albert was evidently still running errands, and Peter was with the senator on the Hill.

  “I had another call from Schroeder last night. He told me they found a bug on Natasha Jorgensen’s phone.”

  That caught me up short, and I stared at him. I’m sure my mouth was open in surprise. “What?”

  Casey’s dark eyes mirrored my surprise. “Do you have any idea who would be listening in on her calls?”

  “No! She was a congressional staffer, that’s all. The Hill’s packed with them.” I stared down the hallway. “Who in the hell would listen to a little staffer’s calls? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Do you think she was involved in that friend’s drug business? You know, that guy, Levitz, who had a side business on the Hill delivering prescription drugs. Is there a chance she was more involved in that than she admitted?”

  I shook my head. That picture didn’t come into focus. “I don’t know, but it seems unlikely. I talked to her right after Gary Levitz was found dead in Texas, and she was genuinely broken up about what had happened to him and to Congressman Wilson. And she blamed it all on those prescription meds.” I looked him in the eye. “If she was lying, she was one helluva good actress.”

  Casey frowned. “It doesn’t make sense that someone would bug her phone without a reason. Of course, there’s always the possibility she was issued a phone that had previously belonged to someone else. That’s kind of unlikely, though.”

  We started walking down the hallway together. There were tons of emails awaiting me in my email program’s inbox, and for once I was glad. There would be lots of work to distract me from the ideas bouncing around in my head right now.

  Who in the hell would bug Natasha’s phone? She didn’t have any enemies. Did she?

  Other memories from the not-so-distant past came forward.

  I paused at the doorway to my office. Work was waiting. I’d have plenty of time to ponder and think this through tonight at home. Danny had already left for a short trip to Chicago.

  “Don’t let this bother you, Molly. None of us can ever know what is going on in someone else’s life. Natasha Jorgensen may have been involved in things we don’t even want to know about.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “I think I’ll ask Samantha to put out feelers to see what deep background gossip she can find. Let’s see what comes up.”

  “Sounds good.” Casey turned down the hallway.

  “And for the record. The security team that did Peter’s rental house I’m living in, Prestige Systems, they swept the house before they started installing the system and found a tiny listening device in my living room wall. Right above my desk. You know, my desk with the computer and the file drawers the thief was so interested in.” I gave Casey a crooked smile.

  His eyes widened in obvious surprise. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. I was shocked, of course. Danny and the security team said that maybe the bug was placed there to listen in on a former occupant. Peter said the previous renter was a Swedish businessman. So, who knows?”

  Casey shook his head. “Jeeez. I shouldn’t be surprised. This is Washington. Everybody’s spying on someone. See you later.” He headed toward the front entry once again.

  This is Washington, I repeated to myself as I entered my office. The sound of my personal phone buzzed with a message. I clicked on as I settled in my desk chair. A text message from Samantha. There was a memorial service for Natasha Jorgensen scheduled for tomorrow afternoon, Saturday. Samantha offered to take me, then we could return to her home for dinner.

  Perfect, I thought to myself as I clicked into message mode on my phone screen. I needed some time tonight to sort through all the thoughts bouncing around inside my head right now. Once I had made sense of them, I could talk to Samantha. I’d need a sounding board. Someone to bounce ideas off of. Samantha had a personal history with Quentin Wilson and Natasha. She could help me make sense of them. Or not. Maybe she’d simply laugh and tell me I was “crazy as a bedbug.” Maybe so. We’d have to see. I was hoping for crazy.

  Friday afternoon

  Raymond lifted the glass of Spencer’s premium-aged Scotch and let the golden heat numb his throat. He sank into the buttery-soft beige leather sofa in the corner of Spencer’s window-wrapped office. Sunshine streamed through the large expanse of glass.

  “I ordered another case. You should receive shipment by tomorrow,” Spencer said as he sat on the loveseat directly across from Raymond, then he reached out his hand. “Okay, let’s have it. See what precipitated this bloody mess.”

  Raymond removed two folded papers from inside his jacket pocket and handed one over. “Here’s the original. I made a copy for you to give to higher-ups. You don’t want to offend their sensibilities.”

  Spencer gave him a sardonic look as he unfolded the paper. “Offend their sensibil—Aw, Christ!” He screwed up his face in obvious distaste. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “You mean blood? Yes, it is. You can’t slit someone’s throat without blood getting everywhere,” Raymond said, deliberately smiling. Spencer never was one for hearing about the details of a death. He simply ordered it done. And kept himself antiseptically removed from the operational details.

  “Jeeeeeez!” Spencer dropped the paper on the glass table between them and bent over it. “It’s hard to read her writing.”

  “The top note mentions both the House and the Senate committees where the legislation was introduced. But scan down and you’ll see Ryker’s name. And others.” Raymond deliberately didn’t say more. Let Spencer discover it.

  Spencer did as he was directed, scanning the paper for a minute. “Dammit! There’s Ryker. And … Holmberg? Aw, crap!”

  “Keep going,” Raymond said, secretly enjoying Spencer’s consternation.

  “Wait a minute … she’s got ‘Stuttgart bank’ with a question mark. Son of a bitch! Ryker said he never mentioned the bank’s name!”

  “He may not have. But you said he and Ambassador Holmberg were talking about international transfers. So it would be easy for those two words to slip out.”

  Spencer let loose a stream of curses as he sprang from the sofa and marched over to the liquor cabinet. Raymond sipped his Scotch, watching. A strange feeling of detachment was creeping around the edges of his mind. Spencer returned with the bottle of Scotch and poured more than half a glass for himself. “Here,” he offered, extending the bottle toward Raymond’s waiting glass.

  “That paper ought to placate the committee’s objection to the termination. Both Trask and I had a feeling about Jorgensen from the start. She was going to be trouble, and we were right.”

  Spencer drank deeply, then shot Raymond a harsh look. “The others are furious at how this was handled. What a bloody mess! That sleaze rag will run with it for days. Killer stalking girls in Georgetown! Jesus!” He tossed down more Scotch.

  Maybe it was the Scotch, but Raymond allowed himself to relax into the sofa cushions. “Not every termination can be neat and tidy like Quentin Wilson’s overdose or that Celeste Allard on the Eastern Shore. Those take planning. We didn’t have time for this one. Jorgensen was meeting Malone that morning. And she was going to pass along that information.” He pointed to the paper on the coffee table. A particularly bright-red swath of bloodstain covered the top left corner of the page.

  Spencer scowled a
t the paper for another minute. “Yeah, you’re right. We didn’t want Malone to start snooping around again.”

  “That’s what I figured. Better to remove Jorgensen. That should stop Sylvia Wilson and Malone. We hope.”

  Spencer looked at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

  Raymond sipped and savored the liquid gold on his throat. “Well, there’s the off chance Malone would contact Sylvia Wilson herself, but that’s unlikely.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Malone and Samantha Calhoun, Quentin Wilson’s girlfriend, have been best friends since high school. They’re tight. So, it’s doubtful Malone thinks too highly of Sylvia Wilson.”

  “Yeah, women do hold grudges,” Spencer said with a smirk, then tossed down the rest of his Scotch. “And the Malone woman is a champ. I heard she spotted that chief staffer Jed Molinoff at that talk Holmberg gave last spring at Dumbarton Oaks. Apparently she was staring daggers at Molinoff because she blamed him for keeping her niece outside so a mugger could find her. Molinoff turned tail and ran.” Spencer snickered as he poured more Scotch into his glass, then sank back into the loveseat. “You guys are gonna have to lie low. The top committee heads are furious. They’d just taken on three new members, and the word was they were not too pleased by the notoriety. So, go to ground. Send Trask on a Caribbean trip. Whatever. Quiet is the word.”

  Raymond raised his glass. “I’ll drink to quiet.” And he took another deep sip. He could use some quiet time. But he had an uneasy feeling he wasn’t going to get it.

  Saturday late afternoon

  “Your mice are reporting in already? Impressive.” I took a sip of the crisp sauvignon blanc Samantha had pulled from her fridge. We’d returned from the sad and somber memorial service and sought out Samantha’s cozy library. A fire blazed pleasantly in the nearby fireplace.

  “My mice are nothing if not efficient,” Samantha’s fingers flew across the cell phone’s tiny keyboard, then she placed it on the end table beside the loveseat where she sat with her legs drawn up. “That was one of the staffers who’s known Natasha for years, and she swears Natasha was not involved with Levitz in his drug delivery business.” She took a sip of her favorite bourbon. “Natasha was squeaky clean, says this girl.”