Bloody Politics

by Maggie Sefton

  “Don’t even come close, Luisa. I have live creatures hiding beneath the paperwork. And they bite.” He laughed as he headed down the hallway.

  I accompanied him toward the front entry, remembering something I’d wanted to ask. “Are you still keeping track of where all the Congressional members are living? You remember we were talking about the clusters of Congressmen shivering together, sharing townhouses, bunking in with each other.”

  “Kind of. I’ve got an intern keeping directories now. Were you looking for someone in particular?”

  “I was curious where Congresswoman Sylvia Wilson was living. Did she rent a condo somewhere posh?”

  Peter opened the front door and paused. “I think I recall someone telling me she was living in the same townhouse where Quentin Wilson lived. I think she bought it for him when he first entered Congress five years ago.”

  “Boy, was that a good investment. Real estate prices keep rising here.” I smiled. “By the way, your properties are showing a profit as well.”

  “Always a good thing. I’ll see you tomorrow, Molly,” he said as he headed out the door.

  Hopefully, Albert had finished turning those mattresses and was already waiting in the car. I headed down the hallway toward the kitchen and more coffee. Meanwhile, something about Sylvia Wilson living in her recently departed husband’s townhouse buzzed in the back of my brain.

  Monday evening

  I walked through the Willard Hotel’s opulent lobby. Strolled, rather. I was in no hurry since I enjoyed the opportunity to step back in time. Richly upholstered armchairs were clustered together with antique end tables all around the expansive lobby, inviting private conversations or exhausted tourists who simply wanted to rest. Tall ceilings and art-filled walls spoke of another era. Another century, actually.

  I spotted Sylvia Wilson seated in a corner, conveniently away from the other groups of people who sat, lounged, talked, and chatted in groups.

  “Congresswoman Wilson?” I said, hand extended. “I’m Molly Malone. Thank you so much for meeting me.”

  Sylvia Wilson’s sharp eyes did a quick appraisal of me. Hair, wardrobe, makeup, shoes, jewelry. I doubt she missed anything. I wondered what grade I’d been given.

  “So nice to meet you, Ms. Malone,” she said, giving me what looked to be her official smile. She indicated the empty armchair next to the table beside her.

  I noticed a half-filled martini glass on the lamp-lit table as I sat. “Please call me Molly,” I said, placing on my lap the slender portfolio I’d brought. I noticed the congresswoman’s briefcase beside her chair. “You’re very kind to take time from your busy schedule, Congresswoman. I promise I won’t waste any of it with too many questions.”

  “Actually, Molly, I’m hoping you can answer some of my questions.” She reached inside the briefcase and withdrew a plain spiral-bound notebook, the kind bought in a drugstore. She paged through it. “Most of Quentin’s notes have to do with rules and regulations on international banking, particularly transfers of funds. But after every section, he jotted down other things. Names, for example.” She paused on one page. “Here’s one. Epsilon Group. Have you ever heard of it? One of my staffers did a cursory check and learned it was an organization of international financiers, distinguished professors, and European finance ministers whose purpose was to educate the public about global financial issues. Writing papers and giving speeches.”

  I was about to reply when the waiter approached. I ordered a coffee, not about to dull my wits around the Widow Wilson. I sensed I’d need them all.

  “I know Karen was researching the same group,” I said. “She’d also learned the Epsilon Group had actually succeeded in getting some minor recommendations added to Congressional legislation in the last couple of years. I believe Congressman Jackson supported a bill with one of their recommendations. Karen worked on a lot of special projects for the congressman.”

  Sylvia Wilson listened carefully. “I see. Congressman Jackson was on the International Monetary Policy and Trade Subcommittee, so that would be right in his area. I’m still curious why Quentin was interested.” She turned another page. “He’s written down Congressman Edward Ryker’s name. As well as Senator Dunston. Now Ryker is Chair of the House Financial Services Committee, and Dunston was recently appointed chair of the Senate Banking, Housing, and Urban Affairs Committee. So that makes sense. However, Quentin also wrote ‘Stuttgart Bank’ beneath Dunston’s name, then drew several dollar signs.” She looked up at me with a quizzical expression. “Does that ring a bell with Karen’s research?”

  It might not ring a bell with Karen’s notes, but those names definitely rang loud bells for me. I opened the portfolio in my lap. “Karen’s notes made no mention of Dunston, so that’s interesting. Also, no mention of a Stuttgart Bank. But the dollar signs obviously mean money. Probably money transfers.” I watched Sylvia Wilson nod, then I added. “But I do know that Congressman Ryker must have a connection with the Epsilon Group, because I attended one of their speeches last spring. I saw him there, acting really chummy with the speaker, Ambassador Holmberg, former EU Finance Minister.”

  Sylvia Wilson sat back in her chair, clearly digesting what I’d just said. “Interesting. Quentin had also written the name Holmberg in his notes. In fact, he’d put arrows between Ryker’s and Holmberg’s names.” She turned the notebook around and held it out so I could see. Sure enough, Quentin Wilson had drawn an arrow linking the two men’s names. I quickly scanned the rest of the page, hoping to see more, but she returned the notebook to her lap. However, I thought I glimpsed something at the bottom of the page.

  “Had Karen come to any conclusions? What connection do these people have with each other? Are they all members of this Epsilon Group?”

  “I don’t know.” I glanced at the pages in my portfolio. I’d taken Danny’s advice and transferred all my notes to a document file. “According to Karen’s research, the Epsilon Group members are all from the financial community. I searched them myself and found the same information your staff discovered. It described the group as a consortium of learned and prestigious experts who’d served various roles in international finance and governance. Stuff like that. The only names I found were those who were listed as speakers, like Ambassador Holmberg.” I glanced up. “Could I take a look at the notebook? I think I spotted something written at the bottom of the page.”

  “Surely.” Sylvia Wilson extended the open notebook.

  I tried not to grab it greedily and glanced at the bottom of the page. Quentin Wilson had scrawled what looked like “son,” then “Stuttgart.” I made mental notes of the second repetition of Stuttgart.

  “It looks like he repeated the word Stuttgart. Is that ‘son’ in front of it?”

  “Maybe. Sometimes Quentin’s handwriting got squished together when he was in a hurry.”

  Eager to see what else was written, I deliberately put on the most innocent expression possible—innocent for me. “Do you mind if I page through?”

  “Go ahead. There are only a few more names mentioned. Perhaps you’ll recognize them.”

  I pulled out a ballpoint pen and wrote down the little I’d learned so far. Stuttgart Bank, Senator Dunston, Holmberg, Ryker, and the word sun or son. Someone’s son? I turned the pages slowly, scanning and making notes of what Quentin Wilson had written. Geneva. Milan. They were definitely places. At the bottom was another name. Spencer followed by a question mark. Was that a first or a last name? Considering how many people I had met passing through Senator Russell’s dinners and receptions, it was impossible to remember all the names. I searched through my memory anyway to see if there was a connection, but nothing came to mind.

  “I wish the name Spencer rang a bell, but it doesn’t. We meet so many new people in Washington. Plus Senator Russell entertains frequently, so there’s a constant stream of strangers visiting the residence.”

 
A small smile tweaked the edges of Sylvia Wilson’s mouth. “Yes, I’ve heard of Senator Russell’s parties, and I confess I look forward to being able to attend sometime in the future. Right now, I’m hard-pressed to remember all the new faces and names I’ve met since I was appointed.”

  I returned the notebook to her, and the thought occurred that in a different time and different circumstances, Sylvia Wilson and I might have become friends. She had a no-nonsense attitude about her that I liked. “I’ve made notes of those names and comments that were new to me. I’ll take a look at Karen’s daytimer and other notes to see if they’re mentioned. I promise to keep you posted as to anything I learn.”

  Sylvia Wilson closed the notebook and returned it to her briefcase. “I’d appreciate that. I certainly don’t have time to delve into this area at all, and frankly neither does my staff. In fact, I’m still perplexed as to why Quentin would have wasted his valuable time on researching an innocuous group of financiers.” She shook her head with a faintly disapproving expression. Then she focused her intense gaze on me. “And I’m still curious why your niece and now you have spent time researching the same thing. I can understand your wanting to do something in your niece’s memory. But I sense there’s something else behind your search, Molly.” She looked at me with that half smile once more.

  I toyed with my reply, then decided I owed the Widow Wilson an honest answer, considering how she’d been so cooperative. “Actually, there is another reason that has spurred my curiosity, Congresswoman. I returned to Washington last spring, and since then four bright, talented staffers who worked on the Hill have died. Two died violently in the streets—my niece Karen and Natasha Jorgensen—and two by accident—your husband and a young congressional staffer in Congressman Jackson’s office, Celeste Allard. The only thing all four of them had in common was they each were asking questions about the Epsilon Group, international banking, and financial legislation. Such innocuous-sounding subjects, we both agree. But I have a suspicious nature, and it tells me something else is involved. Particularly since I learned the police found a bug on Natasha’s phone.”

  I paused and watched Sylvia Wilson’s eyes widen in surprise. She stared at me with rapt attention. “Really? That means …”

  “That means that whoever was listening to her calls heard your phone conversation with Natasha asking her questions about your husband’s notebook. And, they overheard my phone conversation with her saying we would see each other the morning following her meeting with you. Natasha was going to tell me what she saw in the notebook.” I met Sylvia’s shocked gaze. “Of course, we never got to meet that morning. I arrived at the towpath shortly after the vicious attack. I remember hearing sirens wailing in Georgetown. I thought she’d overslept so I walked toward the bridge, hoping to see her, but I saw the police instead.” I stopped and let Sylvia Wilson conjure the rest.

  “Oh, my God … you were there?”

  “Right afterwards. I watched police carry a shroud-wrapped body away on a stretcher. I had a sinking feeling even then.”

  Sylvia turned her face away. “And you think her death was connected to your niece Karen’s?”

  “I don’t know if it was or not. But they were both researching the same thing.” I paused before adding, “And I have Karen’s research notes at home in my desk. This past summer, I uncharacteristically returned to my home one weekday morning, and I frightened away an intruder. Whoever it was had come in my locked back door. He stole nothing, but he had rifled my desk drawers and opened my computer files.” Sylvia Wilson’s face paled slightly. “I had an expert security firm totally redo my home and surroundings. And in the midst of that, they found a listening device in my wall. Directly above my desk.” I sat back, letting my words sink in.

  Sylvia Wilson stared at me for over a minute, white-faced. “It will take some time for me to digest all of this, Molly. You’ve certainly given me much to think about.”

  “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you to please keep this entirely to yourself. No one else should know.”

  “I agree.”

  “Oh, and if I may give you some advice, Congresswoman. I’ve heard you’re living in your husband’s home, which you had purchased. My advice is to hire a special firm such as the one recommended to me. Have that house totally protected from intruders of any kind. Secure it completely. I’ll be glad to give you the name of that company, if you’d like.”

  “I’d like that very much, Molly. And please call me Sylvia.”

  “I think you’re being very wise … Sylvia,” I said with a small smile of my own.

  eight

  Tuesday morning

  Larry Fillmore took the Capitol South Metro escalator stairs two at a time, hurrying away from the throngs of commuters pouring out of the Metro station. Running his finger through his phone’s directory, he pressed Spencer’s name as he angled away from the mass of congressional staffers heading toward Capitol Hill. He listened to the phone ring three times before being answered.

  “Good morning, Larry,” Spencer’s deep voice sounded. “How’s it going over there on the Hill? Are you keeping Congressman Jackson’s staffers in line?”

  Larry could hear the amusement in Spencer’s voice. “No problems. They’re all under control. By the way, I made sure Congressman Jackson had a copy of that European Union report you sent over. That should answer most of his questions.”

  “Always happy to oblige, Larry. We want to keep the good congressman well-informed and allay any doubts he might have about the transfer of funds. Apparently Jackson had asked some pointed questions in that last subcommittee meeting.”

  “Yeah, he and Chertoff started asking about the limits on funds, and how the recipient banks are chosen. That report should help answer any questions.”

  “Good, good. We want to keep them content and quiet.” Spencer’s chuckle came louder.

  Larry stepped off the sidewalk and onto the grassy area bordering the walkway. He stopped beneath a tall oak, its leaves already turning a rusty red. “Listen, there’s another reason I wanted to call you this morning before I get into the office. I accompanied Jackson to a dinner with some of his Omaha donors last night at the Willard. You’ll never guess who I saw when I was leaving the hotel. A really odd couple talking together in a corner of the lobby.”

  “I’m not good at guessing games. Who was it?”

  “Congresswoman Sylvia Wilson and none other than Molly Malone.” Larry waited for Spencer’s reaction. It came quickly.

  “What the hell! The two of them together?”

  “Yeah. I figured you’d want to know.”

  “Jesus! What in hell would those two be talking about? Malone’s best friends with the Calhoun woman.”

  “Quentin Wilson’s paramour, as the D.C. Dirt liked to call her,” Larry said, thin lips curving into a smirk.

  “Sylvia Wilson hated Samantha Calhoun’s guts from what I heard.”

  “That’s why I thought it was odd.”

  “Damn,” Spencer mumbled.

  Larry waited, expecting Spencer to say something else, but he didn’t. Surprised, Larry volunteered, “I can start asking around if you want me to. See what Sylvia Wilson is up to.”

  “Yeah, do that. Quietly, of course. Don’t draw any attention.”

  Spencer’s voice sounded worried for some reason, so Larry ventured, “Don’t worry. I’ve got my spies out there. I’ll let you know what I learn.”

  “Okay. I’ll talk to you later,” Spencer said abruptly, then clicked off.

  Larry checked his watch, then headed toward the Rayburn Office Building. Meanwhile, he paged through his phone directory for one of his many sources. Clearly, Spencer didn’t like the idea of Sylvia Wilson having a tête-à-tête with Molly Malone. Larry had a feeling it didn’t have anything to do with the late Quentin Wilson.

  _____

  I clicked out o
f the email program and shoved the computer mouse aside. Finished for now. Emails were never completely finished. I could only catch up. They multiplied when I wasn’t looking. I leaned back in the desk chair and indulged in a long stretch. Spreadsheets were waiting, but I didn’t feel like staring at the screen again quite yet.

  I took a sip of my recently refilled coffee and reached for my personal cell phone. There was a call I needed to make. I was about to press Samantha’s number, when I noticed a text message waiting. It must have come in when I took a coffee break. I saw it was from Loretta Wade.

  “Have you had a chance to check Congressman Grayson’s notes yet? I have a slight break in my normal deluge, so I could start delving into those old records.”

  Natasha Jorgensen’s death had wiped away the memory of my conversation with Loretta that morning by the Canal. I’d completely forgotten I’d promised her I would check Eric Grayson’s research notebooks. Feeling guilty, I mentally revised my plans for tonight. While Danny was out with the veteran’s group, I would retrieve Eric’s notebook from the bank deposit box and go over it. Hopefully there would be some clues as to what my congressman brother-in-law was searching for years ago. I quickly keyed in a text message reply to Loretta, suggesting we meet for lunch in that small park near the Rayburn Building this week. I’d bring the notebook and let her have a look.

  I checked my watch, then pressed Samantha’s number. Mid-morning. She should still be home.

  “Perfect timing, Molly,” she said when she answered. “Another ten minutes and I would have left to join good sister Bernice at Walter Reed. She’s going to introduce me to some of the people who’re coordinating wounded veteran care.”

  “Wow, that’s definitely more noble a venture than what I’ve spent all morning doing. Answering emails, placating overzealous congressional and senatorial staffers who have tons of questions.”