Murder in Foggy Bottom

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Praise

  Foggy Bottom

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Part Two

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Part Three

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Part Four

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Also by Margaret Truman

  Copyright Page

  For Clifton, my husband of forty-three years

  Praise for Margaret Truman and her Capital Crimes mysteries

  “Truman has settled firmly into a career of writing murder mysteries, all evoking brilliantly the Washington she knows so well.”

  —The Houston Post

  “She’s up-to-the-minute. And she’s good.”

  —Associated Press

  “Truman ‘knows the forks’ in the nation’s capital and how to pitchfork her readers into a web of murder and detection.”

  —The Christian Science Monitor

  “An author whose inside knowledge of Washington is matched by her ability to spin a compelling mystery plot.”

  —Crime Times

  Foggy Bottom

  A Washington, DC, neighborhood that was built on a low-lying swamp, at one time home to a glass factory, a large brewery (now the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts), and some of the city’s worst slums . . . it was named either for the miasmic fogs that once enveloped it, or the hazy foreign policy of one of its most visible current residents, the U.S. State Department.

  Now a relatively quiet but trendy residential area with housing prices to match, it is also home to the Watergate hotel, apartments, and office and retail complex; George Washington University, the city’s second-largest land-holder after the federal government; the Corcoran Gallery of Art; and the omnipotent Federal Reserve. The Organization of American States, at Seventeenth and Constitution, is located precisely at the geographical center of the District of Columbia.

  Murder is uncommon in Foggy Bottom.

  But a few occur now and then.

  Part One

  1

  Monday Night

  Washington, DC

  The corpse was well dressed. Washington Post reporter Joe Potamos looked down at the body behind a bench in the pocket park in front of the hotel at E and K Streets, on the eastern edge of Foggy Bottom. The victim was a white male with neatly trimmed and combed salt-and-pepper hair. His suit was blue, shirt white, tie gray with small red-and-white flags.

  “Canadian,” Potamos said to a tall, boxlike man writing in a small notebook.

  “Huh?” Peter Languth muttered as he continued to write.

  “Canadian. Those little flags are Canadian,” Potamos said. “The red maple leaf in the middle and those red blocks on each side. You don’t know that?”

  Homicide detective Languth stopped writing and turned to look down at Potamos. Languth was six feet four; Potamos topped out at five-eleven. “You get off on flags, Joe?”

  Potamos shrugged and started writing in his own long, slender, spiral-bound notebook. Uniformed officers stretched yellow crime-scene tape around the scene. A late-arriving EMS team knelt next to the body. Pressing in for a closer look were a half-dozen homeless men for whom the park passed for home in summer. One of them had alerted a passing squad car to the dead man’s intrusion.

  “Get back,” Languth growled at them. In the humid atmosphere of the nation’s capital, the heavy air pressed down like a rubber blanket, capturing the men’s pungent body odor. “You guys ever hear of a shower?” Languth asked, wrinkling his bulbous nose.

  “The hot water stopped working in my mansion,” the youngest of the homeless men said.

  “Call a plumber,” Languth said.

  Potamos hoped he wasn’t contributing to the bouquet of the moment. He’d been wearing the same blue chambray shirt two days in a row, and hadn’t gotten around to getting last summer’s lighter-weight clothing back from the cleaners. He itched under the weight of his gray tweed jacket.

  “Sit over there till I want to talk to you,” Languth told the odd assortment of men, pointing to a bench a few feet away. To a uniformed cop, he said, “Make sure nobody leaves.”

  Potamos arched his back against stiffness and yawned. Eleven-twenty. He’d dozed off in front of the television set in his one-bedroom condo in Rosslyn, Virginia, just across the Potomac from the District, when the call came from his editor telling him to get to the park. Such a call wouldn’t have been made a few years ago, when the State Department was his beat, and crime reporting was only a memory. But that was then.

  “Whadda you see?” Languth asked one of the EMS technicians who’d left the body to come to where the beefy, balding detective stood with Potamos.

  “Something in the ribs, right side.”

  “No weapon?” Potamos asked.

  Languth scowled. “You see any weapons, Joe? You see something nobody else does? Except flags?”

  Potamos nodded at the bench where the vagrants had gathered, smoking cigarettes and passing a brown paper bag among them. “You check them out?” he asked.

  “Joe, write your goddamn story and leave the investigation to me.”

  “Just asking. I thought I’d let a few facts slip into the story.”

  “Well, don’t. How’s it feel getting down and dirty, Joe, hanging around real people after being a media star? You used to cover this neighborhood, right?”

  “Don’t start with me,” Potamos said, feeling the familiar anger bubble up inside. He visualized a tranquil, sun-drenched beach and drew slow, even breaths, the way he’d been taught in the anger-management course he’d been forced to take after the incident that had cost him his State Department assignment. And the inherent perks and prestige that went with it. State wasn’t exactly the White House, where something big seemed to be popping every day, but some of the stuff was important. A real story broke now and then—Bosnia, Israel, Rwanda . . .

  “Hey, you, get over here,” Languth yelled at the homeless men.

  Calmer now, Potamos listened as they gathered around the detective, who said, “Okay, what’d you lovely ladies see here tonight?”

  Twenty minutes later, after it was clear that the men were hear-no-evil, see-no-evil, the well-dressed body was removed. Photos of the body had been taken from many angles; the homeless men had given their nonstatements, names, and addresses—“Bench Number Three,” the young wise-guy vagrant cracked—a search of the immediate area had been conducted; and the crowd that had gathered had wandered away.

  “Buy you a drink?” Potamos asked Languth.

  “No.”


  “Suit yourself. What was in the deceased’s wallet?”

  “Money, credit cards.”

  “So, it wasn’t a robbery gone wrong.”

  “Brilliant deduction.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Ever hear of next of kin, Joe?”

  “I’ll hold it until you say it’s okay.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “You know who you remind me of, Pete?”

  “Who?”

  “Willy Loman.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Death of a Salesman. Maybe just death. You ever see it?”

  “No. Is it out on video?”

  “Thanks for the usual wholehearted cooperation, Pete.”

  “Always a pleasure, Joe. How come you never offer to buy me a drink when I’m off duty? Say hello to your buddy Bowen.”

  The anger welled up again as Potamos watched Languth slowly walk away, big body moving side to side beneath his black raincoat, like an aging waiter with aching feet after a long shift. He went in the Lombardy, ordered a drink at the small bar, and made a few calls from his cell phone in search of additional information, including one to the Canadian embassy: “This is Joe Potamos from the Post,” he told the night-duty officer. “There’s been a murder in the park across from the Lombardy Hotel; looks like the victim might be Canadian. What? No, I don’t know who the victim was but I figured maybe somebody from your embassy was supposed to be there tonight but didn’t show up and . . . Huh? A man, middle-aged, nicely dressed, wore a tie with little Canadian flags on it and . . . Huh? No? I just thought I’d give it a try. No, I don’t know his name. Yeah, thanks.” He tried to reach a contact in the coroner’s office in the hope of getting an ID on the deceased but was told he was away on vacation. He silently cursed Languth for not at least giving him a name, then filed the story, what little there was of it, and went to his condo in Rosslyn, where Jumper greeted him as though he were a raging success. He called Roseann at her apartment on Capitol Hill. Most nights, Potamos and the dog stayed there. But Potamos had kept the condo in Rosslyn as a gesture of independence, and as a refuge, especially when anger and frustration got the better of him, and Roseann, knowing how volatile he could be, never urged him to give it up. Smart girl, Ms. Blackburn. When he got in these moods, which she called his “vapors,” he wasn’t fit company for anyone, except the dog. It was the other times that had attracted Roseann to him, times when he could be tender and loving and funny and . . .

  This was definitely a night full of vapors.

  “I tried you earlier,” she said.

  “Everybody was trying tonight, it’s a trying night out there,” he said. “I was on a story. A homicide.”

  “Where?”

  “That park in front of the Lombardy Hotel. How was your gig?”

  “All right.” She worked Washington’s upscale rooms and private parties, with an occasional real gig when one came up. Jazz was her love; playing show tunes on the piano at fancy affairs was her income. “You okay, Joe?” she asked, knowing he wasn’t.

  “No, I’m not okay, Roseann. Instead of covering a murder, I’d rather commit one. Pete Languth was there.”

  “Your dear friend from law enforcement?”

  “My fat cop friend.”

  “You don’t want to kill a cop, Joe.”

  “How about Bowen? Anybody knows him’d give me a medal.”

  “You shouldn’t say such things on the phone. It might be tapped. This is Washington.”

  “I hope it is. Tapped, I mean. Hey, anybody listening, I would like to kill George Alfred Bowen. Slowly.” He sighed, said to her, “Ah, you’ve heard all this before. Potamos, the original broken record. Oops, CD. Showing my age. Sorry I didn’t call before I went out. See you tomorrow?”

  “If Jumper lets you.” She often said he liked the dog better than he liked her, which he had to admit was occasionally true; not just better than her, of course, better than the whole human world at large.

  “I’ll talk to her about it. Look, Roseann, sorry that I’m down. Sometimes—well, sometimes it seems to pile up, you know? I’ll get over it, always do, huh?” He laughed. Roseann smiled on the other end of the phone, seeing his face, the crooked grin, healthy white teeth made whiter against his dusky complexion, knowing he was feeling sorry for himself and that he disliked people who felt sorry for themselves, and feeling a little foolish for whining and wishing he hadn’t.

  “Joe, I understand. I really do. And excuse the comment about Jumper. Just kidding.”

  “Yeah, I know you were. I’d come over but it’s late and—”

  “Get a good night’s sleep, Joe. I love you.”

  “And I’m glad you do. Good night, Roseann. See you tomorrow.”

  Roseann hung up, sat back on the couch, and absently played with an errant strand of her lustrous hair. Her feelings at the moment were ambivalent; Joe was good at creating mixed emotions.

  On the one hand, she’d settled into the reality that being in love with the changeable—that’s an understatement— reporter came with some baggage, his, and hers, too, of course. They’d met when Joe was a hotshot general assignment reporter for the Post, covering the murder in Georgetown of Valerie Frolich, the daughter of a powerful U.S. senator. It hadn’t been love at first sight. He was handsome enough to turn her head, but his quirky personality was readily apparent on their first date; he was skeptical of everything, bordering on cynical, opinionated, talkative in spurts, silent for long periods. Not an easy person.

  Then again, Roseann had never considered herself a prize catch either. Since being labeled a prodigy when she was eight—she later wondered whether her piano teacher said that to encourage her mother to keep writing the weekly checks—she increasingly immersed herself in her music, although not always in the direction of classical performance, to the chagrin of her teacher. She began listening to jazz in her teens, her father’s record collection the prime source, and gradually applied her classical training to that distinctly American art form, the two not wholly incompatible.

  In a sense, music increasingly became an introspective substitute for the more social pursuits enjoyed by her friends. Roseann once told her therapist, “I sometimes think I accompany life on the piano rather than living it.”

  Which was true. She was able to smoothly fend off the advances of men—there were many, several even desirable—by offering her career as an excuse: “Sorry, I have a lesson.” “Sorry, I’m due at a rehearsal.” “Sorry, I’m in the middle of writing an opera and can’t break my momentum.”

  Until Joe came along, who, she reasoned early in the relationship, had as many problems as she did, which made them soul mates who often understood each other’s foibles and fractures, and who knew when to back off, ease up, put their heads under the covers until the storm passed.

  Like tonight.

  She slept soundly.

  2

  Two Days Later

  New York

  Harry Syms turned off Highway 684, stopped for a red light, then turned left onto the access road leading to Westchester County airport, approximately fifty miles north of New York City. Seated next to him was his wife, Hope, and their two children, Janet, age six, and Jill, age eight, who were safely buckled in the back of their new green Plymouth Voyager minivan.

  “I wish I could come with you,” Harry said.

  “It’s better this way,” Hope said. “With your Kamerer negotiations heating up and all, I understand. Besides . . .”

  Syms was a corporate attorney whose company was in the midst of buying a competing firm.

  “There’s always some negotiation or meeting,” Harry said heavily. “Maybe when it’s wrapped up I can grab a few days and join you.”

  “No,” Hope said. “Use the time to work and to . . . well, to think some more about—”

  “We’re here,” Harry said, cutting her off. He stopped in front of the new terminal, a reflection of the rapid expansion of the regional airport, which chagrin
ed those homeowners over whose houses the noisy, turboprop commuter planes flew. And now jets regularly operated from there. What was next, the Concorde?

  He pulled luggage from the minivan as Hope unbuckled the girls. “You two young ladies look beautiful,” he said, beaming. They shared their mother’s blond genes and freckled cheeks. They wore matching frilly blue-and-white dresses, dresses designed especially for a trip to Grandma’s.

  Harry noticed that Jill wore a thin gold necklace with a tiny four-leaf clover at its end. He asked his wife, “You’re not wearing the flying necklace?”

  “No,” she said, smiling. “Jill wanted to wear it.”

  The “flying necklace” had belonged to Hope’s mother, who’d been a travel photographer of some note before retiring. She viewed the necklace as her good luck charm whenever she flew, which was often, and passed it on to her daughter.

  “Don’t lose that,” Harry said to Jill. “It’s mother’s.”

  “I won’t,” Jill said.

  “I’ll take it back from her as soon as we arrive,” Hope whispered to Harry.

  “We’ll bring you a present,” said Jill, hugging her father.

  “Great! Make it a big one. Hey, what about you?” he said to Janet. “Don’t I get a kiss and a hug?”

  She allowed him to kiss her cheek.

  “They’re so excited,” Hope said.

  “They should be. Make sure everybody drinks plenty of water when you’re traipsing around DC. You know what it’s like there in the summer.”

  “We’d better get inside,” Hope said.

  Syms enjoyed flying out of the smaller, regional airport, a half hour’s drive from their home in Bedford Hills, or seeing people off from it. There was less of the traffic madness associated with taking a flight from LaGuardia or Kennedy. He waved to a security guard— “Back in a minute,” he shouted pleasantly—and carried the luggage inside the terminal to a short check-in line. “Flight’s on time,” he said after checking a departure board.

  “Go on, we’re fine,” Hope said. “Don’t be late to your meeting.”