Murder on Capitol Hill Read online

  She moved to the living room. If it were true that Mark Adam had been brainwashed to confess to the murder of his father and Jimmye McNab, the question was, who’d done it? The MPD? Horace Jenkins had certainly been under the gun to solve the murders. It wouldn’t be the first time that a high-ranking police officer had forced a confession. No matter how she explored it, there was still the nagging fact that a young man, disturbed as he might be, was sitting in a jail and was about to be tried for two murders that he maybe didn’t commit.

  22

  The local politician on whose behalf Senator Wilfred MacLoon had flown to Utah was sincerely appreciative of the senator’s support in his campaign for reelection. It had been touch-and-go since the request had been made through MacLoon’s office whether he would make the trip and deliver a speech. The decision had been made at the last minute, which sent the local campaign staff into a flurry of activity to get the word out that MacLoon himself would make an appearance.

  “It means a great deal to me, Senator, that you came back here to help me out,” the local man told MacLoon following the fund-raising dinner held in his honor.

  MacLoon slapped him on the back. “Hell, if we don’t help each other there won’t be any of us left pretty soon.” Which brought a laugh from people who’d gathered around him at the rear of the catering-house dining room.

  “Another drink, Senator?” someone asked.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” He’d had a great deal to drink on his flight from Washington, and had continued imbibing throughout the dinner and a succession of preliminary speeches. The food, he’d decided after a stab at it, was inedible.

  “The missus and I would love to have you back to the house for a nightcap, Will,” the local politician said.

  “Thanks, but I have some meetings scheduled at the hotel.”

  “Don’t know how you do it, Senator,” an overly sincere middle-aged woman said.

  “I try,” MacLoon replied as he inched toward the door. He held up his hands to silence those still left in the dining room and took the opportunity to say in a loud voice, “One thing I promise every citizen of Utah—the missile system will be in this state.”

  Cheers trailed him as he left the room and went to where a driver stood outside a rented car. He got into the rear seat with some difficulty and drove off toward the comfort of his suite at the Little America Hotel on South Main Street. As he settled back and took in the passing sights of Salt Lake City he couldn’t help but think how two-faced some of his Mormon constituents were when it came to alcoholic beverages. The Mormon Church controlled the state of Utah, which meant that all public restaurants and bars were prohibited from serving anything stronger than 3.2 beer. Things had loosened up recently, and certain restaurants were allowed to serve two-ounce mini-bottles of cocktails, but only if the patron also ordered food. The fact was that there were probably as many heavy drinkers in Utah as in any other single state in the union. Only difference was that the drinking was done in private clubs and, like this evening, at political dinners held in such clubs. MacLoon also knew that there would be an ample stock of his favorite whiskey in his suite at the hotel. Ah, it paid to represent, no question…

  One of MacLoon’s Senate aides who had accompanied him to Utah had stayed at the Little America. He greeted his boss and immediately asked whether he could pour him a drink.

  “I need some food,” MacLoon said gruffly as he went to the suite’s bedroom to strip off his jacket and shirt and change into a freshly laundered dress shirt and a rust-colored cardigan sweater that barely managed to button over the girth of the waist it had to span.

  “I’ll have something sent up, Senator,” his aide said. “What’s your pleasure?”

  “Whatever you can get fast at this hour,” MacLoon said. “Have you heard from Morgan and his people?”

  “Yes, sir,” the aide said as he went to call in the order. “They called an hour ago and said they’d be a half hour late.”

  “Figures,” MacLoon said as he settled in a chair and picked up a newspaper. “When they get here you’ll have to disappear.”

  The aide’s face reflected his disappointment in not being invited into the meeting. He’d often been dismissed from rooms when the senator conferred with important people. He and another aide, Rick Petrone, frequently joked about what went on in meetings they were forbidden to attend, and they’d come to the conclusion that once they were gone, the pros—call girls—came through a back door to attend to the distinguished lawmakers.

  ***

  MacLoon ate heartily and was almost finished when the desk called to announce his visitors.

  “Anything else you need before I leave?” his aide asked.

  “Nope, but check in with me in a couple of hours.”

  “Yes, sir.” The aide had been trying to think of something to do with his time during the meeting and couldn’t come up with anything especially exciting. He decided to simply go to the bar, nurse a 3.2 beer and hope that some appropriate action came along….

  The two men who arrived at MacLoon’s suite were a study in physical contrast. The first through the door, Jedediah Smith, was tall and handsome. In his early sixties, although he could easily have passed for fifty, he had steel gray hair close-cropped to a square head, face rugged, tanned and lined, like a veteran pilot who’s spent too many hours squinting into the sun. His shoulders were broad and thick, and only the slight swell of a middle-aged belly testified to his age. He was dressed in expensive western clothing, including a highly polished pair of alligator boots and the largest Stetson available from any shop. His belt buckle was massive and made of solid silver. An eagle dominated the buckle, and the initials J.S. flanked the metallic bird.

  Jedediah Smith was one of the richest industrialists in Utah. He was given his name because his mother claimed to be a direct descendant of the legendary mountain man, Jedediah Smith, who in 1826 explored what would become the state of Utah from north to south. No one had ever proved the genealogical link between the industrialist and the mountain man, but no one had ever disputed it either.

  Smith warmly shook MacLoon’s hand, then went immediately to a bar that had been set up by the senator’s aide and poured himself a stacked tumbler of bourbon. The other man, Ted Proust, was considerably shorter and thinner than Smith. He wore an expensive gray three-piece suit that seemed to have been made for someone with a larger frame. Although not yet forty, he’d lost much of his black hair and what was left was pasted along his temples and over a bald spot. He had a pinched face, a large aquiline nose and dark eyes that were in constant motion, like ball bearings.

  “Hello, Ted,” MacLoon said to Proust. “Put your bag down and have a drink.”

  The three men sat in a tight circle and exchanged pleasantries until Smith shifted in his chair, which allowed his jacket to fall open and reveal a .45 caliber semiautomatic revolver on his hip. “How did the speech go?” he asked MacLoon.

  “You’re not interested in that, Jed. You told me on the phone when you encouraged me to come out here that you were getting nervous about where the missile system debate was going. I told you not to worry, but you never did listen to me.”

  Smith laughed, exposing a remarkably even and white set of teeth. “Whoever said anybody should listen to a politician, Will?”

  All laughed.

  “The point is, Will, myself and some of the other people have been reading troublesome reports about the missile system. I’m not talking about where in hell it’s put, I’m talking about whether the damn thing will ever get built in the first place.”

  “It will if I have something to say about it,” MacLoon said. He wished he hadn’t. It was a weak comment, which he chalked up to having had too much to drink. He told himself to forgo what was in his glass, which he placed on the carpeted floor.

  Smith’s face reflected his displeasure at what MacLoon had said. He looked at Ted Proust, then back at the senator. “It’s our feeling that we’ve got too much investe
d in this thing now to sit back and let it take its own sweet way. The way we figure it, Will, is that it needs a final push to get it over the hump and make sure it ends up right smack in the middle of Utah. What the hell… its biggest opposition died when the late, beloved Senator Caldwell checked out.”

  MacLoon was growing increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation. He wished he’d stayed in Washington to work on the missile project without interference by Smith.

  But he also knew that it was an unreasonable wish. Smith had spearheaded an anonymous, private committee of leading citizens to insure that the missile system would be placed in Utah. The group had attacked the problem on many levels and from many directions. A sophisticated propaganda campaign had been launched directed at lawmakers who held the decision in their hands. Committees were formed in Utah to sell its citizens on the virtues of having the system located there. There were a significant number of Utah residents who were firmly opposed to it on many grounds, including ecological, but their efforts had paled in the face of the massive amount of money pumped into the other side’s campaign.

  “What’s the problem, Jed?” MacLoon asked. He’d begun to perspire.

  “The problem, Will, is that things don’t seem to be working as they should. To repeat myself, we all assumed, as you’ll recall, that once Caldwell was out of the way the opposition to the system itself, and to having it put in Utah, would fade away. In fact, you told us that right after Caldwell was… well, anyway, it doesn’t look as though it’s really moving in that direction. At least not quickly enough.”

  MacLoon ignored his previous private pledge, picked up his glass and took a hefty swig of the whiskey. “Well,” he said, “the opposition did seem to splinter once Caldwell was dead. That was a reasonable assumption, and it happened like we expected. The problem is that out of the woodwork have come a couple of others who’ve picked up where Caldwell left off. I’m not particularly worried about them. I think when the chips are down they’ll come around. There’s other legislation that means a lot to them and to their home states, and I pull strings where those bills are concerned.” He drank again, shook his head. “No, Jed, I still say that things are going pretty much the way we wanted them to.”

  Smith took a long, thin black cigar from his pocket and lit it with deliberate flourish, then asked MacLoon, “Want one, Will?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Your problem,” Smith said, tilting back his head and enjoying the feel of smoke slowly being exhaled through his nostrils. “Cuban.” He took another satisfying drag on the cigar, flicked an ash into an ashtray, leaned forward and said to MacLoon, “I think you said before, Will, that things were going pretty much the way we want them. That’s not good enough. There’s no sense in building seven-eighths of a house and then not moving in because you don’t want to pay to put doors on it. Get what I mean, Will? We’ve invested more than seven million dollars to make sure the system comes home to roost, and I’m not about to lose it for the sake of another million or so.”

  MacLoon looked at Proust and extended his hands in a helpless gesture. “What good would a couple of million more do?” he asked. Proust looked away from him, forcing MacLoon to return his attention to Smith. “We’ve distributed the money to those people who count, at least those we knew would take it and be appreciative. Giving them more won’t help. They’re already in line.”

  Smith fiddled with the turquoise clasp on his string tie, pursed his lips. “What about these newcomers you mentioned?”

  MacLoon shook his head. “It would be a mistake to even approach them.”

  “Why?”

  “I just don’t think they’d be receptive. After all, I’ve been in the Senate for a long time, Jed. I can size up a man pretty good in that situation.”

  “Who are they?” Smith asked.

  “Markowski, for one. Jennings is another, so is Hannigan.”

  “What about other considerations?” Smith asked. “Who’s got what on them?”

  MacLoon laughed nervously. “I don’t really know.”

  “They’re not virgins, are they?” Smith said.

  Ted Proust laughed appreciatively.

  MacLoon hesitated. “I can do some checking with the MPD, but I wouldn’t count on it turning up very much. This new breed we’ve been getting in Congress is pretty straight-arrow. They’ll trade for things they believe in, but—”

  “Bull,” Smith said. “Like they say, every man has his price. Even a distinguished senior senator from the great state of Utah.”

  MacLoon stiffened against the back of his chair. He tried to ignore the comment and assured Smith that he would do whatever he could to push things along.

  Smith said to MacLoon, “Ted brought some candy.” Which all knew meant money. “I want you to go back to Washington and come up with some more people who like candy, Will. Look outside Congress, as we’ve done before. This decision involves every agency in government, and most people have a sweet tooth. I do. So do you.”

  MacLoon wanted them to leave, wanted the evening to be over. “Don’t worry, Jed, I’ll go back and make a final push that will make sure this thing is wrapped up. You can count on me, and you can tell the others that.”

  Smith stubbed out the cigar, stood and placed a hand on each of MacLoon’s arms. “Will, it’s a pleasure and a privilege having you represent the state of Utah in the United States Senate. Believe me, when this matter is satisfactorily resolved, the people of Utah will be behind you as they never have been before.”

  “I appreciate that, Jed. Shall I call you tomorrow?”

  “No, call Ted in a few days. He’ll fly to Washington and distribute the candy to the kids you think deserve it. By the way, Will, we arranged for an old friend of yours to be here tonight.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Come see,” Smith said.

  The three men left the suite and went down the hall to a room two doors away. Smith knocked. The door was opened by a tall, statuesque girl in a transparent negligee. “Hello, Senator.”

  “I’ll be damned,” MacLoon said, stepping through the door. “Kitty…”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised, Senator,” Smith said as he and Proust walked up the hall.

  23

  Lydia had wanted to contact Senator Caldwell’s physician ever since Horace Jenkins told her that Caldwell had cancer at the time of his murder. Obviously the doctor, whose name was George Clemow, would be bound by the restrictions of the doctor-patient relationship. Still, the notion stuck in Lydia’s mind and, after arriving early at her Senate office, she placed the call.

  Clemow’s receptionist told Lydia that the doctor was with a patient but would get back to her. Thirty minutes later he did.

  Lydia had met George Clemow some years before. He’d been Cale Caldwell’s personal physician for years and had been present at social gatherings in the Caldwell home. Clemow was a New Zealander who despite many years in the United States had not lost his native accent.

  “I’m hoping you remember me, Dr. Clemow,” she said.

  “Oh, yes, I certainly do. And if I didn’t, Miss James, I certainly know you now. You’ve gotten quite a bit of attention from the media… How are you?”

  “Just fine… I appreciate your returning my call, doctor. Naturally, I’m calling about Senator Caldwell.”

  A moment of silence. Then: “A terrible thing. Bad enough that the man was murdered, but to have his own son guilty… well, it’s mind-boggling—”

  “Yes… Dr. Clemow, I realize you can’t talk in detail about Senator Caldwell’s health, that certain matters are confidential, like they are between a lawyer and client, but I was told by what I consider a very reliable source that Senator Caldwell’s autopsy revealed cancer—”

  “Miss James, as you said, I’m still not able to discuss that—”

  “Yes, I understand, doctor, but perhaps you could tell me something that wouldn’t compromise your situation. Anything…” She realized she sounded almost d
esperate, but what was there to lose? She was fishing, of course, but in the face of the situation, with Mark Adam now indicted and facing trial and the committee preparing a report… well, anything went. Besides, how do you catch a fish if you never go fishing?…

  “It sounds as though you’re not particularly pleased with matters—”

  “Doctor, I’ll be indiscreet and tell you. I’m having trouble accepting Mark Adam’s confession. You said it was mind-boggling yourself. So if there’s anything at all that might help to—”

  “Well… there is one thing that I might mention, and I don’t think it violates the confidentiality of my relationship with the senator—”

  “What’s that, doctor?”

  “Senator Caldwell was… distraught over the results of some tests. He told me he thought he should tie up some loose ends in his life. He didn’t tell me what they were… and I’m not telling you what the tests showed…”

  Lydia allowed herself to feel a tingle of excitement… were the fish finally biting?… “Of course not, doctor. Anything else?”

  “Well, the senator told me that he was writing a letter in which he would set some things straight, and that the letter was to be opened on his death.”

  Lydia, holding her breath, said, “I’ve heard of no such letter—”

  “Well, he told me that he intended to give the letter to me to hold until he died. He never did.”

  “Maybe he never finished it, doctor? He died sooner than he’d anticipated—”

  “No, Miss James, he did finish the letter. At least he told me he had… he was angry at himself for forgetting to bring it to me and said he would on the next visit. I’m afraid there never was a next visit.”

  “Who has the letter, do you suppose?”

  “I don’t know… his family, I think… In any case, it distresses me that his wishes weren’t carried out. I’d suggested that he leave the letter with his attorney or with Veronica, but he said neither was possible. Strange…”