Murder on Capitol Hill Read online

  “I’m not a thief—”

  “Ah, shades of Richard Nixon… well, I wasn’t suggesting that you were. But if this all bothers you, you might view it the same way you did the investigation into religious cults, as having constitutional ramifications or, if you prefer, as a threat to national security… come on, Senator MacLoon, your fine rationalizations are not the point. The tape must be found. That is the point. If you find it you’ll be rewarded. Need I say more?”

  The senator stood, pulled the waist of his trousers over his belly and pushed the chair against the wall with his foot.

  “Mr. Jewel would appreciate having your end of things accomplished by five o’clock tomorrow,” Jason said evenly.

  “Tell Mr. Jewel to go to hell.”

  “As you wish, Senator. It was good of you to come.”

  As Jason started to walk away, MacLoon suddenly grabbed him by the front of his cashmere sweater, wheeled him around and pushed him against the wall. “Tell Jewel that if the tape is in Lydia James’s office he’ll have it tomorrow. Then, don’t ever come within fifty feet of me if you know what’s good for you.”

  Jason, slumped against the wall, watched MacLoon cross the stage, lumber down the stairs and leave the auditorium. He turned and again ran his hand up and down the ropes. He’d been expressionless during MacLoon’s assault on him. Now, a sly smile crossed his boyishly handsome face.

  He left the auditorium and went to the box office, where he phoned the Caldwell house in Virginia.

  “Jason?”

  “Yes. I just met with Senator MacLoon.”

  “And?”

  “He’ll cooperate in trying to find the tape. But something that he said concerned me. I’d like to speak with you about it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Is Cale there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to drive down to see you.”

  “Right now? I’d rather not—”

  “Yes. Right now.”

  ***

  MacLoon drove back to the Senate Building, went to his office and called Rick Petrone’s home number.

  “Yes, Senator, what can I do for you?”

  “You can get your tail over here right now.”

  “I’m with my mother. I told you that she was in town for a few days and—”

  “Then tell her, damn it, that being an aide to a United States senator is no bed of roses. Tell her what you want, but get over here.”

  27

  “Hello Jason, come in,” Veronica Caldwell said coolly as she greeted him at the door.

  “I’m sorry, but it couldn’t wait, Veronica.”

  She briskly led him to the study, where Cale Caldwell, Jr., was waiting.

  “Coffee?”

  “I’d love some.” He was both annoyed and disappointed by her curt manner. It wasn’t the first time she’d treated him this way. He didn’t make an issue of it. He never did. Whatever his pretensions, he was a sort of Caldwell family retainer. Nobody said so, and he never admitted it to himself. But it lay there, unspoken and real.

  Veronica poured the coffee, and Jason asked Cale, “How is Mark Adam’s defense coming?”

  Cale nodded solemnly. “Good. The attorneys I’ve brought in are cooperative and are in tune with my views on the best way to present Mark’s case. Unless something dramatically unexpected occurs, it should be an insanity plea, simple to present and to win.”

  “How’s Mark Adam holding up?”

  “Quite well… I visit him every day. There’s been a deterioration in his mental processes, which on the one hand, of course, is unfortunate, sad, but on the other hand is advantageous to his defense.”

  “Now, Jason,” Veronica said impatiently, “just what was so important?”

  Jason, who’d driven to the house with considerable confidence, had by now lost much of it. The demand he’d intended to make was now reduced to a request, made almost apologetically… “Veronica, I’d like more assurance that Senator Caldwell’s letter will never be revealed…”

  Veronica looked at her son.

  “Mother has assured you, Jason, that the letter has been destroyed,” Cale said.

  “I know,” Jason said, “but after talking to MacLoon I realized that each one of us would be… in jeopardy if that letter ever saw the light of day.”

  Cale went to the fireplace, opened the screen and poked at what was left of three logs. The embers came to life again and tongues of yellow light flickered over the room. “There’s nothing more we can do, Jason, and you’ll have to understand that. My father, sad to say, had lost his grip on reality. He knew he was very ill, and that acute knowledge of mortality did strange things to his mind. He had this need to set the record straight, as he put it, to make amends for what he considered the sins of his family, his friends, of his own life. Very sad, actually, but not unusual. Think of all the celebrities who write their autobiographies once they pass the wrong side of fifty. That was all my father was doing, actually, writing his life story.”

  Jason slid forward in his chair and his hand tipped over his coffee cup. “Sorry,” he said to Veronica, who seemed not to have noticed. He looked at Cale. “I know all this. You explained it to me when the letter was first discovered. But you do realize, Cale, that many people’s lives would be, to say the least, adversely changed by what your father claimed about them. Think of it. Because of a series of circumstances, your father could have destroyed his own son, your brother, as well as the memory of the girl he’d raised as a daughter. He held a sword over the heads of some of his colleagues, too, especially that animal, Will MacLoon. And what about people outside his professional and personal life, people like Quentin Hughes, who got pulled into things because of his relationship with Jimmye, and of the Center for Inner Faith because of Mark Adam’s involvement with it?”

  “And you, of course, Jason, by having become involved with our family…”

  “Yes, including me, Cale. Very true…” As he sat there, a familiar anger surfaced. As hard as he’d tried, as loyal as he’d been, he was still the outsider, second-class, a friend of the family rather than a member of it…

  “You look upset, Jason,” Cale said. “All the things my father revealed in his letter, about you, others, they’re safely destroyed. We alone know them… and surely you can trust us. As you’ve said, you’ve been very loyal to us, and we appreciate it. As for what you chose to do for Francis Jewel… that’s your business—”

  Jason started to say something but Cale cut him off. “And, Jason, I must remind you that you also decided to play your own little game just as Jimmye did—”

  “What little game?”

  “Intimating to us that unless we took better care of you financially you just might be tempted to let out a few of what some might term embarrassing family secrets. Aside from the salary paid you for your work at the center, there was considerably more money given you, if you’ll recall.”

  “I deserved that money for what I’d gone through. I had to deal with Jimmye, represent the family. Nobody in this family wanted to deal with that end of it. Surely that deserved something in return?”

  Veronica was visibly annoyed. “Enough, Jason. Nobody is demeaning your contribution. The very structure of this family was threatened by the indiscreet, to put it mildly, actions of some of its members. Mark Adam’s decision to join that absurd group of fanatics set off a whole chain of events that threatened at any minute to destroy everything the Caldwell name stood for.” Her voice softened. “You’ve been a very dear friend, Jason. I consider you a son, in a sense, and have tried to treat you that way. But please don’t turn our generosity back on us in this manner. Everything is going to work out if we all exercise patience… More coffee, Jason?”

  “No, thank you. I’m sorry. It was a very upsetting meeting with Senator MacLoon. He pushed me so…”

  Cale stretched, yawned. “I’m beat. I really have to go home, I have a very busy day tomorrow. Jason, thank you for coming, I trust
you feel better now. Mother is right, all the problems we’ve had to face… Jimmye, Hughes, Mark Adam and the cult, father’s death… soon they’ll fall into perspective.” He came over to Jason, patted his arm. “Go home, have a good sleep and forget about the letter. The minute Mother discovered it she destroyed it. You can count on that. Remember, the Caldwell word has always been solid gold. That’s part of the reputation we’re trying to protect.”

  “We all must remain strong through these final days,” Veronica put in. “I know you will and that I can count on you as though you were one of my own….”

  Jason and Cale stood together outside the house as they prepared to get into their cars. “By the way,” Cale asked, “have you heard anything new about the tape?”

  “No, I haven’t, but Jewel is putting on the pressure. That’s why I met with MacLoon tonight, to get him to find what he could through Lydia James.”

  “He agreed?”

  “Yes. If Mark hadn’t been so stupid, none of this would ever have happened—”

  “I know,” Cale said. “But then again, no one ever dreamed that Jimmye would end up doing to us what she did. I suppose there’s no sense crying over what people have done in the past. The important thing is to resolve it, and that means finding the tape and destroying it.”

  28

  “Hello, Rick…” Lydia said as she was about to snap off the overhead light in her Senate office and leave for the night. “What are you doing around here so late? Bucking for a raise?”

  The young Senate aide grinned and shoved his hands in his pockets. “The old man had me working on a project, Lydia. I just wrapped it up and thought I’d come down here and take a look at the notes on the committee report.”

  Lydia nodded, slipped into her coat, picked her briefcase up from a chair. “How’s your mother?”

  “Fine… well, good night, Lydia, have a pleasant evening….”

  She went directly to Clarence’s apartment. He suggested they go out to dinner but she said she was too tired. “I just wanted to come by and give you this.” She reached into her briefcase and handed him the letter and videotape she’d removed from her office safe moments before Rick Petrone had arrived. “Sure you want them?” she asked.

  He weighed the tape in his hands. “Absolutely. No one would ever think an aging piano teacher was in possession of such important documents. You know, Christa’s three-day grace period will be up tomorrow night. You plan to look at the tape before the concert or after?” He was referring to a concert at the Caldwell Center that they’d made plans to attend.

  “After. Actually I’m not sure how to arrange to screen it. I guess I could ask one of the TV stations to use their equipment, but then I’d be in an awkward position… I don’t want anyone else to see it… Anyway, please put these away in a safe place and bring them with you tomorrow night.”

  She kissed him, lightly at first, then paid attention and put her heart in it. He more than cooperated, then abruptly held her at arm’s length. “Enough of this lovemaking, let’s make love. Either stay the night, or leave in a hurry. You know how I vote.”

  “Me, too, but I’ve really got to go… got to think, sleep… you’re not the best atmosphere for either.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “And I’ll take a rain check.”

  29

  Christa Jones sat on the floor of an apartment on East Sixteenth Street in New York City. It belonged to a friend, Amy Upshur, who’d known Christa from Des Moines. In fact, Amy had been the only friend Christa had in Des Moines, the only one she could turn to when things had become particularly unpleasant with Quentin Hughes.

  Amy had moved to New York to chase a retailing career and had progressed through a succession of jobs with department stores and boutiques, then managed a few small shops until finally opening her own children’s boutique on the Upper East Side. Not having heard from Christa in a long time, she was surprised to receive her call, then quickly sensed that her old friend was in some kind of trouble. She readily agreed to her coming to stay with her for a few days.

  It was late afternoon of the third day of Christa’s visit. She’d told Amy that morning that she planned to leave New York after dinner, and so Amy insisted on leaving the shop early so that they could have a leisurely dinner together.

  “What’s your pleasure, Christa?” Amy asked.

  “Oh, I really don’t care. I like most things, except Indian and Mexican.”

  Amy shook her head. “My two favorites. Tell you what. There’s a great place up on East Forty-Ninth, Antolotti’s, northern Italian. A guy I’ve been seeing takes me there. It’ll be my treat, no arguments.”

  Christa checked the time. It was five. “Amy, could we go now? I’m hungry and I do want to get to the airport in time for an early flight back.” She’d already packed her suitcase, which sat on the floor next to the front door.

  “I really can’t, honey… I’m expecting a couple of phone calls, one of them from a man who’s very important in my life and who’s in California on a business trip. Let’s do this. I’ll make a reservation and tell them you’re on your way now. You go in, ask for Joe, give him a big kiss on the cheek for me and gorge yourself on antipasto and have a drink. I’ll catch up with you soon as I can. How’s that sound?”

  “Fine, except I really don’t mind waiting for you—”

  “No, nothing worse than sitting around listening to lovebirds on the phone, especially when it gets a little gushy. Go ahead, grab a cab and settle in. I’ll be there before you know it.”

  Actually Christa was relieved to be able to be on her own for a while. The day had started okay but as the afternoon wore on she felt increasingly anxious. A walk would do her good, and maybe get her to the restaurant about the same time as Amy. She double-checked Antolotti’s address, picked up her suitcase and left the apartment.

  Darkness had fallen on the city, and a cold wave that had moved in during the afternoon had dropped the temperature considerably. Christa set down her suitcase and buttoned her coat. She hadn’t brought many clothes with her, in fact owned very few. She allowed a twinge of optimism and decided she’d buy a new wardrobe soon, one that was in style, for a change. She picked up the suitcase and walked briskly along the street toward a main avenue. As she approached it, she decided to take a bus. She liked buses, and trains, enjoyed watching the people.

  She crossed the avenue, went to where a large group of people waited at a bus shelter, asked someone whether a bus that stopped there would go up as far as Forty-Ninth Street and was told it would. She settled into line and waited until a blue-and-silver bus fought its way through the intersection and stopped six feet from the curb. Christa noticed on the side of the bus that exact change was necessary. She fumbled through her purse in search of the right combination of coins, and luckily came up with them just as it was her turn to deposit her fare in the meter. For a moment she had an image of herself being lined up in front of a bare wall and shot for the high crime of insufficient coins…

  She navigated the crush of passengers and moved toward the rear of the bus, spurred on by the driver’s command, “Move to the rear.” Or be shot down… The last passenger boarded, and the driver pulled away from the curb, which jolted Christa into another passenger. “I’m sorry,” she said. The man didn’t even seem aware of her, kept his nose buried in his newspaper.

  As the bus slowly proceeded north, Christa crouched down in an attempt to read the street signs. No one else on the bus seemed to be doing that, which made her feel very much the tourist.

  After what seemed forever, the bus arrived at the corner of Forty-Ninth. Christa went through the rear exit door behind three other passengers, not noticing that other passengers had left through the front door, including a man who’d been the last to board at the corner where Christa had caught the bus.

  She waited for a large group of people to pass, then crossed the sidewalk and stopped to look in a store window. The man stood just out
of her sight, behind a bus shelter.

  She looked up at the street sign to make sure she was in the right place, then turned the corner and began walking east on Forty-Ninth. The man quickly left the shelter, peered around the corner and followed her. If he had turned to look behind him, he might have noticed another man who’d ridden the same bus, and who’d waited until Christa had turned the corner before falling in step with her.

  East Forty-Ninth Street was relatively free of people. A few office workers who’d returned home were walking their dogs. One of them carried an elaborate device for scooping up the dog’s droppings. Unbelievable. An old woman with two dachshunds carried a piece of newspaper and a small plastic bag to accomplish the same thing.

  Christa came up now to a fenced parking lot that served a small commercial building. She looked through the fence and admired a silver Rolls-Royce. She put her suitcase down to give her hand a rest, then looked up the street and saw a sign on a canopy: ANTOLOTTI’S. It looked mighty inviting an oasis. She picked up her suitcase and was about to move toward the restaurant when a man came up behind her.

  The suitcase dropped out of her hand. She turned and looked into his face. God… Quentin Hughes… She wanted to scream but nothing came out of her throat. He grabbed her arm and put her up against the fence. “Where is it, Christa?”

  She felt frozen to her spot.

  “What are you doing here?” was all she managed to get out.

  “The tape, Christa, give me that tape.” He looked down at the suitcase. “Is it in there?” He decided not to wait for an answer, took the purse from her shoulder, picked up the bag and started to leave… when the man who’d been following him suddenly came up.

  “What do you think you’re doing, friend?”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m saying leave the lady alone.”

  Hughes tried to push by him, which was a poor idea. The man leaned his bulk into Hughes, then slammed him against the fence. Hughes lost his grip on the suitcase. The man yanked away Christa’s purse from Hughes’s other hand and dropped it to the sidewalk, then rammed his hand up against Hughes’s throat and held a cocked fist inches from his face. Hughes tried to bring his right knee up into the man’s groin. Another bad move. “You do that again, mister, and you’re dead.”