Murder on Capitol Hill Read online

  She sat back and rubbed her eyes. Her secretary took the file from her. “Everybody seems to be buying radio and TV stations.”

  Lydia smiled. “Maybe it’s because having a broadcasting license is, some say, a license to steal.”

  Lydia went to a window that overlooked F Street. She’d been practicing communications and copyright law for six years, but had only moved into these new offices six months before. Her practice had grown, and with it her reputation. She’d gotten into her specialized field after working in a firm that practiced general law, and her background as a public defender had helped her to become one of the firm’s most able and desired trial attorneys.

  She’d then begun dating a recently divorced man who owned a string of suburban newspapers and two television stations. He asked her to handle some matters before the FCC. She ended up diving into the intricacies of the FCC and broadcast licensing and found herself fascinated with them. Result—she took a job with one of Washington’s most prestigious communications firms, then branched out on her own…

  She answered her intercom, was told someone who’d broken an appointment had arrived and wanted to speak to her.

  “Tell him I’m sorry but I’m on my way out.” She slung a leather purse over her shoulder, pushed some papers into a pile on her desk and left the office.

  She got into a new metallic blue Buick Skylark she’d taken delivery on only a month before and headed for Mount Vernon, Virginia, former home of George Washington and of the late Cale Caldwell. The day had dawned gray; a weatherman announced over the radio that the likelihood of showers was sixty percent during the day and forty percent at night.

  She crossed the Rochambeau Memorial Bridge and continued south, past National Airport, the Potomac on her left. Rock music came from speakers mounted in the rear deck of the car, and she twisted the dial until she found WCAP’s assigned frequency. After two commercials, a newscaster said, “Good morning, this is Harold South with the news. I’ll have the latest development in the bizarre murder of Senate Majority Leader Cale Caldwell right after this…”

  Sixty seconds later he was back. “All Washington was shocked last night when the body of Senate Majority Leader Cale Caldwell was discovered stabbed to death at a party given in his honor by his wife. Our own Quentin Hughes was a guest at that party and filed this report by phone immediately after the murder.”

  Hughes’s voice then came on. Usually he spoke slowly and deliberately. This time the urgency was unmistakable.

  “…An incredible thing has happened right before my eyes, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Quentin Hughes, and I’m standing directly outside a large party room in the Senate Building where I’ve been attending a party in honor of Senate Majority Leader Cale Caldwell. The party was given by his wife in appreciation of his undying efforts on behalf of the arts in America…” Pause for effect. Then, “Undying? Unfortunately, that’s not the case tonight, ladies and gentlemen. Just moments ago a waitress discovered the senator’s body behind a screen. He’s apparently been murdered with an ice pick that, we believe, was used to carve a large ice sculpture of his home state of Virginia.”

  A pause in the background. Hughes again. “I don’t know how many people are here, probably two hundred. Which means every one of them, including, I suppose, this reporter, must be considered a suspect…”

  Hughes’s tape ended and the local newscaster led into an interview with Horace Jenkins, deputy chief of police of Washington’s Metropolitan Police Department.

  “Any leads?” the interviewer asked.

  “No, none yet,” Jenkins told him. “It’s a complicated case, so many people had access to the victim just prior to his death. We established the identities of all of them last night and are in the process of interviewing them on a systematic basis. I’ve assigned every available officer to this case—”

  “What about motive?”

  “If we had a motive, sir, it wouldn’t be so complicated,” Jenkins said. Lydia couldn’t help but smile. Jenkins had undoubtedly been up all night and was under intense pressure. She’d known him ever since she’d been a public defender. Personally, she liked him, found his direct, cantankerous personality refreshing in a city noted for its lack of candor and guts. She’d also learned the hard way that beneath his lone-hand approach beat the heart of a survivor who knew when to play the game, and when to disdain it. It was, went the rumor, Jenkins who provided a pipeline between the MPD and the FBI for reports of indiscretions on the part of official Washington—especially its more pretentious members. It had gone back to Hoover’s days as FBI director, and it was these MPD reports that had provided much of Hoover’s incredible files that were often used to keep certain enemies at bay. Jenkins denied that he or his department was involved. Lydia—and others—knew better. So while Jenkins was several cuts above the ordinary in his field, he was, she reminded herself, no Little Boy Blue.

  The final segment of the report about the murder involved two of Caldwell’s Senate colleagues. One said the expected about the nation having lost a valued, beloved public servant and so forth.

  The second said, “Although a murder is a matter for the police, I intend to call upon the Senate to launch its own investigation through a special committee formed for that purpose. It’s our house that has been the scene of this unconscionable act of violence, and the American public deserves and expects that same house to do its own cleaning.”

  A commercial for floor wax followed.

  Lydia reacted, at the moment, more to the first comment than the second. She would soon learn how wrong she was… She passed the Appomattox Memorial and turned off onto the Richmond Highway… Cale Caldwell was dead—that was the hard reality. All right, face it… and the new reality of needing to find out who’d rammed the ice pick into his chest, and why. Or vice versa. Why would find who.

  An announcer broke into her thoughts to say that Quentin Hughes had just completed a phone interview with Veronica Caldwell. Lydia was astonished. So soon…?

  “This is Quentin Hughes, who was at the scene of Senator Cale Caldwell’s murder. I have on the line the widow of the late senator, Veronica Caldwell, who is almost as well-known as her husband for her work in fostering the arts, here in Washington and across the nation. Mrs. Caldwell, allow me to express my own personal sympathy to you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hughes.” Veronica’s voice seemed to possess remarkable control. Well, Veronica Caldwell was a very strong woman, blessed with hearty pioneer stock going back generations. Still…

  “I know this is difficult for you, Mrs. Caldwell, but as a reporter I must ask you whether you have any idea who might have killed your husband—”

  “No, I’m afraid not. He had so few enemies… for a man in his position. I will say this. I will not rest until his killer has been identified and punished. It was the act, surely, of a twisted person. An evil person. I refuse to use the term sick because that would be unfair to those who truly are emotionally ill.”

  “The nation mourns with you, Mrs. Caldwell,” Hughes said, “just as it did when tragedy struck at your family two years ago when Jimmye McNab was murdered. I hesitate to bring it up at a time like this but she was, after all, not only, in effect, your daughter, but a valued colleague of mine in broadcasting. That crime has never been solved, as we all know. Do you think the same thing might possibly occur in your husband’s case?”

  Lydia winced as she waited for Veronica’s response. “No,” she said, still apparently composed, “that will not be the case, I assure you. Jimmye’s file is still open, but my husband’s will be closed when his murderer is brought to justice… Excuse me, I really would prefer not to talk anymore about this. I’m sure you understand what a shock this has been—”

  “Of course, Mrs. Caldwell. How are your sons taking it?”

  “As might be expected. They loved their father very much.” She hung up.

  Astonishing, Lydia thought. Both Hughes’s irrepressible rushing in where good taste would restra
in anyone else, and Veronica’s willingness to be interviewed so soon after…

  The Caldwell estate was located four miles from the historic Mount Vernon home of George and Martha Washington. Although not nearly as old as Washington’s home, which went back to 1743, the architect for the Caldwell house had undoubtedly been influenced by it. The Caldwell residence was a wide, handsome, stately two-story residence set on thirty acres of meadowland and wooded tracts, and was reached from the highway by a long, winding macadam road.

  As Lydia approached the entrance to the estate, she saw a dozen cars and vans parked on the shoulder, including two highway patrol vehicles, their lights flashing from their roofs. Two vans bore the call letters of area television stations. Lydia recognized a reporter from the Post, another from an all-news radio station.

  She joined the line of parked cars, got out and walked to where a beefy state patrolman stood in the middle of the road leading to the house.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I’m Lydia James. Mrs. Caldwell is expecting me.”

  A patrolman checked with his walkie-talkie, then told her she was cleared to go in. She went to her car, carefully steered it between the other vehicles and turned onto the access road. As she looked in the rearview mirror and saw the disappointed faces of the reporters clustered about who’d been denied entry, she understood their frustration. They had a job to do, too. Judging from the patrolman’s call, the exquisite Jason DeFlaunce was very much involved in shielding the family from the press; Lydia decided she’d suggest that some sort of public statement might be in order to satisfy the media. Otherwise they’d go off half-cocked and create their own stories based mostly on rumor and half-truth.

  Another state patrol car sat in front of the two-story white house, a patrolman behind the wheel, his long legs sticking out through the open door. Leaning against the fender was Jason DeFlaunce, turned out in a wheat-colored crew-neck sweater, gray slacks and loafers. Lydia parked behind the patrol car and rolled down the window as Jason came up to her.

  “Hello, Jason. Veronica asked for me. How’s everyone holding up?”

  “Very well, although there are those moments when the Caldwell steel turns to jelly. Are those media people still out there?”

  “Of course. I think they’d be satisfied with a statement from a member of the family. In fact, I’d recommend it. No sense having them make up their own stories.”

  “The hell with them…”

  Lydia got out of the car and started toward the house.

  “Lydia, before you go in there’s something you should know.”

  “What?”

  A gust of cool wind whipped her hair across her face.

  “Veronica wants the family kept out of this as much as possible… and bear in mind”—he took a few steps toward her—“this is not just any family, Lydia. This is the Caldwell family.”

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  A housekeeper opened the door and Lydia stepped into a large anteroom. A well-worn red-and-gold area rug partially covered wide floor boards that glistened with fresh wax. A long, cherry table along the wall to her left held a large silver bowl, nothing else. Above it hung an oil portrait of Veronica’s father. A scarred, sturdy church pew was against the wall to her right. Next to it stood an elaborately carved clothes tree on which a woman’s pale pink cardigan hung from a peg.

  “One moment, ma’am,” the housekeeper said.

  Lydia watched her go through a wide archway and disappear to her right, which Lydia knew led to the living and dining rooms. A few moments later Cale Caldwell came through the arch, extended his hand. “Thanks for coming, Lydia. Mother is very pleased you’re here.”

  “Cale, I’m—”

  “Yes, I understand, it’s an awful shock to all of us. Come on, Mother is in the den.”

  The den was a large room just off the living room. A stone fireplace took up one entire wall, and a fire that had been recently stoked and replenished cast a flickering orange glow over the room.

  “Lydia,” Veronica said as she got up from a cushioned club chair in front of the fireplace. They embraced, Veronica clearly on the edge of tears.

  They sat together on a couch from which Lydia could see into the living room, where Cale, Jr., and a young woman stood next to a table. The woman was talking into a telephone, and although Lydia could not hear from that distance it was obvious that Cale was coaching her on what to say. The resemblance to his father struck her as remarkably strong at that moment.

  “Who’s that?” Lydia asked, indicating the woman on the phone.

  “Joanne Marshall. She works for Cale in his office and offered to help out here. God, Lydia, will the phones ever stop ringing?”

  “Probably not for a long time.”

  “Cale sometimes used to be critical of the press and I never really understood. Now…”

  “I heard the interview you gave this morning to Quentin Hughes—”

  “You did?” She seemed genuinely surprised.

  “Yes. Frankly I was surprised you’d done it. And why him?”

  “Well, he has always been a good friend of the center, promoting it, helping raise funds through his show… Did you know that Cale taped Hughes’s TV show only last week?”

  “No, I didn’t… I thought Cale disliked Hughes.”

  “I suppose he did, but he agreed to do it because it was a chance for him to explain some new legislation he was involved with. I remember he said it went very well.”

  “When was it supposed to air?”

  “This Sunday, I think. The program is on every Sunday morning, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  A year before, Hughes had begun a weekly “public service” program on WCAP-TV. It ran for half an hour each Sunday morning and featured interviews with newsmakers in the Washington area. Ordinarily such shows were scheduled only to satisfy an FCC requirement that a station devote a certain percentage of its weekly programming to noncommercial, informational subjects in the “public interest.” But because Hughes had a wide following, and because his abrasive, probing interview style often made sparks fly, the show had quickly gained a wide audience.

  “I’ve agreed to be a guest,” Veronica said, looking away from Lydia.

  “About Cale’s death…?”

  “Yes… and other things.”

  Lydia tried to hide her dismay. “When are you doing it, Veronica?”

  “Tomorrow. He’s going to bring a mobile crew here. I think it’s the best way, don’t you, to put an end to all this media probing? Cale used to say that the best way to handle the press was to come out quickly, candidly and with strength before they had a chance to go off on the deep end by themselves. I’ll do Quentin’s program, answer all his questions truthfully and that will, I hope, be that.”

  Veronica’s thinking made a certain sense to Lydia, even mirrored her own. What bothered her was choosing Quentin Hughes as her forum, giving him what amounted to an exclusive. Such a move would only anger the rest of the press and move them on to extremes to compete with Hughes. She tried to tell Veronica this.

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Lydia. Please. Jason is experienced in these matters and is handling everything where the press is concerned.”

  Lydia subsided, changed the subject. “Cale told me when he called that you wanted to see me. I’m pleased you feel you can reach out to me. I want you to know that I’ve admired, and liked, both you and Cale for a very long time. I’ll do anything I possibly can to help. Just name it.”

  Veronica took a deep breath. “Then be special counsel to a Senate committee being formed to investigate Cale’s murder.”

  Before Lydia had a chance to answer, Joanne Marshall from the next room came into the den and said, “Mrs. Caldwell, Senator MacLoon is on the phone—”

  Veronica waved her hand. “Not now, Joanne. Tell him I’m resting and will return his call this afternoon… By the way, Miss Marshall, this is Lydia James, a very dear and old friend.”


  “It’s good of you to be helping like this, Miss Marshall,” Lydia said.

  “I’m pleased to do anything I can. I didn’t know the senator, but I have great respect for his son.”

  Lydia watched her sashay into the living room, a tall, willowy girl with a splendid figure she was obviously well aware of.

  Lydia turned back to Veronica. “Before she came in you said something to me that I don’t understand—”

  “About the Senate committee? Yes, I’m pushing for it through some of Cale’s colleagues. I don’t think the American public will stand still for anything but an open examination of the facts. You know how the police are, Lydia, they’ll bungle about, get into all sorts of irrelevant things about family and never even get to the root of things. Lord knows, it happened with Jimmye, and I won’t stand for it again…”

  “Well, Veronica, I can understand your concern, but it really is a police matter. I’m not sure that Congress has any business investigating a murder—”

  “What about Jack Kennedy?”

  “I’d say that was sort of different, Veronica. The Warren Commission was appointed by Lyndon Johnson and staffed from every branch of government—executive, legislative and judicial.”

  “No matter. Congress can appoint a committee to investigate anything it wants. I’ve spoken with people who assure me that it can, and that it will be done. As you know, the special counsel to any committee holds the key to its success or failure, to the way, in particular, that it conducts its business. I want someone in that job who cares, not only about justice but about human decency, feelings… I can’t think of anyone I’d trust more with that responsibility than you, Lydia.”

  “I… I don’t know what to say—”

  “Just say that you’ll do it.”

  “I can’t say that right now. It’s something I’d need to think about…”

  Cale, Jr., entered the den and motioned for his mother to accompany him back into the living room. When she didn’t move, he said, “Mother, please, it’s important.”

  “Will you excuse me, Lydia?”