Murder on Capitol Hill Read online

  “I can think of a lot of things,” she said lightly, surprised and a little annoyed at her tone.

  He took a notepad and pen from his pocket. “Let’s make a list right now.”

  Twenty minutes later the list was completed. She thanked him for his courtesy and said she had to go back to her own offices for an appointment.

  “Just call on me anytime, Miss James,” he said. “I guess I’d be less than candid with you if I didn’t admit that I’m hoping to be able to hang around during the investigation. I graduated from law school last year and took this job with Senator MacLoon as a way to get a look at how government works. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve enjoyed it, and it’s been interesting. But I’d like to get back to something that’s a little closer to the law. I don’t want to be a pest but—”

  “Maybe I can have you assigned to me for the duration of the investigation. I’ll suggest it to the senator, if you’d like.”

  “I’d really appreciate that, Miss James. I really would.”

  “All right, then consider it done.”

  They walked down the hall together. Lydia’s gait was considerably faster than it had been earlier in the day, and Petrone had to move quickly to keep up with her. It had occurred to her as she stood in the small, temporary office that she deserved to be treated exactly as she had been since becoming involved with the Caldwell murder—like a small, helpless female child in awe of male authority. She’d been suffering from an unjustifiable fear of leaving the genteel comfort and security of her law practice to once again enter the more combative arena of Congress and criminal law, and was ashamed of how wishy-washy it had made her. Her dead father had had a favorite saying—“Drive it like you owned it,” and the warm memory of him and his insistence that she work for excellence in every phase of life filled her, at once, with guilt, and with determination to jump into this new and challenging role with all the vigor and dedication she could manage.

  “Remember what I said.” Petrone shook her hand. “You can call on me for anything. I just want to help in any way I can.”

  “Thank you, I appreciate it.” Very much, she added silently to herself.

  ***

  Petrone went back to MacLoon’s office, where he resumed reading his newspaper until the senator returned.

  “She squared away?” MacLoon asked.

  “I think so. We made a list of what she needs.”

  “What she really needs is a man,” MacLoon said. “You up to it?”

  Petrone smiled. “I’m always up for that. She intends to ask you to assign me to her for the duration of the investigation.”

  “I’ll put up a good argument against it but she can have you. Just make sure you stay close to her and keep me filled in on whatever the hell she’s up to.”

  “No problem there, Senator. I just want to help in any way I can.”

  10

  The next two weeks passed quickly for Lydia. Rick Petrone proved to be a most helpful and efficient young man, and Lydia’s office was transformed into a workable, comfortable one. Besides providing all the necessary furniture and supplies, Petrone ordered extra touches—fresh flowers, prints on the walls, a radio and a love seat on which Lydia spent more and more time as she pored through a steady buildup of paperwork.

  If she had had any illusions about being able to split her time between committee business and her own law practice, they were soon put down by the demands of her committee responsibilities. There was a daily meeting of the full committee—six senators, aides from their offices and the staff Lydia had brought together, five people in all including Rick Petrone, one of Lydia’s associates from her law office and three people assigned by MacLoon, two secretaries and a researcher named Ginger Johnson.

  Lydia’s first reaction to Ginger had been less than enthusiastic. She seemed too young and flighty to provide the research Lydia was counting on. Short, tending to chubbiness, with long red hair that seemed always to be in search of a comb, Ginger had been introduced to Lydia by MacLoon as a former Time researcher, a graduate of the University of Missouri Journalism School and more recently employed by HUD in research. She didn’t appear to be old enough to have gotten such experience and background, and Lydia took the time to question her during her first week. Ginger’s answers, plus an informal background check, verified everything MacLoon and Ginger had claimed. And as the second week wound down and Ginger’s efforts started to pile up, Lydia began to see her as a good tough questioner, at home with detail and not afraid to roll up her sleeves and make order out of the piles of material that soon took over nearly half the office.

  The Friday meeting at the end of the second week ran until six in the evening. It dealt mostly with routine matters until Lydia told of her decision to examine all the circumstances surrounding the unsolved murder of TV journalist Jimmye McNab.

  “Why?” she was asked.

  “I think it’s applicable,” she answered. “And even if it proves not to be, we’d be derelict not to at least look at it and evaluate its potential relevance to the Caldwell murder…”

  She didn’t mention that her renewed interest in the McNab murder had been aroused by a long article in a national scandal newspaper, the National Voyeur. Ginger Johnson had routinely included the article in her research files and had mentioned it to Lydia, more as a joke, a light moment, than as a matter seriously to be considered. Lydia had laughed along with her researcher, but late the previous night she’d settled down on the love seat in her office and read it, along with other materials Ginger had marked for her attention. The writer of the piece had, of course, sensationalized every aspect of both the McNab and Caldwell murders to suit the style of the publication, but as Lydia made her way through the florid prose and shaky cause-and-effect scenario concocted by the writer between the McNab and Caldwell murders, she realized, in spite of herself, that it was a reasonable proposition… Two people had been murdered. Jimmye McNab, a TV journalist, had been raised by the other, Senator Caldwell, since infancy.

  Lydia had honestly agonized over suggesting that the McNab murder be included in the scope of the committee’s investigation… she didn’t want to open old and very personal wounds in the Caldwell family. But after a sleepless night she’d come to the conclusion that at least a possible link between the deaths had to be acknowledged.

  Her suggestion caused some of the senators around the oval table to shift in their seats and look to Wilfred MacLoon. As chairman his chair had a higher back, and was at the table’s head. A cigar clenched between his teeth had gone out, and a heavy shadow of beard gave him a particularly dour look. He fixed Lydia in a hard stare. “I don’t see any need to extend the scope of this committee beyond Senator Caldwell’s death.”

  “I’m not suggesting that either,” Lydia said. “Our charter charges us with investigating the circumstances surrounding Senator Caldwell’s murder. If there’s even a remote possibility that Jimmye McNab’s murder might, in some way, put some light on that effort, I don’t see how we can ignore it.”

  MacLoon leaned back and chewed on the wet cigar stub. “No, the McNab murder has nothing to do with us.”

  Lydia glanced at the others. Had MacLoon at least opened the issue for discussion, she wouldn’t have been so upset. But his arbitrary dismissal of it… She pulled out of a file folder a copy of Public Law 66–107 under which the committee had been formed and funded. “I don’t want to belabor this, but our charter says that we are to…” She read directly from the charter. “…examine every detail and aspect of the death of Senator Cale G. Caldwell, using all available resources, agencies and individuals who might have bearing upon said death, and to prepare and deliver a full, impartial and accurate report to the Congress of the United States and to the American people.”

  MacLoon abruptly sat up and rolled his stubby fingers on the table. “We’re all aware of what the charter says, Miss James. The fact is, which is not included in the charter, and as I told you, solving the murder is not Senate business.
What you’re suggesting is to open up a whole can of worms that represents nothing but a waste of taxpayer money and, I might add, of our time. You do that, and when we start calling witnesses to testify, we’ll need the Kennedy Center to hold them. Forget about anything except what directly bears on the senator’s death. Is that clear enough?”

  Lydia looked at Senator Jack Markowski, the youngest on the committee and the one she felt the most rapport with. A trace of a grin appeared on his lips, and he narrowed his eyes as though to tell her that she should press ahead with her idea.

  She looked at MacLoon. “As special counsel to this committee, Senator MacLoon, I can’t in conscience ignore an area of investigation that might bear on the outcome of our work. Maybe I’ve prematurely introduced this line of inquiry. If so, I’ll develop more compelling reasons for it and present them at a future time. When I do, a vote whether to include it in the full investigation would, it seems to me, be appropriate.”

  MacLoon looked as though he might explode. His face turned red and his breathing deepened, his massive stomach rising and falling as though steam were churning beneath it. “All right,” he said, “come in next week with reasons for including McNab’s murder and I’ll listen to them. Anything else?” He surveyed those at the table. No one spoke, so he adjourned the meeting until three o’clock on Monday.

  ***

  Ginger Johnson and Rick Petrone were in Lydia’s office when she returned. Lydia sat on the love seat. “I’ll be damned if I’ll be railroaded into doing a half-baked job—”

  “Hey,” Petrone said, “what happened in there?”

  Lydia told them. When she finished, Ginger said, “I kind of figured this would happen. I’ll work on the McNab files over the weekend.”

  Lydia nodded. “Thanks, Ginger. Do you have much?”

  “Quite a bit. I’ve picked up a lot of it from newspaper morgues and have a list of magazine pieces. I’ll start Xeroxing tomorrow at the library.”

  “Is he giving you a hard time?” Petrone asked Lydia.

  “Senator MacLoon? Yes, although I suppose he’s only doing what he feels is right. I guess I should give him that. I realize this isn’t the only committee in Congress, and the Caldwell murder isn’t the only thing on his mind.”

  “What can I do?” Petrone asked.

  “Go home and have a good weekend,” Lydia said. “I think we all need a day or two to think about something else. Anything else.”

  “Thanks, troops,” Ginger said. “While you two play I’ll be grinding away.”

  “Let it go until Monday—”

  “No, I’m too interested, and besides my man and I are on the outs. The weekend was a washout anyway… oh, Lydia, a Mr. Foster-Sims… very fancy!… called while you were in the meeting,” Ginger said.

  “Did he leave a message?”

  “Yes. He said he’s tired of hearing that you’re busy and insists on taking you to dinner tonight.”

  Lydia laughed. “I’m so tired—”

  “Go ahead,” Ginger said. “It’ll do you good.”

  “Well, we’ll see. Why don’t you two take off? I’ll return his call and see you on Monday.”

  ***

  They left Lydia alone in the office. She made a mental note to ask someone on Monday to seal up the windows. A brisk, steady stream of cold air seemed to pass right through the glass and kept the office in a constant chill. She dialed out and reached Clarence.

  “I won’t take no for an answer,” he said the moment he recognized her voice. “Dinner, and a little night music.”

  “I’m not up to it—”

  “I’ll do all I can to prop you up. Emlyn Edwards is performing Rachmaninoff at the Caldwell Center, including, I understand, the C-sharp minor prelude and two of the four concertos. And after that… I’m leering, can’t you tell?”

  “Clarence, I—”

  “No arguments. At the rate you’re going you’ll be old and gray by the end of the year. I want you while there’s still something left… I’ll pick you up at seven. We’ll go to the concert, have dinner afterward and…”

  “All right,” she said. “Maybe Rachmaninoff is what I need.” Though she knew it was something considerably less lofty, and that he was offering that too.

  They drove directly to the Caldwell Center. The audience was sparse as Lydia looked around for familiar faces, saw a few. Jason DeFlaunce eleganted out from behind a screen near one of the stage entrances and had a heated dialogue with a stage manager, then disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared.

  “So how are things in the halls of Congress?” Clarence asked after he’d examined the program.

  “Hectic, also frustrating if interesting.”

  “You’ll tell me about it over dinner.”

  The concert was short. When it was over they went to the lobby, put on their coats and prepared to leave the theater.

  “Lydia!” She turned to see Jason crossing the lobby. “So glad you could come,” he said. “Hello, Clarence. Lydia, could you and I find a quiet moment to talk?”

  “I suppose so…”

  “I mean now. It will only take a moment.”

  Clarence shrugged, nodded to her to go ahead and get it over with.

  She followed Jason to a coatroom just off the lobby, and now empty. He looked back at the lobby.

  “Yes, Jason?”

  “I don’t believe what I’ve heard,” he said in a stage whisper, “and neither does Veronica.”

  “About what?” She, too, whispered, which struck her as silly.

  “About wanting to drag poor Jimmye’s death into the Senate investigation.”

  “Jason, I…” She paused as the realization of news having traveled so fast hit her. “Jason, how did you hear about it?”

  “That’s really not important,” he said. “What’s important is that you would even consider doing it.”

  Lydia looked through the wide opening of the coatroom. Clarence was leaning against the wall, his coat on his arm, his face showing impatience. “I don’t want to be rude, Jason, but the committee’s workings aren’t your business—”

  “What about Veronica? Are you going to tell me that she shouldn’t be concerned? God, Lydia, the poor woman’s gone through enough without having a trusted friend drag out old pain and suffering. Frankly I never would have thought you capable of that sort of—”

  “Jason, Veronica asked me to take this job. I thought a lot about it before I agreed. Now that I’ve taken it on I’ve got to try to do it to the best of my ability, no matter what—”

  “Even if it hurts Veronica?”

  “I’m sure that Veronica knows that the last thing I’d ever want to do is hurt her. But if Jimmye’s death has any bearing on Cale’s death, then it must be included. I’m sorry, Jason, but if Veronica wants to discuss it with me, I’ll certainly be available at any time. Well, good night.”

  As she started to leave the coatroom he said in a distinctly unpleasant voice, “Don’t disappoint us, Lydia.” It made her stop, turn and look hard at him. She started to say something, changed her mind and went on into the lobby, where she took Clarence’s arm.

  “What was that all about?” he asked once they were in his car.

  “Nothing, really. Or more accurately, I’m not sure. Well, I’ve never liked Jason and I guess that colors my reaction to what he says or does.”

  “What did he say to you? You’re obviously upset.”

  She shook her head and forced herself to brighten the mood. “Where are we eating?”

  “Well, I originally was going to make a reservation at Le Lion d’Or, but it’ll be too noisy. I want to hear all about your first two weeks with the committee, so I made a reservation at Aux Beaux Champs. I’m in a beef mood.”

  “That’ll be crowded, too.”

  “Nothing like the other,” he said as he turned down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the new Four Seasons Hotel in which the restaurant was located. “Besides, Doug McNeill will see to it that two fellow Scotsm
en are given a quiet table in a corner.”

  “Scotsmen?”

  “Scotspeople, if you insist.”

  “I do, at least for the record.”

  For most of the meal—a fillet for Clarence that had been dry-hung to age for four weeks, according to the restaurant owner Douglas McNeill, and a terrine of baby coho salmon with truffles and pistachios for her—they avoided discussing Lydia’s committee work. They talked about music, the season’s concert activity in Washington and considered going to New York later in the year, if Lydia could free up the time, to catch some Broadway theater and just be together.

  It was over dessert that Lydia finally brought up what had happened over the past two weeks. Clarence listened patiently, and noted that there was a firmness in her voice that had been conspicuously absent two weeks earlier. She’d been full of obvious doubt about her ability to handle the assignment. On the one hand Clarence had found her lack of confidence to be refreshing, this beautiful and bright forty-year-old woman demonstrating humility. It was a scarce commodity in the Washington thickets. But it had also worried him. Her performance on a special Senate committee called to investigate the murder of a powerful man would not be helped by taking a humble-pie, toe-in-the-sand position, any more than a concert performance would be. Two weeks into the job, the change in her was welcome. Fact was, he was damned proud of her.

  She told him about her confrontations with Wilfred MacLoon, of the prevailing atmosphere on the committee that seemed to make it nothing more than a cursory public relations charade, and about Jason’s comments to her in the coatroom and the implication that Veronica Caldwell was upset by her decision to go into the Jimmye McNab case.

  “What a strange way to put it,” Foster-Sims said after she’d repeated what Jason had said to her that evening. “‘Don’t disappoint us.’ That’s pretty damn presumptuous of him.”

  “I know this, Clarence, which may also be presumptuous, but if any real headway is going to be made by the committee it’ll have to be me and the people assigned to me who’ll bring it about. The senators see the committee as something to handle, not get too involved with. I suppose I can’t blame them, they’ve got other things to worry about, but damn it, I’ve been given the responsibility to see that a full, fair investigation happens. That’s what I understood Veronica to say she wanted when she pushed for a committee in the first place, and insisted that I be special counsel.”