Murder in the House Page 7

“Proceeding at its predictable, plodding pace.”

  She glanced up at the clock on Latham’s wall. “Oops,” she said, “got to get out of here. I’m meeting Molly for lunch.”

  “Molly Latham?”

  “Yup. I promised Paul I’d keep an eye on her now that she’s a page. You know, be sort of a big sister.”

  “Sounds like pleasant duty.”

  “Always happy to help Paul. He gave me some things to give her at lunch. Books about Congress, some of his speeches.” She laughed. “I think he’s grooming her to become the first female president.”

  “The time has come.”

  “Want to join us for lunch?”

  “Can’t, but thanks. I’m meeting my wife.”

  “Well, another time. Great seeing you. I’m sure you’ll be a familiar face around here.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  Her spirited laughter trailed behind as she bounced from the outer office, almost bumping into Latham returning from the vote. He came directly into his office, closed the door, and turned up the volume on both TV sets. A veteran Democratic representative from New York was delivering an impassioned speech from the well on wasteful defense spending. In the Senate, a controversial Republican senator from Georgia, twice divorced, spoke about the need to restore family values.

  Latham pointed to C-SPAN 1’s screen. “He’s right, Mac. Instead of fixing what we have, the Pentagon just wants to keep developing exotic new weapons.”

  “That’s good for you and your Silicon Valley voters, isn’t it?” Smith said.

  “Only if those exotic new weapons get built in my district. They left, I see.”

  “Yes.”

  “Waste of time, wasn’t it? A student from twenty years ago says I was controversial. Think that’ll derail my nomination?”

  “I hope not. The White House lawyer, Gibbs, asked about you and Warren Brazier.”

  “Did he? What did he ask?”

  “About campaign contributions, and legislation you’ve sponsored that was beneficial to Brazier.”

  Latham sat heavily behind his desk, slapped it, and said, “Warren Brazier is one of the greatest men this country has ever produced, Mac. He opened up the Soviet Union years before anyone else. He’s a great American, and I’ll be damned if I’ll see his name dragged through the mud. I’d rather tell the president to find another nominee.”

  Smith went to a photograph on the wall of Latham and President Joe Scott together. He smiled, turned, and said, “Mind if I use this moment to offer my first piece of advice as your counsel?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Warren Brazier is bound to come up during the hearings. You’ll be pounded about him, questioned from every angle, most of it with political overtones. I suggest you tone down your defense of him. Keep your answers about your relationship with him short and factual. I know he’s your friend, and has been your leading supporter for years, Paul. He’s also controversial. And you can’t know everything about him. Or me. Nothing to be gained by singing his praises. Keep it factual.”

  “Good advice, Mac. I’ll heed it. I’m meeting with Warren this afternoon. He flew in from New York last night.”

  “Have to run, Paul. Lunch with Annabel. Talk later today?”

  “What?”

  “Talk later today?”

  “Oh. Sure. Call me. Thanks for being here.”

  Mac and Annabel joined up at their favorite hangout, the Foggy Bottom Cafe in the River Inn. Over mushroom soup and Caesar salad with grilled chicken, they compared mornings.

  “I really think he might buy the feather ornaments,” she said, excited. “All three pieces. He didn’t blink when I told him the price.”

  “I blink every time you mention the price,” Mac said. “In fact, I flutter my eyes. How did you leave it with him?”

  “He said he’d get back to me in a few days.” She frowned. “I almost hate to sell those ornaments,” she said. “They’re among my favorites.”

  “Everything in your gallery is ‘among your favorites,’ ” Smith said as a young waitress removed their soup plates. “If he meets your price, sell the feathers. Flutter your eyes. You are, after all, in business, Mrs. Smith.”

  “Feather ornaments. And I know, I know, it’s good you’re around to remind me I’m in business. I’d never sell anything otherwise. How did it go with Paul?”

  “All right. The FBI questioned him. A White House lawyer named Gibbs sat in. Paul’s friendship with Warren Brazier looms.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  Over the next ten minutes, Mac filled her in.

  “What does Paul say?” she asked.

  “Gave me a speech. It was a little off-putting. Sort of a God-and-country speech, touting Brazier as being worthy of another D.C. monument. I suggested he tone it down at the hearings.”

  The waitress brought coffee and the dessert menu.

  “Share a sour cream chocolate cake?” Mac asked.

  “God, no. You go ahead. I’ll have a bite.”

  Which, Mac knew, would result in losing more than half.

  They stood in the sunshine outside the restaurant on Twenty-fifth Street, two blocks from their home. “Walk me back to the gallery?” Annabel asked.

  “Sure. I’m free this afternoon. I told Paul I’d call him later.”

  Mac lingered at Annabel’s gallery in Georgetown to examine two new pieces she’d recently purchased from a New York dealer. As he was leaving, she asked, “Sorry you got involved with Paul’s confirmation?”

  “No. It’s a fascinating process, blatantly political but useful. At least that’s the way the Founding Fathers saw it.”

  “I’m glad you’re not sorry. I think it’s great you’re in the middle of something this important.” She kissed his cheek, then laid another on his mouth. “See you at dinner.”

  “I’ll be there. Sorry you weren’t in the mood for sour cream chocolate cake.”

  “It was so good.”

  Mac smiled. “When will I learn to not buy that ‘I’ll just have a bite’ routine? Enjoy the afternoon, Annie. Love you.”

  8

  Marge Edwards and Molly Latham lingered over large glasses of lemonade in the Rayburn Building’s spacious, bustling cafeteria. Molly, whose voluble personality held her in good stead on her high school debating team, was on a roll.

  “… and I can’t believe I’ll be a page in the House of Representatives. I love my roommate—she’s from Mississippi and has this amazing accent—my mom wanted me to live at home, but living in the dorm is part of the experience, don’t you think, Marge?”

  “I know how proud your dad is of you,” Marge said.

  “More luck than anything,” Molly said. “The Democrats are in the majority—there are only sixty-six pages—the Democrats get to appoint fifty-four of them—I’d never have made it if the Republicans were the majority. It’s awesome, Marge—I’m getting paid more than a thousand dollars a month. Do you know what they used to pay pages? I mean, ages ago—three hundred dollars a month. They take three hundred from me for the room and meals—five dinners and five breakfasts—but that’s not much. I’ll be working in the cloakroom—the Democratic cloakroom, of course. Know what I heard? Years ago only the majority could appoint pages, and some reporters—I think it was Drew Pearson or somebody like that—maybe not—these reporters paid some pages to tell them what was going on in the majority cloakroom—wow—I mean, that’s awesome—and when somebody found out about it, they changed all the rules so both parties could assign pages.…”

  Marge listened patiently, a bemused smile on her face. Now, she laughed. Molly’s enthusiasm was contagious. But there was a parallel sadness in sitting across the table from Molly Latham, whose life was all in front of her. She was sixteen years old, a junior in high school, born to a privileged family with the inherent advantages that situation creates. She was bright and pretty—golden, silky hair pulled back into an old-fashioned ponytail, face unblemished and glowing, a fit and tri
m figure, solid and firm.

  Marge Edwards’s self-image was not nearly as generous. At thirty-five, she often wondered during those dark moments alone, which seemed to have been occurring with increasing frequency, where the first thirty-five years had gone—and what was left. She hadn’t married, although she’d come close a few times. At least she preferred to think marriage had been on the horizon, but had fallen through for reasons beyond her control. Men were so immature these days, she told friends, so afraid to commit and to assume responsibility.

  “I can’t wait to bring a message from the cloakroom to Dad on the floor. What a hoot.”

  “Your father is a wonderful man,” Marge said.

  “Hmmmm,” said Molly.

  “I mean, really a special man. We’re very close, you know.”

  Molly took a long swig of her lemonade.

  “It’s like—well, it’s almost like being man and wife, you know, working so closely together. That’s what they call it”—a chuckle—“office wife.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’re very fortunate to have him as a father.”

  “I wish I saw him more. He’s so busy.”

  “What he’s doing is so important to the country.”

  Suddenly, Molly seemed more drawn into the conversation. “He’ll be the secretary of state. In the president’s cabinet.”

  “Yes. Unless—”

  “He will be, won’t he?”

  “I’m sure he will. Unless something crazy happens. You never know in politics, Molly. That’s one thing you learn working on the Hill.”

  “I guess I’d better go,” Molly said, draining her cup.

  “Me, too,” Marge said. “Oh, here are some things from your dad. And from me.” She handed Molly two packages. One was wrapped in yellow and green floral paper, and sported a large green bow. The other, which she’d hurriedly wrapped in the office before coming to lunch, was secured with brown paper and string.

  Molly weighed the brown package in her hands. “It’s heavy. What’s in it?”

  “Books, papers. Things your dad wants you to read. The other is a little present from me.”

  Molly unwrapped the smaller package to reveal a pretty red, white, and blue silk scarf. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “What’s it for? It’s not my birthday or anything.”

  Marge smiled. “Just congratulations to Congress’s newest and best page.”

  Molly put the scarf about her neck and checked her image in the reflection from a nearby stainless-steel surface. “It’s beautiful, Marge. I can wear it with my uniform—we can only wear navy blue jackets, white blouses—they let us wear slacks—or skirts—but no slits, they told us—I guess a scarf is okay.”

  “I’m sure it is,” said Marge.

  They parted in sunshine in front of the building.

  “Keep a secret, Molly?”

  The teen’s giggle was nervous. “Sure.”

  “I may not be around much longer.”

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  “I may, ah—I may take another job.”

  “Really?” Her eyes opened wide. “What other job?”

  “It’s not definite yet. P-l-e-a-s-e, not a word to anyone, especially your father. It would be wrong if he found out from anyone but me.”

  “Sure. Okay. I wish you wouldn’t … take another job.”

  “Maybe I won’t. But we’ll stay friends, won’t we?”

  “Sure. Thanks for the present.”

  “My pleasure.”

  They shook hands and went their separate ways, Marge back into the building, Molly down the street in the direction of the Page Residence Hall, on the third and fourth floors of the O’Neill House Office Building, an annex to the three main House buildings. Originally the Congressional Hotel, it was purchased in 1957 and converted to office use, as well as a residence hall for pages. Girls occupied the fourth floor, boys the third.

  She skirted the Cannon House Office Building, gave a Capitol policeman on patrol a big wave, entered the O’Neill Building, named for former Speaker of the House “Tip” O’Neill, gave an equally expansive greeting to the officer manning the lobby desk, and went upstairs to her room, where her roommate, Melissa, had just come from the shower and was brushing long, brunette hair in front of a mirror. Molly put the package she’d been given by Marge on her dresser and plopped on the bed.

  The room was surprisingly large for a dorm. Each girl had covered her twin bed with a pretty floral spread, and had hung pictures on the wall over them, mostly of family, some of rock and movie stars.

  “Hi, y’all,” Melissa said, not missing a stroke with the brush.

  “Hi,” Molly said. “I had lunch in the Rayburn Building. Cool cafeteria. My dad always says it’s a lot better than the one in Longworth. He calls that a hellhole. We’ll have lunch. Not this weekend. The cafeterias are closed on weekends.”

  The brush kept moving. “Your daddy arrange that?” Melissa asked.

  “No. Anybody can go there. But it’s, like, interesting. A lot of the congressmen go there ’cause it’s quick and cheap.”

  “You don’t care about cheap, do you?”

  “Sure I do.”

  Melissa’s laugh was sardonic. “You don’t have to worry about money. Your daddy’s going to be secretary of state.” Melissa’s father owned a clothing store in Biloxi, and was active in local politics.

  “Maybe he won’t be,” Molly said, brow furrowed.

  The brush stopped and Melissa turned. “What do you mean? The president wants him.”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes crazy things happen in politics.”

  The brush in motion again. “Did you see that neat guy from New York at the briefing?”

  “John? He’s cute.”

  But Molly’s mind was not on the cute male page from upstate New York. Marge Edwards’s words kept coming back to her—that her father might not be confirmed as secretary of state, and that Marge might be leaving for another job. What was that all about? Molly wondered. Her father wouldn’t be happy losing his scheduler; he always spoke highly of Marge, sometimes too highly and too often.

  The Lathams seldom argued, for which Molly was grateful. So many of her friends’ parents seemed always to be bickering, and ended up divorced. Her brother, Martin, once said to her when she’d commented how well their parents got along, “It’s because he’s never home.” Molly was overtly angry at Martin for being so flippant and disrespectful about their mother and father, and told him so. Down deep she wondered whether he might be right.

  She had overheard occasional sharp words between her parents where Marge Edwards was concerned. Although Ruth Latham had never said it directly—at least not within Molly’s earshot—Molly sensed that her mother suspected her husband of having an affair with Marge, a notion Molly refused even to consider. As far as she was concerned, her father, the congressman from California and soon to be the nation’s secretary of state, was the most moral man in the world. The idea of him in the arms of a woman other than her mother—any woman—was anathema. Not that she was naive. She’d heard all the gossip about unfaithfulness among her friends’ mothers and fathers, the occasional scandal when an elected official was caught in a compromising position, men in Washington who made their adulterous goals known, and married women at parties hosted by the Lathams who openly flirted with other women’s husbands.

  But not Paul Latham. Not Molly Latham’s father.

  “What are you doing tonight?” Melissa asked, dropping her robe and walking naked to her dresser, where she pulled out fresh underwear. Her casual nudity made Molly uncomfortable.

  “I don’t know. I thought I might read after dinner. My father gave me—”

  “Y’all read too much,” said Melissa. “We’ve got till ten. A few days now we’ll be so tired goin’ to school and runnin’ all over the House floor, we’ll be lucky if we can stay awake to study. What’s that?” She pointed to the package wrapped in brown paper and string.

  �
��From my father. Books and speeches. He’s always after me to read more.”

  “Not now,” Melissa said. “Come on, girl.” She laughed wickedly. “Maybe we can coax John to come with us for a burger, a little dancing.”

  “All right,” Molly said. “You really like him, huh?”

  “Who?”

  “John, silly. From New York.”

  “Oh, him. I like him well enough. I like ’em all well enough, Molly Latham. I think bein’ a page in the United States Congress is goin’ to be a ton a fun.”

  9

  Senate minority whip Frank Connors was generally described as resembling an Irish pit bull with a boil, although those close to him were quick to say that his scowl and gravelly bark were considerably more menacing than his bite. Still, he was quick to snap. Once in his jaws, it was tough to shake loose unless he decided you’d finally seen things his way.

  He’d just come from a Republican fund-raiser for two freshman representatives from Southern California. “Arrogant young bastards,” he said to an aide as they left the Capitol Hill Club. His sentiments weren’t reserved for only young House Republicans. Senator Connors found first-term representatives from both sides of the aisle to be arrogant, at best, and dumb at worst.

  The aide pulled into the underground parking garage of the Russell Senate Office Building, on the north side of the Capitol, and came to a stop in Connors’s reserved space. The senator set a fast pace to his office, where members of his staff awaited his arrival.

  In a corner of the reception area, a bulky man with a nose of the formerly broken variety and a shadowy beard line browsed that day’s copy of the Congressional Monitor. He glanced up as Connors burst through the door and went directly to his office, followed by his chief of staff, Dennis Mackral. Once inside, Connors asked, “Who’s that out there?”

  “The private investigator.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Perrone. James Perrone.”

  “Is he legit?”

  “According to Morris and Kellerman.” Kyle Morris and Mitch Kellerman were full-time investigators on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, the body that would hold hearings into Paul Latham’s nomination as secretary of state. Connors was the ranking minority member. If the committee approved Latham’s nomination, it would recommend to the Senate at large that he be confirmed.