Senate Cloakroom Cabal (15 page)

I was puzzled at his diatribe. “What senator crossed you?”

“None. I hear them and read about them. My point is they are a different species in a made-up world. They walk around and look normal, smile for the cameras, crack jokes with their constituents, but up there, in their castle . . . well, they're just different.”

“So, I have to get inside and find out why their water flows upstream?”

“Yup. They don't like change or inquisitive reporters. It's why new senators are rarely heard from. Senator Dalton has some celebrity, but that's only good for them if they can use her to their advantage. She was forced to compromise her principles and didn't like having to do it. She called you. She smells rotten meat and knows she can't do anything alone.

“Computer chips may not be put into a new senator's brain, but I wouldn't put it past the leadership to try if they thought they could get away with it. Away from the Hill, these mafioso of legislation become bearable. Most have a good sense of humor that ingratiates them to their adoring public. Your Senator Dalton is struggling against the current. I wish her well.”

I felt like I had just been given a sociology lesson.

“This is not like last year when my beat included the White House.”

“I suggest you look at this the same way,” he replied tightly, “even with no corpse. Although knowing you, I am sure you are intuitively.”

Ingrained in my soul,
I thought. Spout Run loomed up ahead. We began the run up the hill to Lee Highway into my neighborhood. Max turned onto my street and a couple of blocks later into our driveway, parking right behind my little red convertible.

We found my two boys in the kitchen. I kissed and hugged Jerry and rushed to Tyler, who was clearly letting me know it was his turn. Jerry and Max greeted as good buddies do. After a few minutes of bonding, I turned my seven-month-old over to Max with a squeal of protest by Tyler.

“He'll stop as soon as I'm gone.” I headed for the stairs. Before I reached the top, Tyler's squeals had turned to happy gurgling.

My shower did wonders for me. When I got back downstairs, I found the three on the back deck. I fished a cold bottle of water from the fridge and joined them. Tyler was still in Max's arms, and Jerry was setting the table. The containers of food occupied the center of our round picnic table. Tyler's high chair was already in place.

“Looks cozy,” I said, pushing the screen door open.

My voice alerted Tyler to my presence, and he began to gyrate and struggle in Max's arms. “I think I'm history,” he said, handing up my son. “Jer was explaining your plans for the backyard. I like your hot tub.”

I received the blond-haired bundle of energy and got a squeal of delight and a playful slap on my face with a pudgy little hand.

“Come on, let's get at this stuff while it's still hot,” Jerry urged.

I put Tyler in his high chair. He fussed, but I directed his attention to the food on his tray, which he happily began to bat at. After some urgings, he picked some up and aimed for his mouth, missing more often than not. Fortunately, Jerry had remembered to put a plastic mat under Tyler's chair. We attacked our mixture of sweet-and-sour pork, moo-shu chicken, and Mongolian beef mixed in with more rice than an army could eat.

After dinner, I took Tyler up to clean and dress him, and then brought him back down for a round of goodnights.

“Is this the same kid who was here earlier?” Max said, taking Tyler and giving him a smooch. Tyler was relaxed with Max and gurgled his delight. Jerry and Tyler played noses. Max promised to stay as I relieved Jerry of our son and hustled him up to bed.

Max and Jerry were lounging on the deck with fresh drinks when I joined them. Once settled, I filled them in on my visit to New Jersey. Some of it Max had already heard, but I knew from past experience he never minded hearing stuff a second time. There might be some subtle difference that could give more texture to the story. Even in the telling, I thought of things I hadn't covered earlier.

Jerry asked, “Why would Rogers put on a face for you? For what purpose?”

“I don't know enough to know. Max, you remember our lunch when we saw Senator Kelly and the young woman with long, light-brown hair?”

“Yes.”

“Well, she comes under Senator Pembroke, who chairs the Health, Education, Labor, and Pension Committee. She works for the Health Policy Committee, its investigative arm. Pembroke was Kelly's point man in rallying party members to support the FDA's rejection of Tutoxtamen. Pembroke and Senator Crawford are friends. They live in McLean, and their wives socialize.”

I explained Michael's covert actions using Nancy Morris to cozy up to Crawford's AA. “It's so convoluted. I get weary just thinking about it.”

“I told you, it's a different world up there,” Max chortled.

I nodded. “Michael and the Hill staff are a conspiratorial bunch. They've formed a sort of underground, totally beneath the radar.”

Jerry chimed in. “Ralph Morgan may know Pembroke.”

“Isn't that the lawyer who worked for the vice president?”

“He joined us last fall, finally fed up with government lawyering and being lied to.”

“You knew him from college?”

“Law school. We were roommates.”

“You see, Miss Laura? You do have contacts.”

“Before you go taking up any of Ralph's time,” Jerry jumped in, “remember he works on billable hours. He's no longer salaried like he was at the White House.”

Our evening ended with promises all around that we would get together in a week or two. I missed seeing Max. He and Jerry had already talked about a weekend down on the Potomac. They said they'd even include Tyler and me. Life was good.

35

I
awoke feeling refreshed. Last night had been like old times. It became even more perfect when Jerry and I had made love. I had so much passion, maybe my desire to belong. He must have sensed that because we'd played for a long time. The nice thing was that my lover didn't have to be at work early, which prolonged our lounging after being awakened by our little tyke.

Jerry had cleaned Tyler up and brought him in with us, much like on weekends, and we almost overdid the playing. We had to hustle to be dressed when Anna arrived.

Jerry drove me to work.

“I like that we're getting back with Max,” I commented.

“Yeah, with you not on the crime beat, he hasn't been on
Scalawag
since last summer. In September, we were busy with house-hunting and then getting ready for the baby.” He gave me his special, loving look. “You want to go on
Scalawag
this weekend?”

“That would be nice,” I replied in a sultry voice.

“Oh? That nice, huh? Well then . . .”

“Yes. That nice. Maybe Max could come by on Sunday, get him back in the habit.”

“Right. And we have to be there for that to happen.”

I smiled my sweetest at his flirtation as our drive swung us down onto E Street going east, away from the Kennedy Center and into the downtown business district.

“What journalistic caper will you be involved with today?”

“Organizing. Will you ask Ralph about Pembroke? If he's amenable, maybe . . .”

“Not a problem.”

“Thanks.” I patted his leg for extra emphasis. It was nice to ride in with him. We arrived at my building much too soon.

I got off the elevator and went directly to Mary's desk.

“Nothing came in for you yesterday. I can't get used to you not flying in and out of here with three or four things in the air at once.”

“I can't either. I'll be in the library researching Rogers Pharmaceuticals and the old man. Who's our Health editor?”

“I'll find out,” she said perfunctorily.

I went to my desk and cogitated about what Max had told me: I had to treat this the same as I would a beat assignment. My intercom buzzing interrupted my thoughts.

It was Mary. “Sarah, spelled with an
h
, Metzger is the Health section editor,” Mary reported, and then gave me Metzger's telephone extension and email.

I called Metzger immediately.

“This is Sarah,” a deep, mature voice answered.

“Hi. I'm Laura Wolfe.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Our Laura Wolfe?” Metzger asked surprised.

“Over in Metro, yeah,” I said nonchalantly.

She didn't reply. I jumped in.

“I'm interested in pharmaceutical companies and wondered if you did anything on the recent FDA turndown of the cancer drug Tutoxtamen?”

“That's not our bag. We do health issues,” she said, with an accent on
issues
. “Soft stuff. An occasional surgeon general piece, but no breaking news.”

“Right. I'm looking into Rogers Pharmaceuticals and its founder Harley Rogers.”

Another pause. “Seems . . . yes . . . we did a story on the old man and his vision for a miracle drug. We had much more than we could ever use with the limited space we have once a week.”

“Would you still have the raw stuff?”

“Yeah, but it was by phone and only a few quotes. We drew mostly from watchdog writers, like a former editor with the
New England Journal of
Medicine
, a university professor or two . . . we could have done a series with all that.”

“Watchdog writers. Reporters?” I asked, feeling like that was an explorable area.

“Authors. The ones with the books raking the drug companies over the coals, mostly on retail costs. They complain about import laws, the seniors rip-off, that sort of thing,” Metzger said disinterestedly.

“Any good ones . . . writers, I mean?”

“Oh sure. I can give you some names if that would help.”

She had no idea of the gold mine on which she sat. “It would,” I said, curbing my excitement.

“I'll put something together and email it to you.”

Watchdog writers. I bet one of them would have an opinion on Tutox. I wrote “Watchdogs” on a five-by-seven card and pinned it to my board. As usual, when I go looking for one thing, a bevy of new things pops up.

Mary buzzed again. “Ms. Lassiter would like to see you.”

“Thanks. Metzger has some good stuff for me.” I picked up my pad and headed for Lassiter's office. I did the ritual knock and walk in. “You wanted to see me?”

“Have a seat. Barton called yesterday while you were in Jersey, asking me how things were developing.”

I felt a sudden spike of anxiety. Here I was finally getting somewhere, and Barton probably wants to ditch it.

“I told him you were pursuing leads, the usual stuff.”

I waited. Upset at my paranoia.

“Barton talked with the Style editor. He would like you to do a profile on Senator Dalton, from childhood to the Senate. You'll work with Style's editor, Lori Chow. She's written pieces on celebrities and can help with the format. They'll work with you.”

“Is there a deadline?”

“This summer. You'll have to make a trip to her hometown, meet with her folks, and get background, that sort of thing. This will add to your cover, explain your presence on the Hill.”

I was amazed, ready to burst. “It's perfect.”

“I figured you'd like it. You won't have to sit and watch the grass grow. There will be two photo sessions. One in her Senate office, the other back home. Chow will set it up.”

I tingled inside. “This is great, boss. Thanks.”

“It was Barton's idea, and a good one. This'll get you on the inside, instead of having to skulk around. How's it going?”

“The trip was okay. A little weird. Neither of the Rogers men acted like they'd just been given a death penalty by the FDA. We were mostly with Harley. Sherman joined us for lunch.”

Lassiter leaned back in her chair. “They feed you well?”

“A little rich for my diet, but I didn't go hungry. My impressions didn't jibe with what I expected. But maybe I'm digging too hard to find anything.”

“That's possible, but keep at it and get on the Style piece.”

I wanted to keep on talking. I couldn't help myself. “Michael Horne has a friend who works at Rogers. He's asked this person to keep his eyes open and to call him with anything unusual, out of place. We don't—”

“You put him up to it?”

“I did. Well, I mean, we don't have anything. You never know. We'll see. I talked with Sarah Metzger, the editor—”

“I know her.” Lassiter's tone was saying
wrap it up.

“I'm getting names of pharmaceutical watchdog writers that they have used.”

“Sounds good.”

This was over.

“Let's hope,” I said, standing.

“The Style story will get your juices going.”

Lassiter reached for some papers, and I returned to my desk and called Michael.

“This is Michael.”

“Laura. Guess what I've been asked to do by the paper?”

“Accuse Kelly of corruption?” he said, playing the game.

“Good try. No. I've been asked to do a profile piece for the Style section on Senator Dalton.”

“For real?”

“Style's editor wants me to go to Dalton's hometown, interview her parents and friends. Plus this means I'll be able to come and go from your office openly; it's a perfect cover.”

“It couldn't come at a better time for her.”

“The Style editor, or someone she assigns, will call you to set up a photo session in the senator's office and will follow her around for a day. They'll hire a local news photographer to do the shoot at her parents'. Is she around?”

“Actually, she's at her parents' now . . . flew out yesterday. She'll be back late Sunday or Monday morning.”

“Could you schedule in some time on Monday afternoon? We'd like to set up my visit for Wednesday to meet her parents and siblings, get the lay of the land, and do the location photo shoot on Thursday.”