Bloody Politics (8 page)

nine

Wednesday

“Here, help me eat
these fries, so I wo
n't feel so guilty.” I held out the paper cup to Loretta, who was seated beside me on a bench. We'd succeeded in finding a sha
dy spot in a park between Louisiana and Constitution avenues near the Capitol.

“Oh, no. I'm not going there with you, Molly.” Loretta waved her hand at me as she shrank away from the crispy temptations. “They are SO not on my doctor's list. His good list, that is.” She forked through the last of her salad and stuffed the plastic container in her bag.

Now I wished I'd chosen yogurt instead of the greasy New York–style hot dog from the vendor cart on the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue. Too late now. “I shudder to think what's on your doctor's bad list. All my favorites, I'm sure.” I tossed down the last bite. Fattening but delicious.

“And all of mine,” Loretta said with a smile.

I drained half my water bottle, then withdrew an old hardcover notebook from my oversized purse. “I'm glad you texted me the other day, Loretta. Natasha Jorgensen's murder completely wiped away my promise to check this out.”

“I'm so sorry to hear about your friend.” She looked at me with concern. “It's always terrible to see younger people die way earlier than they should.”

“We've had a lot of that these last few months, haven't we?” I caught her sympathetic gaze and watched it turn wary.

“Indeed, we have. Too many. Now, show me what you found. I need another distraction.”

I opened the notebook and began to page through it. My brother-in-law's neat handwriting showed on every page. “It looks like he was taking notes on his research. A lot on European Union financial policy and regulations. I skimmed through, and most of it is pretty dry stuff. But he does have notes toward the end where he mentions some European banks. Also, Eric wrote down Montclair and Kasikov.” I turned toward the back pages and pointed to the words. “I don't know if those are names of places or people. There's no clue.”

Loretta leaned closer, focusing on the notebook in my lap. “What's that in red ink? I can't tell.”

“That's Karen's writing. Her notations are mostly question marks throughout the notebook, so clearly she was puzzled too. But Eric didn't indicate what he was looking for. I was really hoping I'd find out something more. But most of his notes concern early EU financial policy, so that's old news today.”

Loretta peered at the notebook. “Well, let me go over it and see if any of his entries jog my memory. I remember talking with him, but Congressman Grayson wasn't particularly chatty.”

I grinned. “You're right about that. Kind-hearted but a bit taciturn, especially when he was working on something.”

“Wait a minute,” Loretta said, pointing at a page. “He's circled that word. Right there. What is it?”

“I saw that on several pages. It looks like
geo
, but there's no indication of what he's talking about.” I paged back and spotted another place where the word
geo
was circled. “See, there it is again. And here too. Does he mean ‘geography'?” I paged backwards over several pages, pointing out several instances.

“Hmmmmm. Now I'm intrigued. You know how I love puzzles. Let's see what I can find out. I promise I'll get this back to you in a few days. I'll expressmail it to you to be safe.”

“Thanks, Loretta. I appreciate it.” I handed her the notebook, then reached inside my bag and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. “And here's something else I think you'll find interesting. But you need to keep this information strictly to yourself. I obtained it confidentially, and it concerns Quentin Wilson's research this past summer.” I unfolded the paper and handed it to Loretta. “He also mentions a European bank and a possible connection between some rather prominent politicians. And he clearly indicates that money is involved because he drew several dollar signs beneath their names in his notes.”

Loretta looked at me, her dark gaze intense. “Those are pretty prominent names. Does anyone else know about Wilson's research?”

“Only a few people. One of them was Natasha.” I watched Loretta's gaze widen, then turn wary.

“Good Lord. Did Congressman Wilson suggest to anyone that he found evidence of wrongdoing?”

“It looks like he was getting close, but he died before he could put all the pieces together. At least, that's my guess. I could be dead wrong too. Maybe Wilson was on a wild goose chase, but I figured you'd be able to find out if he was. I made this copy for you.”

Loretta scanned the page, then gave me a small smile. “Now I see why you want me to keep this private. I promise, I will. The notebook and these notes will be delivered back to you by special delivery, I promise.”

“Well, no need to go to that expense. Expressmail will do.”

Loretta glanced toward the others relaxing and enjoying lunch in the park this late October afternoon. “I think it's time we both returned to our offices, Molly. We must look like we're plotting world domination or something. This is the second time I've caught that dark-haired guy with the mustache looking at us. He's on the opposite bench with a newspaper.”

I glanced over and spotted a dark-haired guy reading a newspaper, remnants of lunch spread on the bench beside him. Cola can in hand. “Yeah, if we're attracting the attention of worker bees, it's best to head back to our own hives.”

“Amen to that. I'll be in touch, Molly,” Loretta said as we both rose from the bench.

“Thanks so much, Loretta. And next time, let's meet at that new Irish pub in your neighborhood. We'll attract less attention there.”

“I'll drink to that,” Loretta said with a smile as she turned and walked down the concrete path toward Capitol Hill and the Library of Congress.

I tossed my lunch trash into a trash can as I headed toward Pennsylvania Avenue and what I hoped would be a quick cab ride back to Georgetown.

Late Wednesday afternoon

“Where are you now?” Raymond asked as he leaned back into the chaise lounge, phone to his ear.

“I'm sitting in a café on New York Avenue. I finally threw in the towel after she changed trains in the Metro station. She got on the orange line and the doors closed before I could get inside. The middle of rush hour, and every car was packed. People were getting caught in the door. You know how it is.”

“Not really. I avoid the Metro like the plague. Too many people to suit me. Give me rush hour on I-66 any day.” Raymond picked up the glass of Scotch on the patio table beside him. The sun was just starting to set, casting a reddish glow through the oak trees bordering his Virginia backyard.

Trask's laughter sounded. “My bet is she was heading somewhere in the District, maybe Maryland. We'll know more once we find out who she is.”

“All you've got is she's a middle-aged African-American woman. Tall, slender, you said. Cropped hair. Good-looking, right?”

“Yeah. Taller than Malone. Basketball tall. She walked that way too. Athletic. I followed her all the way into the Library of Congress but lost her when I had to go through the security checkpoint. So I couldn't see which office she went to. I left the building and sat on a bench not too far away where I could see the entrance. That way I'd spot her when she came out. I figured she might walk to the Metro station.”

Raymond took a deep drink of the molten gold. “You said you got a photo of her with Malone?”

“Yeah. Damn near got caught too. She looked up just as I was putting the phone to my ear. I saw her looking at me again, just before they got up to leave. Next time I'll bring out the priest's collar.”

Raymond snickered. “You'll have to show me that one. I can't picture it.”

“With the glasses, it looks pretty convincing. One time, I actually had a cop ask me if I was looking for the Catholic church nearby. It was all I could do to keep a straight face.”

Raymond laughed out loud at that, despite risking the cough's return. He took another big sip to stave it off. “Did you recognize the notebook Malone handed over?”

“Nope. It had a different cover than the ones I found in Malone's desk drawer at her house. But it must have had a lot of things in it, because both of them were fixated. Pointing out stuff to each other. Man, I'd like to get my hands on that.”

“Fat chance. Not until we find out who she is.”

“Oh, yeah. Malone gave her a separate sheet of paper. There was stuff written there, too, because they were pointing at different things.”

Raymond let out an exasperated sigh. “Well, let's not get excited about this. That woman could be someone she's working with for Russell's office. Who knows? Let's wait and see what that Fillmore guy in Jackson's office can find out. If this gal works on the Hill, they'll have ID photos. Let's see what turns up. Maybe we'll get lucky.” Somehow Raymond didn't feel luck was coming their way. Once Trask mentioned the Library of Congress, he'd gotten a bad feeling in his gut. Stirring up some old memories.

“If this gal works in the Library of Congress, then it sounds like Malone is following in Quentin Wilson's research footsteps. That's where he spent so much time. Once he overheard Ryker's conversation, that is.”

“Yeah, that's exactly what I was thinking.” Raymond scowled into his glass, then took another deep drink. “
Dammit
. I was hoping she'd reach a dead end and let it drop. It looked like she did for a while.”

“Then enter Congresswoman Wilson,” Trask said, in a sarcastic tone. “It looks like Malone's trying to follow up on whatever Sylvia Wilson told her when they met at the Willard. Who knows? Maybe Wilson gave Malone her husband's notebook. I never found anything that looked like that in his house when I checked last July. And it wasn't in his briefcase either when I got the chance to check. He must have always left the notebook at his office.”

“You're probably right.
Damn!
” The cough was starting to tickle, so he took a drink. “That's another loose end. Like the phone bug.”

“Don't worry. We've covered our tracks. Nothing comes back to us. These women have nothing. Just notes in a book. Nothing definite. Nothing that implicates the higher-ups. And I don't think they will. Let 'em research their asses off if they want to. We'll keep an eye on them. And if anyone gets too curious, well … they'll meet with an accident.”

Raymond flinched at Trask's brutal assessment. Funny. He'd never flinched before. Not in all the times he was carrying out the orders. “Too many accidents add up, Trask. That's what bothers me.”

“Don't worry about it. They're little people, with the exception of Sylvia Wilson. No one pays attention.”

Raymond released a sigh and leaned over to pour more Scotch into his glass. “I hope you're right, Trask. I hope you're right.” But his gut had other thoughts and he could feel it.

Wednesday evening

I rested my arms on the café table and sipped the rich, red wine Danny had chosen. The popular Mediterranean café had filled quickly tonight and noise from neighboring diners had risen.

I watched Danny read both sheets of paper I'd handed him. Finally, he looked over at me. “And you got these names from Quentin Wilson's notebook? I'm still surprised Sylvia Wilson let you see it.”

“Yeah, I was too. But I think it was a case of each of us had information the other didn't have. So it was mutually beneficial. Those last two names on the other paper, Montclair and Kasikov, came from my brother-in-law's notebook. I took that to Loretta as well. I'm hoping she can figure out what Eric was looking for.”

I took a sip of the velvet cabernet. Cherries, blackberries, and more. “By the way, I hope the security firm doesn't mind, but I gave Sylvia Wilson their contact name and phone number. I advised her to have her townhouse gone over and locked down tight. Whoever bugged Natasha's phone knows the congresswoman has her husband's notebook.”

“Too many notebooks floating around. Too many questions. I'm glad you finally put all of this information on the page in one file. You should do that with Karen's and Celeste's notes. And Wilson's notes too. Put it all together, so you can analyze it better.” Danny retrieved his wine glass and leaned forward over the table, dropping the pages beside the candles. “I can tell you're convinced that Natasha's murder wasn't an accident.”

“Yes, I am. And the more I learn, the more sure I am there's a connection. We know Karen was murdered, but we'll never know for sure if Jed Molinoff did it to protect his reputation or if there was another reason. He was hanging around with Ryker and Holmberg that night at the Dumbarton Oaks reception. And he was handling the Epsilon Group's contribution to Congressman Jackson's reelection fund. Both Quentin Wilson and Natasha, asking questions about the same topic Karen was. Both dead.” I took another sip. “Too many coincidences to suit me.”

“And then there's Celeste,” Danny said with a frown.

“Then there's Celeste. Who was doing the same research. And she had her apartment broken into. She swore the intruder was messing around her computer and flash drive storage files. I remember your saying the guy was sending her a message because the break-in was so brazen and obvious.”

“But who sent the message? That's the key.”

“Maybe Larry Fillmore. If so, he was definitely taking orders from someone else. Someone much higher up is behind all this. It's way above Fillmore's pay scale.” I stared off into the busy café.

The waiter appeared then and poured the rest of the delectable cabernet into our glasses. Danny looked over at me as we both sipped the wine and smiled.

“I'd hate to think we're going to waste this superb vintage talking about the likes of Larry Fillmore. I had other plans for tonight.”