Murder on Capitol Hill (24 page)

He interrupted the rehearsal with Boris—less painful than he’d thought—to phone Lydia and tell her he’d gone back to the ol’ debbil piano. She’d like that.

“Lydia?”

“Hi,” she said as she continued stripping off her clothes for a calisthenics session she felt she needed to pick her up.

“I’ve been worried all day about you.”

“Why?”

“Because of the letter Christa Jones gave you. You must realize that certain people might do just about anything to get it away from you—”

“Clarence, no one knows about the letter or the tape except you, me and Christa. I sealed the letter in a committee envelope and gave it to Ginger to put in the office safe, along with lots of other documents. I didn’t tell her what it was, and she didn’t ask. I’m always giving her bundles of documents to secure—”

“You gave it to Ginger? Do you think that was smart?”

“Smart, safe—pardon the pun—and sound. Ginger may talk like a flake but she’s far from it. I also put the videotape in the safe, me myself. I checked with the Senate television studio and they told me it can only handle three-quarter-inch tape, the kind used in electronic news operations. The tape I took from the locker is two inches. I guess the only place to see it is at a television studio that has two-inch equipment.”

“I have a friend who has his own recorder at home—”

“No good. Those are too small, too. Willy-nilly, it looks like I’ll come close to honoring Christa’s request. Which, matter of fact, I’m kind of thankful for.

“And now I’m off for dinner with the fair Ginger. I like her a lot. She’s full of beans…”

“Not my style, lady, but… Hey, guess what… I’ve been playing the old piano all afternoon.”

“That’s terrific. What brought it on?”

“The people’s choice… Boris Slevokian. I’ve been working on a new piece he’s going to incorporate in his next tour. The fingers are pretty stiff, Lydia.”

She smiled, allowing herself a prurient thought
without a single redeeming social value. “Clarence, darling, I’ve got to go… I’ll call you if I don’t get home too late…”

“Please
do
, I’ll be up late.”

***

John Conegli, who’d arrived in front of Foster-Sims’s apartment an hour earlier, had heard Clarence’s side of the telephone conversation with Lydia, heard him echo Lydia saying that Ginger Johnson had been given the envelope, which meant that Conegli needed to change some plans he’d made for the evening. He pulled quickly away from the curb and drove to Ginger’s address, checked the mailboxes to note that she lived in 14-F, then left the building and went to a phone booth. His call was answered on the first ring by a woman.

“Let me speak to Billy.”

“He ain’t here.”

“Who’s this?”

“His mother. Who’s this?”

“A friend. Did he say where he was going?”

“He said he had some work to do.”

Conegli hung up and stepped outside the booth. He considered trying to head Billy off himself but was reluctant to leave. Given what Foster-Sims had said, the best shot he had at the envelope was Ginger Johnson. Besides, he reasoned, nothing would really be lost by having Billy go through with the job he’d assigned him to. Sort of an insurance job.

***

Lydia sat in a booth in Martin’s Tavern on Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown. Martin’s had been a landmark since it opened in 1933. To Lydia it somehow
represented the quintessential Georgetown hangout—dark wooden booths, veteran waiters in green jackets, a long oak bar behind which an extensive collection of steins stood proudly on shelves. Martin’s attracted the athletic set, which was not surprising considering the fact that it had been opened by a former baseball player with the Boston Braves, Bill Martin. A small back room was known as the Dugout.

Lydia was not worried by Ginger’s lateness. She was never on time. As she sat alone and sipped a Kir, she thought on her theory about people who were chronically late. It was a way to ensure attention… people were either waiting for their entrance or helping them make an exit for an appointment.

It didn’t really matter, she decided, unless it was deliberate. She took another sip and waited for Ginger to come through the front door in her usual state of high energy, plus a little high anxiety.

When another twenty minutes had passed, Lydia put aside philosophy and began to worry. She was sure this was the night they’d planned to meet… she considered calling Ginger’s home, told herself she’s probably on her way right now…

Fifteen minutes later Lydia made the call to Ginger’s apartment. Harold answered.

“This is Lydia James, Harold. I was supposed to meet Ginger for dinner but she hasn’t shown up yet. I was getting worried—”

“You were right…” He sounded out of breath and in a hurry. “I just got a call from the police. Somebody attacked her again.”

“
What
? My God… is she all right?”

“I think so. They were taking her to the hospital when they called. I heard her yelling in the background that she didn’t want to go to any hospital, I’m glad they insisted…”

Lydia told the waiter that her plans had been changed, paid for the Kir and left Martin’s. She was annoyed at herself that she’d been so upset she hadn’t asked what hospital Ginger had been taken to. She’d go home, wait for a call.

***

She pulled her Buick into a tiny alley to the rear of her brownstone, got out and walked quickly around the side of the building and toward the front door. In the darkness she stumbled over a loose red brick in the narrow sidewalk. She’d noticed it before and had meant to fix it. She continued along the path—

“Don’t move.”

A man stepped out from behind bushes that lined the side of the house, brought his left forearm around her neck and pushed the point of a knife into her back.

Lydia felt paralyzed.

“Walk nice and easy to the front door.”

She did. When they got to the front door she said, “I don’t have any money in the house, it’s in my purse, take it and please leave me alone—”

“Shut up and open the door.”

Her only thought was that she was about to be raped. If he didn’t want money, what else? As she fumbled for her keys, she actually tried to remember what she’d read or seen on television about how to handle a rapist. It had all seemed so clear and sensible before. Now, faced with the reality, it was anything
but… was it better to put up a struggle, or go along and try to talk him out of it? She opened the door and they stumbled inside, his arm still around her neck. He kicked the door closed, loosened his grip and pushed her. Her face hit the wall and she felt a dull ache in her cheekbone.

“Don’t turn around, lady.”

She didn’t, but caught her first sight of him in a mirror—young, long black hair. She was surprised to have enough composure to take stock of him. She also noticed he wore a buff, fringed suede jacket over a dark shirt.

He looked around the entrance hallway. She saw the knife for the first time. It looked like what she thought of as a hunting knife, and large.

“Come on, let’s go in,” he said motioning his head toward the living room.

Lydia turned to face him. “Who are you?” Not, she told herself, a particularly sensible question under the circumstances. Come on, Lydia…

He smiled. “Don’t be silly, lady. Now take it easy, I ain’t going to hurt you unless I have to.”

He was going to rape her. Well, she’d damn well put up a fight, he’d have to use his knife to—

He grabbed her arm and whirled her into the living room. “You can save me a lot of time, lady. Just give me the envelope that’s so important.” (Conegli, a real sweetheart, hadn’t bothered to call off his dogs.)

His demand shocked her. Why would he want Christa Jones’s envelope? How did he even know about it? Did he know its contents, or, more likely, was he acting on someone else’s orders?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“Lady, I don’t mind tying you up and tearing this place apart if I have to. Be a smart lady and give me the envelope and save us both time and trouble.”

She decided to tell the truth, which as any lawyer could tell you, was often the least convincing in a court of law. Well, this was no court of law. This was, for God’s sake, the real thing… She said, “I don’t have the envelope you’re looking for. I gave it to someone on my staff, it’s in my office…”

Of course, he didn’t believe her… “It could be so easy, lady, but you don’t seem to care.” He stepped closer. The knife in his right hand was pointed at her stomach. He grabbed her right shoulder and spun her around. She stumbled across the room, fell onto the couch. He was on her, twisting her left arm behind her back and forcing it up with increasing pressure toward her shoulders. She called out in pain, furious to give him that much satisfaction. “Shut up and tell me where that envelope is or I’ll break your arm off—”

“I don’t
have
it… let go of me and I’ll tell you how we can get it.”

He slowly released her wrist, stood, propped one scuffed cowboy boot on the edge of the coffee table. Slowly Lydia pulled herself up, turned and sat on the arm of the couch.

“Okay, lady. I’m all ears.”

She closed her eyes against the pain in her arm, tried to collect her thoughts. “I told you the letter is in my office. We can go there now and get it, I promise you I’ll give it to you there—”

“How far is your office?”

“Senate Building—”

“You a senator. A woman?”

“I work there, for a committee.” More truth, which she gambled he’d never believe.

He seemed to think for a moment, and as he did she felt a rising, pulsating anger. No question now, if she’d had a gun she’d have used it on him, would have taken
pleasure
in doing it. She’d stood in court many times and defended people like the man threatening her right now. She’d
pleaded
for their rights, pointed to their sad “socioeconomic” disadvantages, used everything the law allowed to combat the prosecution and, often as not, was successful. She’d believed in what she was doing, genuinely felt for most of her clients.

Not now. What attorney… possibly herself?… had set this man free so he could put a knife to her…

He’d made up his mind. “Get up.”

“What are you going to do?” He slapped her. She was surprised how little it hurt. “Where’s your bedroom?”

She stood and slowly led him from the living room to the bedroom. He flicked on an overhead light. “Nice,” he said. “Nice big bed.”

She said nothing, just stood there and waited for his next move. He was directly behind her, she felt the knife was poised for action.

“Let’s see, where would a classy lady like you hide an important letter? Hard to say. Have you got a safe here?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m
sure
, just as I’m sure the letter you want is”—and then she glanced at the night table next to her bed on which a lamp, a clock and a small box of Kleenex sat. The table had one drawer. She drew a deep breath. “All
right
, I
do
have the letter here. If I give it to you will you promise to leave me alone?”

“Now that you got smart and stopped lying, I’ll take it into consideration.”

“I’ll get it for you.” She went to the night table. She couldn’t see him but knew he was following closely behind. In the drawer were envelopes containing legal documents from her law practice, to be reviewed at home before returning to the office.

She paused, then bent over and slowly opened the drawer. Her left hand reached inside and found a long, white envelope stuffed with legal carbons. She quickly turned and thrust the envelope at him, saying as she did, “Here’s your envelope.” In the moment it took him to receive the envelope her left hand fell back into the drawer, her fingers clutched a four-inch black cylinder of CS tear gas—more commonly known in its packaged state as Mace. She’d been given it a year ago by an attorney friend, who’d told her she needed it, given the city she lived in and the people she represented. He’d actually wanted her to apply for a gun permit, but she’d always been against keeping firearms in a house. More to appease him than anything else, she’d accepted the Mace, had put it in the night table drawer and pretty well forgotten about it. She had no real idea what effect it had on a person.

Her thumb went to a white trigger on top of the cylinder. Her friend had showed her that all that was
necessary to activate the cylinder was to swing a white trigger a quarter-turn, which took it from a lock position. She did it, and as the man pulled pages from the envelope and asked if she was sure this was the letter, she brought her left hand up so that it was less than a foot from his face and squeezed down with all her might on the trigger. The ortho-chlorobenzal malononitrile gushed from the cylinder with a hiss. It covered his face. His mouth opened; Lydia directed the stream of gas into it.

He fell to the floor, writhing. The knife dropped to his side, and the envelope and its contents went out of his hands. Lydia couldn’t stop herself, leaned over and went on pressing the trigger until the twenty-two grams of Mace had been fully discharged, directly into his eyes and mouth.

Now, a kind of revulsion set in. She was appalled at what she saw. He clawed at his eyes, and a long, agonizing cry came from him.

She ran to the kitchen, grabbed the receiver from a wall phone and dialed the MPD. An officer answered on the first ring. “This is Lydia James.” She gave her address and said that an intruder was in the house. He asked why she was able to get to a phone. “It doesn’t
matter
, send someone immediately.”

She dropped the phone, leaving it dangling on its cord, and ran out of the house and across the street, where she leaned against a lamppost, put her cheek against its cool metal and waited for the police to arrive…

The first officer out of the car was Horace Jenkins, deputy chief of police. He saw Lydia and ran across the street to her. “What happened?”

She tried to speak and couldn’t. And then she buried her face in her hands and, like any other human being, broke down into deep, heaving sobs.

Ten minutes later a police ambulance arrived and Lydia’s attacker was taken away.