Murder on Capitol Hill (7 page)

Hughes looked directly at his guest as he said, “I’d like to discuss with you your hopes and aspirations”—Lord, Lydia thought, didn’t anyone
ever
have anything but that awful cliché, “hopes and aspirations” in the public sector?—“as a member of the United States Senate, Mrs. Caldwell, but before we get to that, I know there’s another very important announcement you’d like to make, one that holds a very special place in your heart.”

A second camera caught Veronica in a three-quarter profile. She appeared composed, though her
right eye displayed a minuscule tic, and the horror of the past few days was manifested in the drawn expression around her mouth, the ineradicable fatigue in her eyes.

“In honor of my late husband I’m establishing the Cale Caldwell Performing Arts Foundation. All donations will go toward fostering and supporting deserving young men and women who strive to develop and perfect their artistic contributions to our society.”

“I think that’s marvelous,” Hughes said. “Your husband worked so hard in the Senate to see that the arts in America received their fair share of federal spending. I know he’d be a proud man today to see that his efforts will not go unfulfilled…”

The rest of the interview provided little news and few revelations. Veronica told Hughes that there had been no progress in the investigation of her husband’s murder, although she was confident that it would be resolved within a reasonable period of time. Hughes asked about rumors that a special Senate committee would be formed to conduct its own investigation, and Veronica confirmed that this was in the works.

Hughes went on to tell his viewers that an interview taped with Cale Caldwell just before his death and scheduled to be aired that morning would be seen at a later date. He added, “It was my intention to cancel the program with the late Senator Caldwell out of deference to his family, but Mrs. Caldwell, after viewing the videotape of the interview with her husband, has urged me to reconsider, I—”

Veronica interrupted, “Cale would have wanted this interview shown. He spoke of legislation that was important to him, and I intend to try to bring
with me into the United States Senate a continuation of his goals.”

Hughes looked directly into the camera as it slowly moved in on him and production credits crawled up the screen. “I’m Quentin Hughes. Thanks for joining me.” For once his show wasn’t quite a one-man affair. He’d underestimated Veronica.

***

Clarence was uncharacteristically late for his brunch with Lydia at the Four Georges, in the Georgetown Inn. She’d made a reservation in her name and was given a comfortable corner table in the George II Room, which was decorated in a desert motif—sand-colored mesa brick walls, low tables and banquettes. A large party at a table across the room centered around Senator MacLoon.

Clarence arrived fifteen minutes later.

“You’re late,” she said.

“I know, I’m sorry, we’ll have to find a new place.”

“Why?”

He nodded toward MacLoon’s table. “Certain politicians have a way of casting a pall over even the best restaurants.” A waiter delivered a bottle of New York champagne in a bucket, opened it and poured some into each of their glasses. Clarence sniffed his, took a sip, and launched into a change of pace. “Lydia, my advice to you is never offer a cup of coffee to a policeman when he’s questioning you about a murder, and especially when his nine-year-old daughter is taking piano lessons. When he found out about me he insisted on discussing music and whether his daughter’s teacher is taking the right approach.”

“Did he ever get around to asking you about the murder?”

“Eventually. Wanted to know whether I had any animosity toward Caldwell, whether we had had any business dealings, personal intrigues, mutual enemies, friends. As though I’d admit to any of that if I’d killed him.”

“Did he tell you anything?”

“No, except that his daughter won’t practice her scales. Well, what did you think of Hughes’s interview with Veronica?”

“Mixed feelings. How about you?”

“I only saw bits of it because
he
wouldn’t stop talking. From what I heard I’d say the lady isn’t wasting much of her widowhood.”

“Which, I think, is to be admired. You did hear about her appointment to fill out Cale’s term in the Senate?”

“Yes, and about the foundation in his name. Let me ask you something, Lydia, and promise you won’t have my head for it—”

“I promise nothing.”

“Do you think it’s at all possible that Veronica Caldwell could have privately envied her husband’s power so much that she killed him, or had him killed, to get his Senate seat?”

Lydia looked around the dining room before leaning close to him and gently placed her hand on his arm. “See, no temper. The answer, of course, is
no
.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s so far-out. After all, there were those who speculated that Lyndon Johnson might have had something to do with Kennedy’s death in order to become President—”

“Some people—
I’m
not one of them.”

“What are you having?” he asked, changing gears again.

“Eggs Benedict and a rasher of bacon. You?”

“Venison, fried egg on the side, over easy.” He gave their order, then recounted for Lydia the details of his interrogation by the MPD detective. When he was finished and their food had been served, Lydia brought up Veronica’s suggestion that she accept a post as special counsel to a Senate committee to investigate Cale Caldwell’s murder. Clarence listened, commenting only by raising his salt-and-pepper eyebrows. Finally when she was done telling him about the offer and the circumstances surrounding it at the Caldwell house, he cleared his throat and said, “It depends entirely if you want to make a name for yourself. If so, by all means do it. If you value your sanity, for God’s sake turn it down—and do it fast and mean it.”

Lydia said nothing for a minute, then, “I have no interest in making a name for myself as special counsel to a committee to investigate the murder of a friend. But what do you do when his widow—who is also a friend—asks? Just walk away?”

“Exactly. Besides, what would you do with your private practice if you took it?”

“Leave it up to my associates, try to keep a handle on things from a distance. What’s wrong with that?”

“Everything. As Louis Armstrong said when someone asked him what was wrong with a friend who’d suddenly died, ‘When you’re dead, everything’s wrong.’ Eat your eggs, they’re getting cold.”

“They already are.” She placed her fork on her plate. “I love you dearly, Clarence, and have always
had a big fat respect for your opinions, but there are times when I find you to be a trying ass.”

He sat back, grinned. “And this obviously is one of those times. Sorry. It’s my way of concealing unacceptable levels of anxiety about you. I can understand how you feel and why you’re seriously considering Veronica’s proposal. Personally I think it would be a mistake and that you’ll end up regretting it. On the other hand if you don’t do it you’ll probably spend the rest of your days wondering if you should have. So take it if it’s really offered.”

“If I do, will you stand by me?”

He laughed. “Of course not. After all, I’m a prime suspect, and how would it look for the special counsel to be involved with such a person—”

“Oh, shut up…”

He did, but her mind wouldn’t. Without quite meaning to, she was already beginning to think as though she’d taken the job.

The good weather of fall had given way to the harsher climate of early winter. It had rained heavily over the weekend. Now, at ten o’clock on Monday morning Lydia sat in a green vinyl armchair in the drab office of deputy chief of police of Washington’s Metropolitan Police Department, Horace Jenkins. She’d been told to wait; Chief Jenkins had been called away from his desk for a few minutes.

“Hello, Lydia,” he said as he came through the door. “Nature called.” His voice startled her and she turned abruptly. He walked past her, fell heavily into his green vinyl chair behind the desk and grinned.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Terrific,” he said, yawning. “I woke up alive this morning, still have my job according to the papers, and retirement is within striking distance. How are you?”

“Fair.”

“Special counsel, huh?”

“Yes… I was flattered to be asked.”

“Sure you were.” He rubbed his baggy eyes, yawned again. Lydia had once commented to a friend that Jenkins looked like Walter Matthau
after
a bad
night. Sitting across from him she realized how apt her description had been. He was in shirtsleeves, suit jacket a rumpled heap on top of a file cabinet. He had a full head of black hair that hadn’t receded even in his latter stages of middle age. Flesh hung in folds from his jawbone, cheeks and neck. His eyes were large and watery, evoking all the pathos of a hound that hadn’t been fed in days. He was a big man who tended to excessive weight, although his large frame carried poundage rather well.

“So tell me, Lydia, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like the United States Senate.”

“My duty, I hope. Besides, I’m not so nice, and you know it. I’m also no longer a girl.”

“By me you’re still a girl, and I won’t forget how you stood up there in court and defended those bananas. And, damn it, you are nice, if not easy… anyway, how’s the radio and TV business—?”

“Okay, Horace, let’s cool the chitchat. Here I am as scheduled. I assume your invitation has something to do with the Caldwell murder.”

“Yeah, well, I figured I’d spare you going through this routine with some of the idiots who work for me, or over me.” He leaned forward, which caused his chair to let out a shrill squeak, leaned on his elbows. “I’m sure you realize this is awkward… here I am interrogating you about the senator’s murder while you act as special counsel to a committee investigating that same murder—”

“Routine, I know. Besides I
was
at the party and so theoretically I could be a suspect—but you and I are going to have to work very closely, Horace. After all, we’re after the same thing.”

He grunted and answered his intercom. “No, damn it, that’s not what I said I wanted.” A pause. “Then do it over. Don’t bother me, I’m wrapping up the Caldwell murder.” There was a hint of mirth in his eyes as he looked across the desk at her. “You were saying?”

“That I assume we’ll be working closely together on the Caldwell case.”

“No, we won’t. The last thing I need is to have a Senate committee getting in my way. Caldwell’s murder, senator or not, is an MPD matter and it’s going to stay that way.”

“I didn’t realize you controlled the Senate.”

“I’m a cop, Lydia. Murder, however high-placed, is a cop’s business. I don’t know what the hell you people think you’re going to accomplish over there with another damn committee at taxpayer expense. This case is simple. Caldwell has a party thrown for him by his wife. She invites a coupla hundred snowflakes and one of them gets carried away and sticks an ice pick into the guest of honor… Let me ask you a question.”

“Go ahead.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No.”

“Right. Interrogation over. Take my advice, Lydia, go back to getting licenses for radio stations and tell your Senate chums to get back to the business of running the country, not running over it.”

“I’ll be sure to carry back your sentiments, especially to the committee that funds the District of Columbia. I’ll also remind you, Chief, that the committee
is a fact of life. It exists, it’s real, and it’s been created to investigate Cale Caldwell’s murder.”

“Yeah, and it’s about as necessary as a hind tit. Pardon me.”

“You’re pardoned. I’m no longer a little girl, like I told you… well, if you’re through, I’ll be going.”

“Sure… look, Lydia, believe it or not, I wish you well with this. I always admired you when you were doing criminal work. I just hate to see you get messed up in a no-win situation—”

“I appreciate that.” She stood and extended her hand over the desk. He took it, clicked his tongue against his cheek. “If I was younger, Lydia, I’d make a pass.”

“Thank you, I’m woman enough to like to hear that, even from an old party like you.”

“Yeah, old party, well, good seeing you. By the way, do you know how I figure it?”

She stopped at the door. “How?”

“That flake of a son, the religious fanatic.”

“Have you interviewed him?”

“Sure. We told him to stay around town but he went back to his cult. I sent somebody down there to bring him up here and he starts screaming about freedom of religion and separation of church and state.”

“And?”

“We left him there.”

“You must have felt he wasn’t that much of a suspect.”

“As good as any, better than most. At this point, anyway. The way I figured it he’s less likely to skip out on his fellow freaks than from the city.”

“Can I see the transcripts of the people you’ve interviewed?”

Jenkins shook his head.

“We’ll subpoena them, Horace.”

“We’ll play the game an inning at a time, Lydia… You
are
looking good. Like I said, if I was younger I’d—”

“Have a nice day, like they say.”

“Yeah, you too.”

She controlled any outward show of her irritation until reaching the street, then drew a series of deep breaths and began muttering to herself. Years ago, when she’d worked as a public defender, she’d enjoyed the daily battle with the MPD. The truth was she’d lost as often as she’d won, but the challenge was always a highly exhilarating one.

Now, instead of feeling challenged, she felt a deep, abrupt frustration. She’d been out of that arena for a long time, comfortable, secure behind her desk from which she navigated the tricky waters of the FCC on behalf of clients who paid handsome fees for her knowledge and expertise. Any infighting was accomplished with padded gloves. In criminal matters there were no gloves. She’d nearly forgotten that, and the realization sent a chill through her that a gusty north wind whipping up the street could not match. She pulled her coat collar tighter around her neck and walked briskly across town to her office, where she returned phone calls, dictated a brief to her secretary, then left for an appointment with Senator Wilfred MacLoon, who’d been chosen to chair the Caldwell committee.