Poisoned Politics (5 page)

“Interesting priorities,” Danny observed after sipping his coffee. “Samantha will jeopardize not only her own reputation but also her safety before she will compromise her companion's privacy.” He gave a crooked smile. “I guess she has her own code of honor. I can respect that.”

“Yes, she has. And loyalty is at the top of that list.” I watched the silent, efficient waiter replace the newly filled chai carafe beside my cup. I toyed with having more. However, the heavy sugar dessert plus the sweet chai had already taken their toll. I felt the dreaded Sugar Sleep creeping through my veins. Time for coffee.

Danny looked at me and grinned. “It's time to take you home. I can tell you're getting sleepy.” He signaled for the ever-observant waiter.

Damn
. This man's perceptiveness was downright spooky. And unnerving. “Blame it on the dessert and chai. A double dose of sugar. And how could you tell anyway?” I teased. “I haven't yawned.”

“By watching you. I've learned a lot of your signals these last four months,” he said with a wink.

“That is seriously scary,” I said in an unguarded moment. It must have been the sugar.

All trace of a smile disappeared as Danny reached over and took my right hand. He brought it to his mouth for a warm kiss on my palm. “I know,” Danny said, taking my hand in his. “But you don't have to be scared of me, Molly. I won't hurt you.”

The Sugar Sleep fled my system in an instant. I was wide awake now. I looked into Danny's eyes, allowing him to see even deeper inside, and struggled for words that wouldn't come. The waiter came instead, so I managed to murmur, “I know.”

Danny kissed my knuckles then released my hand to sign the check. “I've got an earlier-than-usual reveille tomorrow morning anyway. Have to be on I-95 by four thirty to avoid the rush hour traffic.”

I made a face. “I'm not sure that's early enough. Where are you heading?”

“South. I've got an early morning appointment.”

Now that I was wide awake, my naturally inquisitive nature reasserted itself. “South as in southern Virginia or farther south?” I probed playfully.

His lazy smile returned. “Southern Virginia.”

“Hmmmmmm, I guess you could have an early appointment at Smith Mountain Lake. I know fishermen who show up in the wee hours. Or, is there a larger body of water involved?”

“There's a lot of water nearby.”

“I figured. And I'll bet there are a lot of really big boats floating nearby too.” I caught his gaze and saw the laughter there.

“Not many boats, but a lot of ships.”

“A sea voyage coming up?”

He shook his head as he came to stand behind my chair. “Nope. The closest I'll get to the water is looking at it through the window. Nothing but meetings back to back for a couple of days.”

“Somehow I doubt you'll be bored,” I challenged as I rose from my chair.

five

Tuesday

I jerked awake. Loud
guitar riffs bounced off my bedroom walls.
What the hell?
I squinted at the clock: 5:50. Who in the world would be calling me so early in the morning? Suddenly I thought of my elderly mother in her posh retirement home across the Potomac. I bolted from bed, snatching the phone before another Clapton guitar riff.

“Hello?” I rasped, my heart beating faster. Had she fallen? Was she ill? At nearly ninety years old, anything could happen.

Samantha's soft voice came over the phone. “Molly? I woke you up, I'm sorry. I
…
I just wanted to make sure I caught you before you went out for your morning run.”

Relieved that some professional healthcare provider wasn't on the other end of the line, I sat on the edge of the bed. “Samantha? What's the matter? You're not usually up until eight. Has something happened?”

“No, no, nothing's happened. I simply wanted to see if you'd please come over to my house for a few moments before you report in at your office. Late last night, I remembered I hadn't checked my surveillance video. I rarely check it. Usually the security company calls me if there's anything questionable. But I suddenly remembered and accessed it last night. And
…
and I saw something strange. I wanted you to come over and take a look. I'd like your opinion.”

Surveillance video?
“I never knew you had a security camera running. Where is it?”

“Right above the front door. It's concealed within one of the medallions. As I said, the security firm reviews each video. Quentin had already been cleared so his arrivals and departures were merely noted on the monthly summary. Sometimes I even forget to look at the summary. But last night I decided to take a look at the video myself, and I saw a man come to the door that night. The night Quentin died. Some man in a jacket and a hat. I couldn't see his face, but his jacket had some kind of logo or something on it. Maybe he was a repairman looking for a nearby address. My housekeeper tells me that people often ring the doorbell asking for directions.”

“Hmmm, that is strange. Now you've made me curious.”

“Good. I'd like you to take a look at the video and tell me what you think.”

“All right. Give me a few minutes and I'll be there. Traffic shouldn't be too bad going in your direction this early. Coming back will be trickier.”

“I promise I won't keep you, Molly. I simply want your opinion before I take this video to my lawyer. He can deliver it to the police.”

“Better make a copy, just in case,” I said, heading toward the shower.

“Already have.”

_____

I leaned closer to the large computer screen as Samantha advanced through the surveillance video. A man's image approached her front door, carrying a briefcase and talking on a cell phone.

“There's Quentin arriving,” Samantha said. “You can see him put down his briefcase and then key in the entry code.”

I observed the time at the upper right corner of the screen: 5:20. I watched Wilson bend over for his briefcase and reach out with his other hand for something else. Then he disappeared inside the house.

“It looks like he picked up something. He was in the way, so I couldn't see what it was.”

“Probably dropped his car keys,” Samantha said as she fast-forwarded through the video. “Now, here's the guy walking up to the doorway: 5:52. See? Doesn't that look kind of like a repairman's hat and jacket?”

I observed a shorter, stocky man approach Samantha's front door; he paused for a moment then knocked. His hat did resemble some of the old-fashioned hats that service repair people used to wear. I peered at the back of his jacket as the man moved slightly side-to-side and started gesturing with his hands. I assumed he was talking to Wilson at that point.

“See? He's talking with Quent. Wait a minute
…
when he turns a little, you can glimpse a logo of some sort. There!”

I caught a brief glimpse of a blue-and-white rectangle on the back of the man's jacket.

“Yeah, you're right. But I can't tell what it is.” The man pointed behind him toward the front yard, but the hat brim kept me from seeing his face. “He's pointing at something. I wonder what it is? Maybe he had a service truck or something in the driveway.”

“Maybe or maybe he was simply asking for directions,” Samantha said. “See
…
Quent comes out of the house then.”

“Looks like he's pointing too. Well, kind of,” I said, observing Wilson—jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled up—start to walk toward the front yard with the man and out of camera range.

“There they go. I figure Quent's giving the man directions. Samantha advanced the video forward. “Now, about five minutes pass, and Quent comes back, see?”

I watched Wilson return to the front door, pause, then glance over his shoulder briefly before re-entering the house. “I wonder what he was looking at?”

“Maybe the man was backing a truck out of the driveway,” Samantha suggested as she fast-forwarded the video again. “But now, here comes the part I find really puzzling. Over an hour has passed. And look who shows up again.”

I checked the video time again and it read 7:23. To my surprise, the same stocky guy in hat and jacket approached the door again and knocked. “Well, well, Mister Repairman. Wonder why he came back?”

“That's what puzzles me, as well as this. Watch.”

The repairman stood on the front stoop, shifting from one foot to the other, obviously waiting. Then, he knocked on the door again, longer this time.

“I wonder why Wilson hasn't come to the door yet?” I wondered out loud.

“Yes, I thought that strange too. Here he comes now. See
…
the door opens and Quent leans out. The repairman is telling him something, see?”

The repairman was clearly explaining something, because he was gesturing even more and pointed again toward the front yard. Or, maybe the driveway. “You know, Samantha, I'll bet that guy had car or truck problems and was trying to fix it. Maybe that's why he came back.”

“I'm thinking that's what it is, too, and look at Quent. He's on the phone now; see it pressed to his ear? And he's upset. Really upset. I can tell from the way he's waving his arm. That's what he does when he's talking on the phone and getting agitated. That's probably Quent's wife calling him about the photos. His cell phone log showed her call coming in a little after seven.” Samantha shook her head. “Poor Quentin. Look at him.”

Wilson had stepped onto the front stoop and was animatedly gesturing to the repair guy, pointing toward the front yard, arm waving, phone still pressed to his ear. After a moment, Wilson went back inside the house, and the repair guy walked out of camera range toward the front yard—or the driveway.

“You know, I think that's it, Samantha. He's got truck or car trouble, and maybe he's stuck in the driveway. Maybe that's the reason Wilson's so mad. He wants to leave, but he can't. What do you think?”

She shrugged. “That's as good an explanation as any. That's got to be why the repairman reappeared.” She fast-forwarded through t
he video again. “He doesn't appear again, so whatever repair problems he had were o
bviously fixed.”

I watched the video time stamp run though the hours—ten o'clock, eleven o'clock, midnight, one o'clock. “And Quentin doesn't reappear either.”

“No, he doesn't
…
poor thing,” Samantha said sadly. “That phone call from his wife was the last one. After that, nothing.” Samantha sat back in her chair and stared at the screen. “I called Natasha Jorgensen yesterday. I used the number I'd copied from his cell phone log, betting it would be hers. Quentin never let on, but I'm betting she knew about our relationship. Natasha needed to know where Quent was all the time. It would have been hard to explain our weekend getaways otherwise.”

“Why'd you call her?”

Samantha turned to me, her deep blue gaze direct. “I wanted to know if she'd seen any signs of depression or panic the last day he was alive. Quent had gone to his office for a staff meeting, so Natasha and the rest of the staff would have been there. If Quentin was beginning to slide into some suicidal depression, surely there would have been a sign
…
something that Natasha would have picked up on. I mean, she was his closest aide.”

“What did Natasha say? Did he seem depressed to her?”

“No, just the opposite. She said Quentin appeared hyper that Saturday at the office, more agitated than usual. That's understandable, given the surprise package we both received that morning. I told her that I simply couldn't believe Quentin deliberately took too many pills. I still can't. Natasha agreed with me. She said she was guilt-ridden, wondering if there was something she could have picked up on or seen. Maybe she could have stopped him.”

“Natasha couldn't have done anything,” I interjected. “I'm thinking that Quentin didn't plan on doing it, but he may have been so distraught after his wife's phone call that he wasn't paying attention. Natasha said he was already hyper when he was at the office. And you said he was frantic when he called you. If anything pushed Quentin over the edge, it would have been his wife's phone call. Maybe she told him she was filing for divorce immediately. That could have done it. You said he would be finished in Ohio if she went after him.”

“That's true. Maybe he'd already taken some pills before her call and then took even more afterwards.” Samantha stared out into the room. “It would be so much easier to bear if it was accidental.”

“It must have been. After all, he was drinking the Guinness, and alcohol magnifies the effects and makes it worse. Then that repair guy came to the door again in the middle of his wife's phone call. That must have really set Quentin off.”

She shook her head. “Poor Quentin. He was probably so panicked after her call he didn't know what he was doing. I bet that's why the coffee table had pills scattered all around, some opened and spilling out. Police told my lawyer they even found pills dissolved in the bottle of Guinness.”

“That's strange.”

“I thought so too. He probably wasn't thinking at all by that time. Poor Quentin,” she repeated and continued to fast-forward though the early morning hours of the video, slowing down when the time clock read 6:20. At precisely 6:33, Samantha appeared at the front door, pausing to key in her code, and entered. “And there I am,” she said in a soft voice. She stopped advancing the video. “And I don't leave. The next people to appear at the door are the Fairfax County Police.” She released the tail-less mouse and sank back in her desk chair.

I stared at the lingering video screen shot showing Samantha's empty front porch. “You'll take this video to your lawyer this morning, I trust.”

“Oh, yes. I left a message on his personal voice mail telling him that I'd drop by with the video.” She reached for the mouse again and began to reverse the video. “I'll make sure to show him the exact same sections we've looked at and see what his reaction is.”

I watched the images go backwards. “Plus, he can show the delivery man to the police. That way, you stay out of it.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

I reached for my forgotten cup of coffee. Half-full and stone-cold now. I took a sip anyway. Glancing toward the screen, I noticed a quick image flash by. It looked like a man. “Wait a minute.” I pointed to the screen. “I just saw another guy on your porch. Go forward again.”

“Probably some delivery man. They come by regularly,” she said as the images moved forward, more slowly this time.

“Stop right there at 4:15. Let it play,” I said and pointed at the screen again as the image of a man appeared, walking up to Samantha's front door. There was something in his hand. “See, he's carrying something. It looks like a mailing envelope. Same color.”

Samantha peered at the screen. “Yeah, it does.”

The man looked around the front porch, looked behind him, then glanced above the front door. He paused long enough to stare right into Samantha's surveillance camera.

“That's a young guy,” I said. “And he's not wearing a uniform, just street clothes. He doesn't look like a delivery man.”

Samantha's eyes narrowed. “No, he doesn't.”

The young guy leaned over and placed the mailing envelope beside the front door, then glanced around again before he walked away—out of camera range.

I'd also noticed something else. “He didn't ring the doorbell, Samantha, and he didn't knock. Are you sure you didn't ask someone to drop something off at your house?”

“No, I didn't. But I know who did.
Dammit!
”

Her sudden anger took me by surprise. “Who?”

“Quentin! That guy has to be the one who supplied Quent with his pills. He said he used some young staffer who worked at the Congressional Research Service. His uncle's an internist and filled the prescriptions. Quent said the guy delivered them to his house, and Quent paid him in cash.”

“
What!
I cannot believe Wilson would take such a risk. That was definitely not smart.”

“I know, I know.” She shook her head. “I told Quent the same thing, but he insisted he needed the pills.”

“Wouldn't his doctor supply him with sleeping pills?”

Samantha released a long sigh. “It was more than that. Quentin also took Vicodin occasionally, and his doctor would only prescribe a little of that.”

I closed my eyes. I had heard this story before. Too many times. Opiate-based painkillers. Blessed relief from pain for some. A dangerous path for others.