Deadly Politics (3 page)

I tried to process what I'd just heard but couldn't. “What? I'd be working at his
house
? Doing what, for God's sake?”

“Who
cares?”
Mike exploded. “He wants to hire you!”

“But it doesn't make any sense …” I stammered.

Too late. My friends erupted in a chorus of “Damn, Molly!” “Are you crazy?” and “Grab it!” “Say yes, dummy.”

Karen had mentioned the magic word.
Consultant
. King of Metro Washington Careers. All hail, billable hours.

“This is nuts,” I muttered. “Let's stop the nonsense and have dinner. Didn't I see a yummy Bordeaux on the counter? Let's open it before Nan's fantastic tenderloin is ruined—”

Nan fairly leapt from her chair, empty martini glass in one hand. “Nope. Not a drop. You're interviewing tomorrow.”

“What? For some glorified mascot or symbol or whatever this deluded senator wants?” I gestured dismissively. “No way.”

“Yeah, way. You need a job, dummy,” Deb chided.

“You don't have a choice, Molly,” Bill added. “Your mom's retirement bills are mounting, even as we speak.”

“Time to let go of all that Evil Washington crap you've been carrying around for years. This senator wants to hire you. What are you waiting for?” Nan threw in.

Good question. I didn't have an answer, or at least, a new one. They'd shot down everything else. But I tried to weasel out of it anyway. “Guys, I don't want to get close to Washington politics again. You know that. Too many bad memories.”

There was a momentary silence, and I held my breath. Nothing like old baggage to stop a conversation—or a conversion—short.

Then Mike weighed in. “Molly, may I remind you of your promise made only minutes ago?” He folded his arms across his chest. “When I suggested job-hunting down I-95, traffic and all, your reply was, ‘I'll do whatever it takes.'”

Damn
. I had said that, hadn't I? Trapped by my own words. I hated it when that happened. I looked around at the triumphant grins surrounding me and threw in the towel.

_____

The closet was stuffy and hot. He was sweating beneath his Gore-tex jacket and pants. His cotton tee shirt clung to his skin.

C'mon, old man. Get outta the john and go to bed.

He pulled back the edge of his leather glove and checked his watch. 11:32. Later than anticipated.
Where had the old fart been tonight?

Running water sounded and a toilet flushed. Then a cough, deep and congested, the rattle of long-ago smoking still audible. The bathroom light flicked off.

At last.
He peered through the slanted louvers of the closet door, watching the elderly man in pajamas walk toward his king-sized bed. The flickering light of the television was the only illumination in the room, throwing odd shadows across the walls.

The elderly man threw back the quilted covers and climbed into bed, then pulled the comforter to his waist. A tired sigh escaped as he settled back onto the pillows.

That's it. Relax, watch the news, close your eyes, and go to sleep.

He checked his watch again and deliberately counted ten minutes go by.
Time enough
. He pushed the slightly ajar closet door open and stepped into the darkened bedroom. Slowly approaching the bed, he paused and watched the old man's breathing. Slow and even. He drew to the edge of the bed and reached across.

Suddenly the old man opened his eyes and blinked up in surprise. “Who … who the hell are you?”

“No one you'd know, Senator,” he said in a quiet voice. Then lithe as a cat, he sprang upon the bed, straddling the surprised old man. He had the bed pillow over the senator's face before the old man could call out to the sleeping housekeeper below.

The senator struggled frantically, his arms flailing, his whole body writhing beneath his attacker. But his fingers slid down the slick jacket, unable to grab hold. Just as his cries were muffled. Smothered beneath fifteen hundred thread count Egyptian cotton. Within a short time, the old man's struggles ceased.

He lifted the pillow and checked for a pulse. There was none. An already weakened heart had helped finish the job. He climbed off the bed and returned the pillow beneath the senator's head, then straightened the bedcovers.

There shouldn't be any questions. Not with the old man's bad heart. Everyone will assume he died in his sleep. Odds were good that whatever D.C. cop showed up to investigate wouldn't even work homicide.

He paused at the bedroom doorway and glanced back once, checking the room again. The old man looked positively peaceful. Then he slipped down the stairs, pausing only to enter the security code before he quietly left through the front door. The same way he came in.

Two

“I'm going to gamble
and double-park for a few minutes,” Karen said as she switched off the ignition of her Honda sedan and opened the door.

I exited the passenger side and surveyed the narrow residential street in front of Senator Russell's Georgetown home. “The parking looks as bad as I remember.”

“Pretty much. Fines are steeper, too,” Karen agreed as we crossed the sidewalk leading to the senator's impressive white brick mansion, which rose behind tall brick walls bordering the property.

I followed behind Karen, nervously smoothing my black suit pants and jacket, arranging the collar of my white silk blouse. I'd decided to go with the sober, serious interview suit. Suitable for serious accounting positions or funeral directors. This morning's drive through long-forgotten streets had done nothing to calm my apprehension. Memories pricked like tiny needles.

Karen held the wrought iron entry gate open and gestured to the wide paved path leading to the front steps. The three-story mansion was a beautiful example of the Georgian style architecture that could still be found in Georgetown. “You look marvelous, Molly. Stop worrying.”

Stop worrying?
She had to be kidding. I'd been up since three o'clock in the morning, worrying. Wondering if I'd lost my mind. How could I let my family talk me into interviewing for this job? I had to be crazy, didn't I? Or, desperate. That was it. I was desperate. Desperate times called for desperate measures, right? Well, I had to be desperate to allow myself to be talked into getting within a mile of a Washington politician again.
What was I thinking?

“I'll introduce you to Peter then I'll head back to the Hill,” Karen said as she rang the chimes. “Relax, Molly. You'll do great. Remember, he needs an accountant.” She gave me another encouraging smile.

I did my best to return her smile, but pre-interview jitters plus doubts about my sanity for even being here joined with old memories that begged to be unleashed. Dave and I had lived in a smaller townhouse only blocks from here for six years. Our kids played in the playground at the end of the block. Could I walk these streets without seeing ghosts?

Then, from somewhere inside, I felt another sensation. Excitement. Faint, but still there.
Where the hell had that come from?
It must be the insanity. I was sinking fast.

The crimson door opened and a gray-haired, matronly woman gave us a huge smile. “Ms. Malone, Miss Grayson, please come in. Mr. Brewster is waiting in the library.”

We stepped inside the spacious foyer, polished walnut floors stretching ahead. I glimpsed crystal chandeliers, antiques, and Oriental carpets peeking from the formal rooms opening to the hallway.

“The senator is very excited that you're thinking of joining the staff, Ms. Malone,” the woman said as she gestured down the hall. “He greatly respects your father's work in the Senate years ago. He's spoken of your father for as long as I've known Senator Russell.”

If that was meant to reassure me, it didn't work. Instead, I was even more convinced that Russell wanted me on board as a glorified mascot.
Had I no pride?

“How long have you been with the senator?” I asked as she paused in front of a polished wooden door.

“My husband, Albert, and I have been with Senator Russell for nearly thirty years now,” she said, her pleasant face creasing as a smile spread. “Albert is the chauffeur, and I'm the senator's housekeeper, Luisa.” With that, she knocked lightly on the door, and it quickly opened.

Peter Brewster practically sprang from the doorway, grabbing my hand in an enthusiastic handshake. He was tall and slender, his blond hair stylishly cut, surrounding a boyish face.
Good God, he's just a kid
, I thought.

“Molly Malone, I cannot tell you what a pleasure it is to meet you,” he said, giving my hand a parting squeeze. “I couldn't believe it when Karen told me you were in town looking for a position. What perfect timing.”

Karen smiled warmly as she gestured my way. “Well, I recalled the last time we'd had coffee on the Hill, you were moaning about losing the managerial accountant you'd brought from Colorado, and when Molly was suddenly available, well, it seemed a perfect fit.”

“Perfect is right,” Brewster agreed, his blue eyes alight. “The senator was beyond excited when I told him you might be joining us.”

Oh, brother
. I felt the noose tightening, so I opted for total honesty in hopes it might be off-putting. “You're very kind to say that, Mr. Brewster, but it's been several years since I worked for Senator Hartman. I'm afraid what political expertise I once had is woefully out of date.”

Instead of looking dismayed, Brewster seemed amused by my comment. He glanced to Karen and grinned. “Is she always this self-effacing?”

Karen eyed me sternly like a big sister. “Peter's got your file, Molly, so you can lose that modest routine right now. He knows where you've worked and what you've done. Now, I'll leave you two to talk business. I need to return to the office before Jed starts screaming.”

Karen's boss, Jed Molinoff. Congressman Jackson's chief of staff. A hyper, Type A, overachiever, according to Karen. “Maybe you shouldn't have taken time off to bring me here, Karen,” I said, feeling guilty. “I don't want you to get into trouble.”

Karen glanced down. “Don't worry about it, Molly. Jed's been on my case all week, so a little more irritation won't matter.”

“Tell him I asked you to bring Ms. Malone by at the senator's request,” Brewster said with a grin. “Jed's been sucking up to us ever since the senator came to town. That'll keep him quiet.”

Karen's smile returned. “Peter, you are diabolical. See you later,” she said, heading for the door.

“Later, Karen,” Brewster called after her.

Watching her leave, I tried to get my head around what Karen said a moment ago.
I had a file?

“Come into the library and relax, Ms. Malone. I use it as my office when away from the hill.”

He gestured me inside the dark-paneled room, rich woods gleaming in furniture and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. I could smell the lemon oil. The entire library was straight out of a Dickens novel. I chose a burgundy velvet armchair while Brewster settled in comfortably behind the polished walnut desk.

Unable to restrain my curiosity, I had to pry. “You have a file on me, Mr. Brewster?”

He grinned boyishly over the open folder. “Everyone has a file, Ms. Malone. And please call me Peter.” He lifted the folder. “Thanks to Google, we can run, but we can't hide. May I call you Molly?”

I nodded, still processing. “That's seriously scary.”

“Isn't it, though?” He tossed the file on the desk. “You're welcome to take a look if you like.”

I shook my head. “Not on an empty stomach.” I knew what was there. I didn't need to see blurry copies of newspaper headlines again. Those black-and-white images were already burned into my brain.

Brewster leaned back into the leather chair. “You surprise me. Most people would grab that folder.”

“I already know what's there. I've had my fifteen minutes of fame, and then some. I have no need to relive those days.”

He studied me, his boyish smile faded. “Karen says you blamed Washington for your husband's suicide. Is that why you haven't been back all these years?”

Boy, Karen really did tell this guy everything. I'd have to speak with her. “Actually, I do return to the area. I just fly into Dulles. After all, my elderly mother lives in a retirement home in Northern Virginia, and I have other family here in addition to Karen.” I deliberately dodged the rest of his question. “Actually, yesterday was the first time I've flown into National in over twenty years.”

He smiled at me. “How was it?”

“Wrenching. And heartbreakingly beautiful.”

“You still blame Washington for what happened? That's a long time to hold a grudge, Molly.”

Boy, this guy was like a laser, and I was clearly the target. I could feel the red dot warming my forehead. Sensing that subtle subterfuge and evasion wouldn't work with Brewster, I decided on total honesty.
What the hell?
I didn't want this job anyway. I may need it, but I sure didn't want it.

I glanced over his shoulder to the tall windows behind, draped in burgundy velvet. I spotted a garden outside. “I don't blame the city anymore,” I confessed. “It's what it does to people. To politicians or anyone who works within smelling distance of Capitol Hill. The lust for power consumes them after a while. And they'll do anything to keep that power. Destroy anything or anyone that's in their way.” My voice had hardened as I spoke. Old habits.

Brewster pointed to the folder. “It sounds like your husband wasn't consumed by it. Apparently he helped pass some significant legislation. Environmental protection. Education.”

“You're right. Dave accomplished a lot in his six short years.” I was surprised at the pride I still felt saying that.

“It must have been heady in those days. You two were the young couple to watch. The Golden Pair. The brash young congressman from the West, cutting through Washington red tape, carving a path. A rising star, the clippings say.”

Resigning myself to this stroll down memory lane, I nodded. “He was all that and more.”

“And there you were, right beside him,” Brewster grinned. “Senator Malone's beautiful, politically savvy daughter, who cut her teeth on Washington politics, orchestrating every move in her talented young husband's career.”

Whoa
. I met Brewster's steady gaze. “That's flattering, but it's a gross overstatement. I simply helped Dave … live up to his potential, that's all.”

“The word back in Colorado is you were the force behind David Grayson, Molly. You can feign modesty and deny it, but everyone I talked to both here and in Denver agrees. You were the politically savvy one, not your husband.”

That dart grazed my shoulder as it passed. This guy was one hell of an interviewer. His comments were getting way too close. And dredging up way too many ghosts. Deciding righteous indignation would deflect his aim, I lifted my chin and replied, “Wrong, Mr. Brewster. David Grayson was a charismatic and caring congressman. His strength came from his ability to relate to people, not from me. That's why he was so effective. He genuinely cared about the people he represented.”

Brewster sat silent, watching me, so I continued. “Unfortunately those same qualities were seen as threatening to some other people. Powerful people. He was in their way.”

I clamped my mouth shut so I wouldn't say any more.

“Then why did he kill himself ? Why didn't he stay and fight the good fight?”

Bullseye
. Long-suppressed emotions rushed out, engulfing me for a moment. I fixed Brewster with a wry smile.

“You are something else, Peter, you know that? In all these years, no one has had the balls to ask me that. Did you come up with that question all by yourself, or is the senator behind this interrogation?”

His deceptively boyish grin returned. “The senator is way too polite to be so insulting. That's my job.”

“To insult people? You're doing great so far. I'm going to need therapy after this session. You must have been a psych major, that's why you're attracted to politicians. They're all crazy.”

He laughed softly. “Nope. Political Science and Economics from Northwestern, then M.B.A. from Stanford.”

“Classy credentials,” I admitted. “How'd you get here?”

“After grad school I started working on some California state campaigns, then graduated to congressmen. I discovered I had a knack for helping a candidate stay on message and get elected. I'll give you my r
é
sum
é
, if you like, but let's get back to you.”

I shook my head in grudging admiration. “Damn, you're relentless. What else do you want to know? Go on, Brewster. Bring it.”

This time he laughed loudly, clearly enjoying my abject surrender. “Enough of the past. Let's get up to speed. Present day. Why didn't you get involved in the last Colorado election? You'd been a player from the day you arrived from Washington. First, with Governor Lambert, then with Senator Hartman. The Democrats could have used your help. The Republicans took over some key congressional seats and the state legislature.”

I threw up my hands. “Now, with the guilt, he starts. Don't even go there, Peter. My absence was insignificant. Those candidates lost that election all by themselves. They cut their own throats with that name-calling and mudslinging. I almost had to force myself to vote last November. Besides, your guy is an Independent. So all their mudslinging helped get him elected.”

“Point taken. But you didn't come to
any
candidate's events. Not even the senator's. And my sources told me you personally supported his candidacy, even though he ran as an Independent.”

It was my turn to relax in my chair. I was beginning to enjoy this banter. Getting my chops back, I guess. “Tell your sources they can screw themselves. I sent a check.”

His eyes lit up as he laughed. Brewster clearly was enjoying this conversation. If I couldn't be gainfully employed, I might as well be entertaining.

“And tell them they're getting sloppy. If they were really good, they'd have known that I was divorced at the beginning of last year, and I was trying to put my life back together. Both economically and emotionally. The last thing I needed was a daily dose of the negative campaigning that today's politicians revel in.”