Murder on Capitol Hill (11 page)

“Yeah, I know that, but that doesn’t mean their murders had anything to do with each other.”

“But maybe they did. Anyway, that’s one line of inquiry we’re following—”

“Lotsa luck, Lydia. From what I hear, Mrs. Caldwell… pardon me, Senator Caldwell… she’s not what you’d call happy that the McNab and Caldwell murders are being linked. She wants the McNab thing put to rest as much as her husband did.”

Lydia thought for a moment, then asked with genuine puzzlement, “Are you suggesting that Senator Caldwell wanted Jimmye McNab’s murder investigation stopped?”

“I didn’t say that, Lydia. All I meant was that neither of them, the senator or his wife, were happy about what developed. Can you blame them? It’s bad enough your daughter gets killed by some nut in a park without having it dragged on and on, in the papers, on TV, all of that. It makes us look pretty foolish, huh?”

“Like bums.”

“That’s right. Hey, McNab was a popular TV reporter. Even though the family didn’t push to have the murder solved, lots of other people did, and still do.”

“There you go again, an inference that Senator and Mrs. Caldwell didn’t cooperate in the investigation.”

“Well, she wasn’t really their daughter.”

“I know that, but she might as well have been.”

Jenkins checked a wall clock behind her. “Sorry, but I’ve got to move on. The commissioner wants to see me in a half hour.”

“About the Caldwell case?”

“Who knows? Satisfied?”

“No.”

“What’ll make you happy?”

“The transcripts of the interviews you did, and a chance to look at the McNab file.”

He shook his head.

“Back to square one, a subpoena.”

“You want me to level with you, Lydia?”

“That would be refreshing.”

“Come on, Lydia, I got a job to do, just like you, only for me the stakes are bigger. You and the committee will go through the motions and then announce that you didn’t find anything that implicates the government or any government official in Caldwell’s murder. Me, I’m still left with everybody looking over my shoulder and demanding that we solve the crime.”

Lydia knew that much of what he said was true, and she felt some sympathy for him. She and the committee were dabbling in crime, dilettantes in a grimy game that he lived with every day and would continue to live with until he either retired or dropped dead.

Still, she knew she couldn’t allow sympathy to get in the way of the job she’d taken on. She slipped her copy of the list into a slim leather briefcase. Jenkins saw the look of disappointment on her face and extended his hands across the desk, palms up, as though to say, Don’t be mad at me.

“Thanks for your time,” she said coolly.

“You want the transcripts?”

“I’ll have them one way or the other.”

“Just sit a minute.” He swiveled in his noisy chair, opened a sliding door on a cabinet, leaned back so
that Lydia could see past him and said, “There’s all the copies. They’re too heavy for you to carry. Send somebody over for them.”

She smiled. “Thanks, I really appreciate it.”

His face hardened, and he pointed his index finger at her. “But I warn you, Lydia, that committee you’re working for, like every other damn committee, has enough leaks to sink a destroyer. One leak on what I give you and you can go whistle for anything else. Now and forevermore.”

“I’ll remember that,” she said, meaning it. His concerns were justified, and she determined to do everything in her power to keep the materials private and within the confines of the committee. “I’ll have somebody over here this afternoon.”

“Okay.”

“What about the McNab files? Can I see them?”

“Yeah, but here. No copies.”

“Fair enough. When?”

“Just call.” He suddenly grimaced with pain. “Damn arthritis. I must have slept funny.”

“Take an aspirin.”

“Thanks, doc. Hey, do you know what I read in one of those flaky magazines my wife buys?”

“No, what?”

“That sex is the best medicine for arthritis.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“A pretty gal like you?”

“I don’t have arthritis.”

***

Lydia returned to her office in the Senate Building and arranged for a messenger to accompany her to MPD headquarters later that afternoon to transfer
copies of the transcripts back to her apartment. She’d originally intended to ask Rick Petrone to handle the chore and bring the transcripts to the office, but Jenkins’s warning about leaks weighed heavy on her mind. Until she’d personally had a chance to go through the transcripts there was no sense in having them in an office where staff members would have access to them.

She realized that Ginger had not been in all morning, and began to worry about her. At one o’clock the researcher called and said she’d been tied up at the library and would be in by three. Lydia asked about her dinner meeting with Quentin Hughes and was assured that she’d be given all the details when Ginger returned.

Lydia had lunch sent up from the Senate Dining Room. She’d been reluctant to do that but finally decided to take advantage of such services in the interest of saving time. She tipped the waiter, who delivered quiche Lorraine, a salad and black coffee. She wasn’t sure whether tipping was proper in the Senate, but the quickness with which he accepted it settled the question.

Ginger arrived at four, just as Lydia was about to leave to meet the messenger service at Horace Jenkins’s office. “Sorry I’m late,” she said breathlessly, her red hair hanging in limp strands over her face. “I got engrossed in what I was doing and lost track of time. Where are you going?”

Lydia told her, then asked for a brief rundown on the Hughes meeting.

“I can’t go over it that quickly,” Ginger said. “I’ve got a zillion notes I made after I got home. But this is
why I was late.” She handed Lydia a copy of a newspaper article on which she’d circled in red a paragraph near the bottom.

Lydia skipped down to the circled portion.

“I don’t believe it,” Lydia muttered. “An autopsy is routine in murder cases.”

“Not in the Jimmye McNab murder evidently,” said Ginger. “It struck me as odd. That’s why I circled it.”

“I’m glad you did. I’ve got to go.”

“Need any help?”

“No, thanks.” The phone rang just as Rick Petrone entered the office. He picked it up, held it out for Lydia. “It’s Senator Veronica Caldwell.”

Lydia took the phone. “Hello, Veronica.” She wasn’t sure whether she should say “senator” despite their friendship, but her first name just naturally came out.

“Hello, Lydia, how are things going?”

“Getting there. How are you?”

“All right. I was wondering whether we could get together tonight?”

Lydia knew she had little choice but to agree, although she’d had her heart set on spending the evening in her apartment reading through the transcripts. “All right,” she said.

“Would you come to the house?”

“Yes, of course. What time?”

“I won’t be able to get away from here until six. Make it seven-thirty. We’ll have dinner together.”

“Fine, I’ll see you then.”

“Anything I can do for you tonight?” Rick asked after she’d hung up.

“No, thank you, Rick. I’m having dinner with Mrs. Caldwell.”

“What happened today? I got caught up with Senator MacLoon’s schedule and never got a chance to get over here.”

“I thought you belonged to me.”

“That’s what I thought too, but he said you wouldn’t mind losing me for a day. We had the vote on the Wyoming dam project and all hell broke loose. What did I miss?”

“Well, I think the MPD is about to start cooperating.”

His face showed how impressed he was. “What did they give you?”

“Oh, not much, just enough to keep me reading for the next few nights.” She started to leave. “You and Ginger will lock up?”

“Sure. Have a nice night.”

***

It wasn’t until she was in her Buick and about to join the flow of traffic that she realized she’d already told her staff members too much. She tried to remember whether she’d specifically mentioned that she’d been given the transcripts, then decided she hadn’t and felt better about it. Besides, she had considerable faith in the people she was working with.

She headed directly for the MPD, where two young men from the messenger service were waiting. Forty-five minutes later they’d deposited the boxes of transcripts in her living room and left. She looked at the boxes, fought the urge to open one and headed for the shower.

At seven-thirty on the nose, dressed in a gray cashmere sweater and pleated green and blue tartan skirt, her face free of makeup, her hair pulled back, she arrived at the Caldwell house in Mount Vernon.

It wasn’t until after dinner that Veronica drifted into a monologue about having taken Cale’s place in the Senate. There was nothing maudlin about it, and she even spiced it with humorous asides about her Senate colleagues. “How about some more coffee in the den?” she asked.

“Love it,” said Lydia.

The fire was almost out, and Veronica tossed two small logs into it, saying, “Cale made such wonderful fires. I suppose it was because he kept an eye on it, never allowed it to dwindle too low.”

Lydia settled in a club chair and watched as Veronica arranged the coffee service on a rolling cart. It struck her then, as it had many times before, how smoothly and easily Veronica moved in a social situation. She had, of course, been born into a milieu in which social grace was expected. A good hostess never betrayed any hints of nervousness or lack of ease, and Veronica had learned the lesson well.

Aside from the pull of fatigue around her eyes, Veronica looked as lovely as ever. She wore a full plum skirt and frilly white blouse that buttoned high about her neck. Her auburn hair swooped softly over
her temples and glistened in the flickering glow of the fire, like brandy picking up a candle’s light. Her figure, always on the lean side, was still firm and supple, although a barely discernible thickening through the middle was evident if one bothered to look.

“Would you like something in your coffee?” Veronica asked.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“I think I will. Cale taught me the pleasure in that.” She uncorked a bottle of cognac and added a few drops to her cup.

Veronica sat on the couch, sniffed the contents of her cup, then took a long, slow sip. “Well, where were we?”

“You were telling stories out of school,” Lydia said.

“I suppose I was. Cale used to come home and we’d sit up late while he told me about what had happened during the day. God, Lydia, the Senate is an amazing mix of individuals, each with his own point of view. How anything ever gets done is a wonder of the world.”

“I know what you mean. It’s a maze.”

Veronica sipped her coffee. “Exactly, a maze of conflicting needs and demands. Cale always said that negotiation was the key, negotiation and compromise. I used to argue with him sometimes for compromising his beliefs in order to get a bill through or to bring about harmony on a committee. I wish I hadn’t…” For a moment, she thought her hostess might burst into tears. “Yes, compromise, Lydia, is the key to everything, including your work with the committee.”

“Of course,” said Lydia. “I’m well aware of that. I really haven’t had to do much of it yet, but I’m certain my time will come—”

“Maybe it already has, Lydia.”

“How so?”

“Suggesting that Jimmye’s death be brought into Cale’s investigation.”

“Well… Jason mentioned to me that you were upset about that, Veronica. I’m glad you brought it up. I think we should discuss it.”

Veronica placed her cup on the cart. “Lydia, I really don’t think there’s too much to talk about when it comes to this matter. Frankly, personal feelings aside, I cannot for the life of me see anything of value to be gained by going into the old investigation of Jimmye’s murder. It’s a totally unrelated matter that coincidentally happened to a family that has just suffered a second tragedy. Jimmye was bludgeoned to death by a madman, probably a drug addict or former mental patient. At least that’s what the police have decided. Cale was murdered by someone who obviously had some political or financial gain as a motive, or thought he had.” Her laugh was forced. “I simply wouldn’t have thought that someone with your usual clear view of things would even suggest lowering an entire Senate committee’s role to something like this. This family is not a continuing soap opera, Lydia.”

Lydia was taken aback at the tone of the comment. She said, rather reluctantly, “I’d hardly characterize my work with the committee as a soap opera, Veronica. I think that’s unfair.”

Veronica sat forward and held up her hands.
“Please, Lydia, forgive me. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. It’s been a long, hard day and my tongue evidently isn’t connected to my brain at this point.”

Lydia nodded. “We all suffer
that
malady now and then. Let’s forget it was even said.”

“Yes.”

“But I would like to discuss Jimmye’s death and how it might relate to the committee’s investigation. I suggested to Senator MacLoon and to the full committee that we do it, and I still feel that way. Naturally, I’m willing to—”

“Compromise?”

“Well, to change my mind if there’s some good reason that I’ve missed.”

“Isn’t the fact that her death is obviously not connected reason enough to drop it? The committee has a definite, narrow charter, Lydia—to investigate Cale’s murder and to establish that it was in no way connected with government. Or, if it was, to identify that link, resolve it and allow the Senate to get on with its business with a satisfied American public behind it and not riddled with the sort of doubts that have plagued the Kennedy assassination for all these years.”

“I understand that, Veronica, I really do. But what harm is there in at least looking at how Jimmye’s death
might
shed some light on Cale’s murder? I’m not suggesting a long drawn-out investigation, just a reasonable, limited examination of facts.”