Murder on Capitol Hill (13 page)

“I appreciate that, Lydia. Tell you what I’ll do, I’ll get ahold of him and suggest that he see you. I don’t know what more I can do. I really don’t have any control over my brother’s life.”

“I realize that, Cale. Anything you could do would be appreciated.”

“I’ll let you know when I see you how I made out. See you then.”

***

An hour later she received a call from a man who introduced himself as Francis Jewel, executive director of the Center for Inner Faith, the cult Mark Adam Caldwell belonged to. “I understand you wish to speak with one of our brothers, Mark Adam.”

“Yes, that’s right. Did his brother call you?”

“Yes. It is our policy to shield our brothers and sisters from the secular life as much as possible. Naturally, since we are a law-abiding church, we are always willing to cooperate in legitimate matters…”

“That’s to be admired, Mr. Jewel. Are you calling to arrange for the meeting I asked for?”

“Reluctantly. Obviously, our brother made a very
unwise decision, attending a party. He was counseled against it but went against the wishes of his brothers and sisters, and his God. I recognize that there are certain obligations he now must meet regarding the investigation into his father’s death. One must always pay for one’s transgressions. His brother told me that you would be subpoenaing him to appear before your Senate committee but wished to speak informally with him first.”

“That’s right.”

“You do realize that there is no binding reason for him to agree to this.”

“Of course.” His tone had begun to grate on her. “He’s free, isn’t he, to make his own decision in such a matter?”

“Apparently you’re one of those who believe what you read about how we exert control over our members.”

“I’ve heard things, Mr. Jewel. I don’t prejudge. May I see Mark Adam Caldwell?”

“Under certain conditions. What happens to him reflects, of course, upon our entire church. I will agree to an interview with him, but I insist on being present. If that is acceptable to you, we can set a day and time.”

“Why must you be there?”

“To protect his interests.”

“
His
or
yours?
”

“Perhaps both. When would you like to see him?”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“Ten?”

“Fine.”

“You know how to find us?”

“I’ll manage.”

Brother!

***

Cale Caldwell, Jr., was waiting at Hogate’s bar when Lydia arrived. He was especially cordial as he greeted her, then placed their order with a busy bartender.

“Thank you for calling your brother’s church for me.”

“They got back to you?”

“Yes, a Mr. Jewel. I didn’t like him, don’t like anything about the arrangements that have been made, but I guess I have no choice. In order to see your brother, Mr. Jewel insists on being present during our conversation.”

Cale smiled. “I agree with you, of course, but I suppose I’ve gotten used to it. Ever since Mark joined the Center for Inner Faith everyone in the family has been subjected to that sort of thing. I’m afraid there’s nothing can be done about it. That’s the way they work, and if you want something from them you play by their rules.”

Lydia sipped her drink and stared at the highly polished bar. “It’s bad, Cale. These cults and their hold over their followers. They’re a real threat. There should be more investigations—”

“It’s touchy,” Cale said. “Start messing with religion, or what purports to be a religious group and you run the risk of being called intolerant, messing with constitutional rights… hey, you’re a lawyer, you know all about it.”

She nodded. “Still, after Jonestown… Anyway, what attracted your brother to it, do you know?”

He leaned on the bar and moved closer to her to
allow a man behind him to reach for his drinks. “Mark is… well, Mark has always been different, Lydia. He has an intensity about him that, once upon a time, was appealing to Mom and Dad. He’d get into something and it became the only thing in the world. It didn’t matter whether intellectually he knew it was dangerous. It was as though he went into a trance, all judgment was suspended. Still, it wasn’t something that you could take serious exception to. After all, he excelled at whatever he did. He became the best wrestler in high school, the best weight lifter, the most knowledgeable astronomer. Nothing halfway with Mark. He could blot out the world once he dove into something. Frankly, I often envied him that single-minded dedication until, of course, it led him into something like this damn cult.”

Lydia glanced around. The bar was filled with attractive people, animated in their conversations, eyes skirting the bar, appraising.

Someone recognized her and waved. She returned the greeting, then turned back to Cale. “Cale, do you think your brother was… capable of murdering his father? Do you think he had a reason to?”

For a moment she thought he might actually strike her. He gripped his empty glass, his mouth tensed. Then, abruptly, he seemed to relax. “Yes.”

Now it was her turn to react. “You do understand that I’m not suggesting that he did.”

“You said ‘capable’… yes. My brother, as much as I love him, is a disturbed person. It’s gotten worse over the years. Naturally, everyone in the family has denied it. After all, what’s a family for?… Do I actually
think Mark killed his father? Of course not…”

“Any ideas?” she asked, noting that his last words sounded more a demurrer than a denial.

“Your guess is as good as mine. I bet the police will never come up with a good answer, and the same goes for your committee. It will be another unsolved murder, more important than most because of Dad’s position, but unsolved… which of course will be the ultimate blow to Mother, not having an answer to it. I hope it won’t happen, but I bet it will.”

“I’d like another drink, Cale.”

“So would I.”

After they were served Lydia decided to press him more on his brother as a good suspect.

He drew himself up straight, smiled pleasantly. “If you wouldn’t mind, Lydia, I’d just as soon not talk about this anymore.”

“I’m sorry… well, how are things going with you?”

“Personally or professionally?”

“Either, both.”

“Professionally, first-rate. Personally, up and down. Which makes me part of the human race, I guess.”

“I suppose you’re right. It seems easier to get professional things in line than personal ones.”

“Ah, yes.” He wiggled, Groucho Marx fashion, an imaginary cigar between his fingers. “Nothing is as unsolvable as the man-woman thing, right?”

“Right.”

“Are you seeing Clarence?” he asked.

“We’re old and good friends.”

He shrugged, took a drink. “I thought there might have been more to it than that.”

She said nothing. Then… “I had dinner with your mother.”

“She told me, said it was a nice evening.”

“Yes… she’s an amazing woman, Cale, so strong, able to rise above the worst… I saw it when Jimmye died, and now again with your father.”

The mention of Jimmye made him grimace. She decided to follow through on it. “Cale, can you think of anything that might link Jimmye’s murder to your father’s?”

He looked her in the eye, said very firmly, “No.”

“Neither, it seems, can most people, including your mother. She’s quite upset that I’ve suggested it as an area of inquiry for the committee.”

He nodded. “She told me.”

“How do you feel about it?”

“The way she does. We’d all rather see Jimmye’s death stay a thing of the past. It’s too painful to bring it up, and it serves no useful purpose.”

Lydia cocked her head. “Still, I’d think the family of a murdered daughter wouldn’t… couldn’t stop pressing until her killer was brought to justice—”

“Jimmye’s a different matter—”

“Why?”

“Well, she wasn’t, after all, a Caldwell—”

“Legally, no, in every other way, yes.”

“Drop it, Lydia, for Mother’s sake. For
all
our sakes.”

“I can’t, not yet. I’ve promised to reconsider,
but…” She thought about Ginger’s news from her FBI friend, but of course made no mention of it… “Are you aware, by the way, that an autopsy was never performed on Jimmye?”

“I wouldn’t know about that.” He shifted position at the bar.

“Do you know why?”

He turned. “I said I wouldn’t know about that.”

“All right, Cale, I didn’t mean to bring up a tender subject—”

“It’s not a
tender
subject, it’s just that…”

She waited for him to finish.

“Look, there were problems with Jimmye that no one outside the family knew about, and that’s the way it should stay.”

“I agree that family matters belong within a family, unless they have to do with a murder.”

She waited for a response. He glanced at others at the bar, peered into his glass and ran a fingertip around its rim, then squinted at her. “Jimmye and my brother had a problem between them that damn near tore us all apart.”

“What sort of problem?”

“A very personal one. It doesn’t matter what it was. The point is that to drag her life up now accomplishes nothing but opens all the sores. That’s not fair, Lydia, it’s not right.”

“Cale, you have to believe me when I say that I have no interest in meddling in your family’s affairs. Just the opposite. I hear what you say and I sympathize, I
do
… But I ask you again, is there
anything
to your knowledge that would support examining
Jimmye’s murder in light of your father’s death? If there is, anything at all, it’s not, to use your words, fair or right not to say so.”

“No, nothing.”

“This personal problem you mention between Jimmye and your brother. Are you inferring in any way that that might have had something to do with her death?”

“Of course not.” He shook his head. “For God’s sake, Lydia, how could you twist it around like that?”

“Cale, no matter what your feelings are, please at least take into account that I am special counsel, at your mother’s suggestion, to a committee whose job it is to get to the bottom of—”

“I know, I
know
… one more for the road?”

“No, thank you. I appreciate your taking time to see me like this, and for arranging an interview with your brother. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you—”

“I want to help, Lydia. We all do. About Mark, just remember that you’re dealing with a disturbed young man. Don’t be shocked at anything he says or does. Don’t take him too literally.”

***

Lydia went to her brownstone, where she showered, slipped into a robe, made a sloppy grilled cheese and bacon sandwich and settled in again to review some of the transcripts, particularly those of Mark Adam Caldwell, Cale Caldwell, Jr., and Quentin Hughes. Perhaps it was the fact that Ginger Johnson was, at that moment, having dinner with Hughes that prompted her to dig his transcript out of the pile and read it again…

Later she put Mark Adam’s transcript in her briefcase, took a map of Virginia from her desk and studied routes to her destination in the morning. The Center for Inner Faith. It was located on the Prince William County side of Occoquan Creek, a little over a mile from a small airstrip known as Woodbridge Airport. She couldn’t deny her nervousness about making the trip and confronting Mark Adam within the grounds of the cult. She even considered calling in the morning and canceling the meeting. After all, nobody said she had to conduct private interviews with any one of the suspects—just the opposite. MacLoon would be happy if she’d play the game, conduct a tidy, acceptable investigation leading to the desired conclusion that no one in official Washington had been responsible for or connected with the murder of the Senate Majority Leader. Get it over with, operate within the framework of MacLoon’s dictates, enjoy the limelight and get back to private practice which would, undoubtedly, grow at an even faster rate because of the notoriety. A whole cadre of prospective clients had already approached her firm inquiring about representation. They’d read the articles about her in the papers and seen frequent mentions of her and of her role with the committee on the nightly news.
People
had called and wanted to do a feature about her. The advertising agency for a leading Scotch wondered whether she would be interested in being part of its ad campaign featuring bright, attractive and successful young women, for God’s sake.

She’d become a celebrity in a town crawling with celebrities.

She forced the question from her mind, rolled a pillow beneath her head and virtually willed herself to sleep.

***

Ginger Johnson was using some willpower of her own at approximately the same time Lydia was searching for sleep. Quentin Hughes had turned nasty after she’d made it clear for the tenth—or was it fiftieth—time that she would not spend the night with him.

He’d started slow, had been a charming and entertaining host. He’d told her that the woman he’d been living with had recently taken off and that he was looking for a new “meaningful and permanent relationship.” He’d actually said that. He’d served a pleasant white wine before dinner, then uncorked a bottle of red to serve with bacon-wrapped filet mignons he’d grilled on his Jenn-Air stove, complete with spinach salad, hot buttered French bread and for dessert, chilled slices of fresh pineapple.

Throughout dinner Ginger had asked questions about the Caldwell investigation. Hughes seemed disinterested in the subject. When she again brought up the videotape of his interview with Cale Caldwell, he told her that he’d changed his mind and that if anyone wanted to screen it they’d have to come to the studio. “I decided to cancel it at the last minute. Bad taste, showing an interview with a dead man.”

Ginger knew Hughes had shown interviews with dead people before, and asked him why the Caldwell interview was different. He dismissed the question by coming around the table, putting his hands on her shoulders and kissing her on the neck. She squirmed
free and they moved to the living room. From that point on the evening turned into an increasingly hectic seduction scene that ended with Ginger saying, “I don’t really like men who come on too strong,” and Hughes snapping, “And I don’t like broads who tease.”