Murder on Capitol Hill (22 page)

Smith stubbed out the cigar, stood and placed a hand on each of MacLoon’s arms. “Will, it’s a pleasure and a privilege having you represent the state of Utah in the United States Senate. Believe me, when this matter is satisfactorily resolved, the people of Utah will be behind you as they never have been before.”

“I appreciate that, Jed. Shall I call you tomorrow?”

“No, call Ted in a few days. He’ll fly to Washington and distribute the candy to the kids you think deserve it. By the way, Will, we arranged for an old friend of yours to be here tonight.”

“Who’s that?”

“Come see,” Smith said.

The three men left the suite and went down the hall to a room two doors away. Smith knocked. The door was opened by a tall, statuesque girl in a transparent negligee. “Hello, Senator.”

“I’ll be damned,” MacLoon said, stepping through the door. “Kitty…”

“I wouldn’t be surprised, Senator,” Smith said as he and Proust walked up the hall.

Lydia had wanted to contact Senator Caldwell’s physician ever since Horace Jenkins told her that Caldwell had cancer at the time of his murder. Obviously the doctor, whose name was George Clemow, would be bound by the restrictions of the doctor-patient relationship. Still, the notion stuck in Lydia’s mind and, after arriving early at her Senate office, she placed the call.

Clemow’s receptionist told Lydia that the doctor was with a patient but would get back to her. Thirty minutes later he did.

Lydia had met George Clemow some years before. He’d been Cale Caldwell’s personal physician for years and had been present at social gatherings in the Caldwell home. Clemow was a New Zealander who despite many years in the United States had not lost his native accent.

“I’m hoping you remember me, Dr. Clemow,” she said.

“Oh, yes, I certainly do. And if I didn’t, Miss James, I certainly know you
now
. You’ve gotten quite a bit of attention from the media… How are you?”

“Just fine… I appreciate your returning my call,
doctor. Naturally, I’m calling about Senator Caldwell.”

A moment of silence. Then: “A terrible thing. Bad enough that the man was murdered, but to have his own son guilty… well, it’s mind-boggling—”

“Yes… Dr. Clemow, I realize you can’t talk in detail about Senator Caldwell’s health, that certain matters are confidential, like they are between a lawyer and client, but I was told by what I consider a very reliable source that Senator Caldwell’s autopsy revealed cancer—”

“Miss James, as you said, I’m still not able to discuss that—”

“Yes, I understand, doctor, but perhaps you could tell me
something
that wouldn’t compromise your situation.
Anything
…” She realized she sounded almost desperate, but what was there to lose? She was fishing, of course, but in the face of the situation, with Mark Adam now indicted and facing trial and the committee preparing a report… well, anything went. Besides, how do you catch a fish if you never go fishing?…

“It sounds as though you’re not particularly pleased with matters—”

“Doctor, I’ll be indiscreet and tell you. I’m having trouble accepting Mark Adam’s confession. You said it was mind-boggling yourself. So if there’s anything at all that might help to—”

“Well… there is one thing that I might mention, and I don’t think it violates the confidentiality of my relationship with the senator—”

“What’s that, doctor?”

“Senator Caldwell was… distraught over the results
of some tests. He told me he thought he should tie up some loose ends in his life. He didn’t tell me what they were… and I’m not telling you what the tests showed…”

Lydia allowed herself to feel a tingle of excitement… were the fish finally biting?… “Of course not, doctor. Anything else?”

“Well, the senator told me that he was writing a letter in which he would set some things straight, and that the letter was to be opened on his death.”

Lydia, holding her breath, said, “I’ve heard of no such letter—”

“Well, he told me that he intended to give the letter to me to hold until he died. He never did.”

“Maybe he never finished it, doctor? He died sooner than he’d anticipated—”

“No, Miss James, he did finish the letter. At least he told me he had… he was angry at himself for forgetting to bring it to me and said he would on the next visit. I’m afraid there never was a next visit.”

“Who has the letter, do you suppose?”

“I don’t know… his family, I think… In any case, it distresses me that his wishes weren’t carried out. I’d suggested that he leave the letter with his attorney or with Veronica, but he said neither was possible. Strange…”

Lydia forced herself to make a few moments of small talk about the senator, then thanked the doctor for his time and hung up.

Ginger Johnson came through the door, red hair hanging down in her face, breathing heavily, as though she’d been running. “I’m really not late,
Lydia,” she said, taking off her coat and tossing it on a chair. “I was here at seven.”

“Why?”

“I couldn’t sleep. What a night. Harold and I sat up all night and talked about us. He’s so crazy, Lydia, but so nice. He wants to marry me—”

“That’s wonderful—”

“No, it really isn’t. He told me he wants an old-fashioned woman who’ll be a mother to his children and run a nice, neat house from which he can go forth to build his career and so forth. Imagine me housebound, wearing an apron, doing dishes, washing diapers.”

Lydia smiled. “Nobody washes diapers anymore, Ginger. They’re disposable.”

Ginger rummaged through a large pocketbook she’d purchased to replace the one that had been stolen the night of her attack, pulled out a tissue and blew her nose. “I don’t know what to do, Lydia. On the one hand, Harold is square enough to be a good husband. I mean, I wouldn’t worry about his running around. But is that enough? What I mean is, there are lots of men out there who are fun to be with. Harold is… well, face it, Harold is dull, in a nice sort of way.” She directed a stream of air from her lips up to the hair on her forehead. “What’s a girl to do? I’m exhausted from being up all night, which is how come I came in here early… Did you get the message?”

“What message?”

“A call from Christa Jones. Right after I arrived this morning. There, it’s on your desk.” She pointed
to a mass of paper that virtually covered the desk’s surface.

Lydia shuffled the papers until she saw one on which Christa Jones’s name had been scrawled. “What did she want?”

“She wouldn’t say. She sounded off-the-wall, though. Panicky. When I told her you weren’t here, she said, she would call you again when she could.”

“I’ll try her now,” Lydia said, picking up the phone and dialing the number for WCAP. She asked the operator to be connected with Christa Jones’s office.

“I’m sorry, but Miss Jones is no longer with the station.”

“Oh… where can I reach her?”

“I have no idea. Sorry, ma’am.”

“Did you know Christa Jones isn’t working for Quentin Hughes any more?” Lydia asked Ginger after she’d hung up.

“No.”

“Do you have a home phone number for her?”

“It’s unlisted.”

“I hope she calls back. There was something about her that stayed with me.”

“What do you mean?” Ginger asked.

“I’m not sure… I had the feeling she wanted to tell me something but couldn’t bring herself to do it.”

As Ginger left the office Lydia called Cale Caldwell, Jr., and was put through to him by Joanne Marshall.

“I’m glad you called, Lydia. Frankly, after all the things I told you the other day, I worried about how
you might have taken it. I hope you know it wasn’t so easy to tell you those things about Mark and Jimmye. But Mother and I respect you. We trust you. End of speech.”

“Cale, I appreciate it… But here I am, the investigator again… sorry… Cale, do you know anything about a letter your father wrote that was to be opened on his death?”

“A letter? No… I’ve never heard of one…”

“Do you think your mother might have?”

“I really don’t, Lydia. I mean, if she had, she’d certainly have told me about it.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re right. Cale—”

“Why do you ask? Did someone tell you there was such a letter?”

“It’s just part of the morass of facts, half-truths and gossip I’ve been awash in ever since getting my committee assignment. Believe me, I’ve an idea of what you all have been going through. I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again. You come from a… a remarkable family.”

It was a warm, appreciative laugh. “Yes, I do, Lydia. I damn well do. No matter what’s happened, I’ll always be grateful for that…”

Her next call was to Quentin Hughes’s apartment in the Watergate. The line was busy. She tried again five minutes later and again the annoying busy signal buzz. She’d wanted to ask Hughes how she might reach his former producer, Christa Jones. When her third try brought the same busy signal, she gave up. Probably Christa had left because of her problems with Hughes, and it was unlikely he’d give a damn
whether anybody contacted her or not. She’d just have to wait for her to call again.

***

Quentin Hughes listened as his mother told him on the phone about what had happened to her in Des Moines. Two men had forced their way into her house, ransacked it and terrified her. She was still shaken, and a family physician had come to the house and sedated her. The police had been called, but when it became evident that nothing had been taken from the house, they seemed to have lost interest in going after the two young men who’d forced their way inside.

“…and you have no idea what they were looking for, Momma?” Hughes asked.

“No, I don’t. It was so terrible, Quentin. I wish you had been here.”

“I do, too. Did they go through the closet?”

“They went through everything, Quentin. The house was left a mess.”

“What did they look like?”

“Oh, I can’t remember, except one of them was bald, and so young too… that struck me…”

“Look, Momma, I’m glad you’re safe and sound. Do what the doctor says and get some rest. They were probably just a couple of nuts looking for drugs.”

“Drugs? Why would they look for drugs in my house. I don’t use drugs.”

“I know, I know, Momma. Look, I have to go. I’ll make plans to fly out there as soon as I can.”

“You always say that but you never come.”

“I was there just a little while ago—”

“Yes, I know, but you only stayed for a little while. You only came to get that package.” She groaned.

“Are you all right?”

“Do you think they were looking for that package you had here?”

“Don’t be silly. I told you what they were, a couple of nuts. Rest and take care of yourself. Have the locks changed on the door. I’ll pay for it.”

“I don’t like being here alone.”

“We’ll talk about it soon. Goodbye, Momma.”

He hung up and quickly went to the kitchen, took the key from the nail behind the refrigerator and went to his bedroom. He pulled the fireproof chest out into the middle of the room and nervously opened it. The brown package was missing.

He went to the living room, took a violent swipe at a lamp on the desk, sending it flying across the room. He clenched his fists. Christa… damn her soul…
damn
her…

They missed each other by only minutes.

John Conegli pulled up in front of Christa Jones’s apartment building just as she was turning the corner in search of a cab.

He circled the block twice before he found a parking spot. He walked to the front of her building, looked up and down the street, entered the foyer. He removed a set of master keys from his pocket and tried several before one worked. He opened the locked door separating the foyer from the interior of the building, closed it behind him, listened for sounds. The mailbox said that Christa’s apartment was number 4. He looked for an elevator. There wasn’t any. He cursed silently as he began the long trek up four flights of stairs. By the time he reached the top he was breathing heavily, and his right leg that had been treated for phlebitis two years before had started to ache.

He stood in front of Christa’s apartment door and again listened for sounds. This time the first key on the ring opened the door.

One of Christa’s cats looked at him from where it had been asleep on a windowsill, yawned, then put
its head back on its paws. The other cat came from the kitchen and rubbed against Conegli’s leg. He gently brought his shoe up under its belly and pushed it away. “Get lost, cat.” He’d never liked cats. Sneaky creatures.

He looked in the bathroom, the kitchen. A large bag of dry cat food had been emptied onto a succession of paper plates. Next to the plates were two animal feeding bowls that were filled to the brim with water. An eight-quart pot had also been filled with water and sat on the floor. “Looks like she took off for a while,” he mumbled to himself. “Looks like she’s planning to come back, too.”

He systematically searched every corner of the apartment. He could have worked faster, but he didn’t want to leave evidence that someone had been there, which meant carefully replacing each thing he moved.

Two hours later, his search completed, he sat on the couch, put his feet up on a coffee table and closed his eyes. Five minutes later he left the apartment, returned to his car and drove off in the direction of Clarence Foster-Sims’s apartment. He’d listened in on a conversation the other night between Foster-Sims and Lydia James. Because it had taken place on the phone, he’d only heard Foster-Sims’s side of the conversation, but it was enough to learn that they were having dinner that night at Foster-Sims’s apartment. He stopped at a tobacco shop and stocked up on cigars. Chances were, it would be a long night.

***

The phone started ringing as Lydia fumbled in her purse for the key to her brownstone. She hurried
opening the door, ran into the living room and grabbed up the phone. “Hello.”

A pause. “Miss James?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

Silence. Then, “This is Christa Jones, Quentin Hughes’s producer…”

“Oh, yes?”

Lydia cradled the phone to her ear with her shoulder as she quickly sorted through the mail. Along with bills and junk mail was a brown envelope just slightly larger than a standard number 10. It was addressed to her by hand, and the upper left-hand corner read: “C. Jones.”