“How did you come into Senator Abbott’s orbit, Mr. Nichols?”
That brought his head up. “Call me Greg, please. Fact is, I met Senator Abbott when I was fresh out of law school, betwixt and between, I suppose you could say, uncertain what I wanted to do. I was sitting in the Big Raisin, an English pub and restaurant over on Platt Avenue, drinking a beer, wondering what I was doing here in Washington, of all places. I didn’t know anybody, didn’t have a single contact, and yet I’d taken the train down from New York to interview for a job that morning and was nursing a beer and thinking I was a great fool.
“Senator Abbott came in and sat down beside me, ordered a martini, two olives. He looked familiar, but I didn’t realize who he was. He seemed like a nice businessman, friendly, passing the time while waiting for his lunch guest. He asked me what a young guy with a bad haircut was doing sitting at a bar in the middle of the day, and why I wasn’t out building bridges or teaching children math.
“I laughed, told him it was all happenstance I was even in Washington, in that particular restaurant, drinking that particular beer, which I should point out was warm.
“He rolled his eyes, said, ‘Ah, it’s English.’ We continued to talk, he kept asking me questions. Another man came in maybe twenty minutes later, evidently the fellow he’d been waiting for. I didn’t realize it then, but it was the Speaker of the House. Senator Abbott got up and handed me his card. When I realized who he was, I tell you, I nearly choked on my beer. He even shook my hand, introduced himself. Then he told me to call him later that afternoon, he wanted to speak to me about a possible career change.
“I told him I didn’t even have a career to change.
“He laughed, told me I wouldn’t have to concern myself with former employers then, would I?
“I went to see him the next morning. He hired me. Over the years I took on responsibilities, I gained his trust. We became close.” Nichols smiled. “I was his spearhead.” Again, he paused, eyes filling with tears. “I’m sorry, but I know you understand, Rachael.”
“Well, I certainly understand my own pain,” she said. “I expect I’ll feel it for a good long time.”
Nichols glanced at an abstract painting on the far wall, huge red flowers, looking ready to explode. He said, “I certainly understand that. Senator Abbott had charisma in spades. It’s a natural talent, one you really can’t learn. It’s certainly not Senator Jankel’s strong suit, but we’re trying.” He gave them a self-deprecating smile. “Please don’t spread that around, all right? I really don’t want another career change now.”
“Of course not,” Rachael said.
Nichols cocked his head to the side, looked thoughtful. “It’s been so long since I’ve had these concerns, I’d forgotten.
There’s so much to learn. Believe me, Senator Jankel’s likes and dislikes, his beliefs, what’s really important to him, they’re very different from Senator Abbott’s. What else can I tell you, Agent Crowne?”
Jack said, “Since I’m sure your time is running short, Greg, you could cut the bullshit, that’d be good.”
Nichols jumped to his feet, planted his hands on his desk. “What is it you’re implying, Agent Crowne?”
“Greg,” Rachael said, “you and I are both guilty of not telling the investigators the truth. Both of us know Jimmy killed that little girl because he told us individually. And we both know he hadn’t had a drink or driven a car for eighteen months because of it. Both of us remained silent. Neither of us wanted to ruin his good name. Of course, it might have led to your own involvement in the cover-up, but that’s over now.
“I’ve told everyone the truth. It’s time you did, as well. All of it.”
He sat down again, looked at them over his steepled fingers. “When I spoke to the investigators, I did not cover up that the senator had stopped drinking and driving, I simply didn’t emphasize it to the police because I didn’t want the hit-and-run accident eighteen months ago to come out now that Senator Abbott was dead anyway.
“Evidently, the FBI believes the senator was murdered, because he’d stopped drinking and driving. I suppose this was based on what you told them, Rachael?”
“Yes.”
To be honest, that sounds rather feeble to me, surely not enough to make the FBI reopen the case. There must be more.” He looked pointedly at Jack, who only shook his head.
Nichols continued. “I have given this a lot of thought, and I don’t believe he was murdered. No, that doesn’t make sense. I believe he committed suicide. Of course, I haven’t publicized that.
“And then you came to tell me you were going to make your father’s confession for him, you were going to tell the world about it.”
“Yes, that was what I was going to say, what I very well still might say.”
Nichols said, “Do you want to know why he told me he was going public, Rachael?”
The braid momentarily curved around her cheek as she nodded, and Nichols stared at it. He said slowly, “I believe Senator Abbott told me because he wanted me to talk him out of doing it.”
Jack said, “That’s an interesting theory. Care to tell us what you said to him?”
“I told him it was the worst possible mistake to go public about killing the little girl because the media would devour him, make him into their monster of the month. He wasn’t a monster and never would be, but that’s how it would end up. The media would never take into account things like the man’s excellent character, his caring for every man, woman, and child in this country, the legislation he’d gotten passed—thoughtful, far-reaching laws.
“No, the media would ignore all the good, wouldn’t consider it relevant. I told him that ruining his own career was only the first bullet he’d take. Then they’d go after his family with gossip, half-baked stories and innuendos. His daughters and their families would be dragged into it.
“As for what they would do to the Abbotts, they’d dig up malcontents, interview anyone with an ax to grind against the family. Naturally, such a major scandal isn’t anything the party needs.”
Jack said, “But Senator Abbott realized all this. He’d thought it through, struggled with it for a very long time. He knew what would happen, he knew, yet he’d decided to act, no matter your arguments.”
“Perhaps. But maybe hearing someone say it out loud—namely me—playing devil’s advocate for him, made a difference. As I said, I think he really wanted me to talk him out of it. Look, Agent Crowne, I’ve struggled as well, wondered endlessly if keeping faith with Senator Abbott was the right thing, but you see, I knew the man, knew his heart.
“I also knew the death of the little girl was a dreadful accident, something that could have been avoided had he . . . well, had things been different for that split second, but they weren’t, and so a child died needlessly.
“I tried to make him realize that it was an accident, tried to pull him out of his private hell. He wavered, and I was never sure what he would say from one day to the next, near the end.
“Let me be honest here. I’m simply not sure what his thinking was at the time of his death. I’ll admit that I played the Rachael card—I told him the media would go after you especially, Rachael, you and your mom and her family. And was it fair to smear you in all this?
“Then he died, and now we’ll never know what he would have done.” He paused, steepled his fingers again, a nervous habit, Jack thought, tapped them against his well-shaven chin. “In the end, would he really have resigned his office, confessed it all publicly? I don’t know. When he died, it was all moot. I don’t know what else I can tell you, Agent Crowne.”
Jack said, “Well, we’re still wading through it here, Greg.”
THIRTY-THREE
Nichols’s face spiked red with rage. “You think I’m lying to you? You want someone to blame for his death and you’ve selected me? That’s nuts, you’re nuts.”
Jack said, “Fact is, we’re running short on suspects here, Greg. You agree Senator Abbott told only
you, his family, and Rachael. Do you know of anyone else he told?”
“No, I don’t, but there could easily have been others. He had a lot of friends, all the staffers listen at every keyhole.”
He was still breathing hard, his right hand in a mean fist. “Rachael, remember you told me you wanted to carry through with his wishes, you wanted to tell the world about his part in that little girl’s tragic death?”
“Yes, I did,” she said. “I still do. I believe to my soul he didn’t change his mind, he wouldn’t, and someone killed him to keep him quiet. Was it you, Greg?”
“No, it wasn’t. Listen, Rachael, none of us know what your father’s thoughts were in that split second before he died, what his decision was in that moment.”
Rachael said, “I remember Jimmy was very quiet that evening. He gave me a kiss, patted my cheek, called his driver, and left, without telling me where he was going. His driver told the police he dropped Jimmy off at The Globe restaurant in Friendship Heights, where he was to meet some of his colleagues.”
Nichols said, “I had nothing to do with setting up any dinner, and that’s what I told the investigators.”
She nodded. “But there were reservations in his name, for twelve. The guests arrived at the restaurant, but Jimmy never did, because he was dead, at the wheel of his own car, that’s what the investigators told me—that the car was registered to Senator John James Abbott, a white BMW. I’d never seen him drive it, it was always locked in the garage, so I couldn’t even verify that it was his car.
“But the thing is, Greg, if Jimmy decided to drive again, why would he come back to the house without telling me? Why would he go straight to the garage, get into his BMW, and simply drive it away? I don’t think he’d even seen his car keys in months. Better yet, how did he get back here to get his car? Investigators couldn’t find any taxis that brought him back.”
Jack said, “That’s because the murderer had already gotten the BMW, probably forced your father into the car outside the restaurant. It was well planned.”
Nichols asked, “What about Senator Abbott’s driver?”
“Rafferty’s in the clear,” Jack said. “He said when he dropped Senator Abbott off outside the restaurant, the senator told him to take the night off, and so he did. He’s very nicely alibied.” Jack paused, studied the man’s face.
Rachael fiddled with her braid. Jack said nothing, waited, his eyes still on Nichols’s face.
Nichols said finally, not meeting her eyes, “As I already said, I think it’s very possible your father killed himself. No, no, listen. I think he committed suicide because he couldn’t live with the secret, but he didn’t want to ruin your life, Rachael, or that of his family, and so he killed himself. This is what I believe. I think it was his gift to you. I’ll tell you, I was relieved when his death was ruled an accident. I didn’t want it ever said that Senator Abbott killed himself. Ever.”
“Suicide?” Rachael repeated slowly. “You honestly believe Jimmy killed himself?”
Jack said, “You’re saying he drank to bring himself to the sticking point, got in his Beemer, and drove over the cliff?”
“If he was ending his life, it seems to me it would make sense to ease things a bit.”
“Jimmy did not kill himself,” Rachael said. “He did not. He wouldn’t, he simply wouldn’t.”
“You prefer to think that someone wantonly took his life because of what he was going to confess?”
Rachael sat forward, her voice becoming quite hard. “Jimmy was not that kind of man. Greg, you know Laurel, her slimy husband, and Quincy. Don’t tell me they would hesitate to kill someone they believed would dirty their lovely worlds. Jimmy was planning to explode their world.”
“Plan to murder their own brother? To actually follow through with it? No, that’s pushing it too far, at least for me.”
Jack said, “Shall I tell you the cases I’ve worked where family members have enthusiastically butchered each other?”
Nichols said, “I can accept that, Agent Crowne, if you’re talking about psychopaths, about people with limited mental ability, the sort of people who have only their fists and the will to use them. That’s not the Abbotts.” He raised his hands, no longer clenched. “I know, you have the horror stories, Agent Crowne, but the Abbotts, no matter their behavior, their faults, their seeming lack of, well, humanity. I’ve known them a very long time. They don’t abuse or murder their own blood.”
Nichols sat forward, all his focus on Rachael. “You’re still not planning to tell the world what your father did, are you, Rachael?”
“Yes, I think I am. I know you believe it might destroy your career, Greg, but you brought that on yourself.”
He stared at her. “What do you mean by that?”
“I’m talking about your own involvement in the cover-up. Come now, Greg, Jimmy told me how you talked him out of calling the police after he struck the little girl. When he spoke publicly, of course he wouldn’t point to your role in the cover-up, but you knew it would come out. The speculation alone about your connection would end your career and you knew it.”
Nichols said, “Whatever passed between me and Senator Abbott is confidential, but I will say this. Even though I did know about the accident, I did not know the details, the particulars, until Senator Abbott told me days before his death. That is the truth.” He shrugged and looked gravely disappointed.
Jack nodded, his voice approving. “I suppose denial of particulars is best. After all, Greg, no one would expect you to admit to being an accessory after the fact to a vehicular homicide. No one would expect you to send yourself to jail.”
Nichols clasped his hands together, and his voice lowered, harder now. “I have told you the truth. I will not speak of it again.” He turned to Rachael, raised his voice. “Who are you to destroy a man’s name, to have the world judge him on a fraction of his life when he spent years—years—doing such fine work? That is one decision you cannot make for anyone. Especially not for him. You had only six weeks with him, Rachael, not enough time to know what he even liked to eat for breakfast. You did not know his mind, or his heart. You must accept that.”
Jack saw Rachael’s face was stark and pale, and said easily, “Where were you that night?”
“Me? All right, I suppose I am a suspect. Trust me, I don’t need a calendar. That night is burned into my memory forever. I was to have dinner with Susan Wentworth—she works over in the GAO. But we didn’t go, I can’t remember the reason. So I don’t have an alibi for the night of Senator Abbott’s death.” He looked down at his watch. “I must brief Senator Jankel. He needs my input before he votes.” He rose, didn’t offer to shake hands. He said to Rachael, “I hope you think long and hard about this, Rachael. Very hard.”
Rachael didn’t say anything. Jack thought she looked sad, and very tired.
Outside Senator Jankel’s office, Jack said, “I expected you to tell him someone was trying to kill you, but you didn’t.”
“To be honest, I didn’t see the point. He is very bright, Jack, and very smooth. His word against mine, and what good would it do? And he knows that.” She shrugged. “I don’t blame him, not really. He was only trying to clean up the mess; he didn’t create it.”
Jack said, “He’s also a liar.”
“Yes, he is.”
Jack said, “Do you think he murdered your father?”
Rachael paused on the sidewalk in front of the Hart Senate Office Building and raised her face to the warm sun. She said, “Bottom line, who would hire him on Capitol Hill if it was known he helped my father cover up that accident? Oh, I don’t know. My head hurts.”
THIRTY-FOUR
When Savich called Congresswoman McManus’s office, a staffer told him she wouldn’t be in today, and that was all. It was no problem discovering McManus’s home address. They drove straight to her house in Tenleytown, past the business district along Wisconsin Avenue to Upton Street.
“No warning?” Sherlock asked.
>
Savich shook his head. “Nope.”
“I would assume she’s a very busy woman. I hope she’s home and not off at some function.”
Dolores McManus was home. Her secretary, Nicole Merril, brought down her thick dark raised eyebrow when Savich identified them, then she led them to the congresswoman’s home office in the back of the good-sized redbrick Georgian house set back from the busy street, surrounded by oak and maple trees. She knocked once, lightly, then ushered them into a room that wasn’t all that large, but it was beautiful, covered with bookshelves, even a ladder to reach the ones on top, heavy dark furniture you could sink into, too warm for Sherlock’s taste.
Nicole Merril said, “Congresswoman McManus, forgive the interruption. This is Agent Savich and Agent Sherlock from the FBI, here to see you about a Dr. Timothy MacLean.”
As an intro, it did the trick. Savich saw McManus’s hands fall off her computer keyboard and he’d swear she nearly rose straight out of her chair before she got herself together.
Then she straightened to her full height, and stood tall and still, facing them. In person, Congresswoman Dolores McManus was magnificent and well-dressed, standing close to six feet tall, with a sturdy, solid build and an amazing face, all angles and hollows, and deep lines seamed along the sides of her mouth. That mouth was opening right now, and Savich knew to his heels this woman loved to mix it up, no matter who or what the subject. Maybe he’d cheer her on if he agreed with her politics; at least he would if she hadn’t paid some yahoo thug from Savannah to murder her trucker husband.
He looked into those dark eyes, saw both guilt and knowledge. He knew she’d done it. She’d thought about it carefully, gone through a dozen pros and cons, a dozen scenarios, then planned it meticulously, probably scared the spit out of the guy she hired to kill Mr. McManus.
He’d really like to have seen her with Timothy in the room, but of course there was no way she would have agreed to such an arrangement. If she was the one who tried to kill MacLean and indeed killed his tennis partner, Arthur Dolan, did she somehow manage to get out of Washington unnoticed and make the attempts herself, or did she hire someone like she did with her husband?
The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15 Page 52
