Margaret Truman's Internship in Murder

by Margaret Truman

  “Nothing like Basil Thai. It’s on Wisconsin. Best steamed dumplings and red duck curry in D.C. Game?”

  They drove to the restaurant in Caruso’s car, which he retrieved from one of the many parking lots reserved for congressional staffers. Laura had noticed when approaching the red Nissan that the license plate had a blue attachment with white lettering: U.S. SENATE STAFF.

  “You have special parking privileges?” she asked.

  “It’s the least they can do considering how little they pay us. I had a choice of this parking spot or a Metro pass. I took the parking space.”

  It occurred to Laura that she might learn more about life on the Hill from him than from all the booklets, brochures, and briefings she’d received prior to coming to Washington.

  Dinner was as pleasant and easygoing as their conversation at Lounge 201 had been. Caruso was a good storyteller and amused Laura with tales of his family back in New York City, how he managed to be hired by the junior senator from New York, Marcia Jenkins, and the intrigues that Capitol Hill provided, many of them juicy. There was much laughter, fueled by more drinks, and toward the end of the meal the conversation leaned toward the romantic.

  When Caruso pulled up in front of Laura’s apartment building, he shut off the engine, pulled her to him, and kissed her. She didn’t fight the advance. In fact, she returned the kiss with passion.

  “Come on,” Caruso said, “let’s have a nightcap in your place.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “I have a roommate.”

  “Tell her to get lost for a few hours. My roommate and I have an understanding. When one of us is bringing a woman up to the apartment, the other one vacates.”

  Laura shook her head. “I don’t think that Reis—that’s her name—would like that. She’s from New York, too, Long Island. She’s—well, she sort of a sourpuss, not very social.”

  “Sounds like a real dud.”

  Laura giggled. “Yes, she is. I really enjoyed the evening, Matt. I hope we can do it again soon.”

  He kissed her again, and his hand went to her breast.

  “No, stop it.”

  He continued his grip on her breast while he forced his other hand between her legs.

  “Please, no,” she said, twisting away.

  “You ever hear of hormones?” he asked.

  “I have to know someone better before I—”

  “Okay. I admire that. Sorry. I really am, and I would like to see you again. Tonight was fun. No hard feelings, huh?”

  She smiled. “No, no hard feelings, Matt, and I’d like to see you again, too.”

  “How about tomorrow night?”

  “Okay.”

  She gave him her cell number and the one at Congressman Gannon’s office, and he promised to call the following day.

  While Matt’s sudden aggressiveness had been off-putting, there was something exciting about it, too, and Laura walked into the apartment tingling. Reis was reading a book.

  “I met a terrific guy tonight,” Laura said, kicking off her shoes and plopping on the couch.

  Reis looked up. “Good,” she said, and went back to her book.

  “Could you put down that book for a few minutes?” Laura suggested. “I want to talk to you about something.”

  Reis looked at Laura over the top of her glasses.

  “Okay,” Laura said, “here’s the deal. This city is crawling with terrific guys and I’m sure I’ll be meeting more of them.” She realized that she was suffering the effects of the drinks and worked at speaking clearly. “I met this really nice guy tonight. His name’s Matt. He’s Senator Jenkins’s White House liaison. I wanted to bring him up here but, well, you know, you’re here and it would have been, well, awkward. So how about this? If I want to bring a guy up here, it would be great if you found something else to do, somewhere else to go, a movie, have drinks with friends, anything to give me privacy, and I’ll do the same for you.”

  “I’d really be uncomfortable with that,” Reis said flatly. “I’m here to learn, not to pick up guys.”

  She went back to reading.

  Laura seethed in her bedroom, not because Reis hadn’t agreed, but because she’d been put down by her roommate, portrayed as an empty-brained man chaser not serious about her internship.

  Things went downhill from there.

  CHAPTER

  5

  ONE WEEK LATER

  “Just don’t shoot off your mouth,” Flo told Brixton.

  “Me? Shoot off my mouth? Come on, you know me better than that.”

  Flo stood with her head cocked and a hand on a hip. “That’s why I’m saying it, Robert. I do know you. You hate government types and tend to mouth off whenever things aren’t going your way. Getting the contract to do background checks will mean a nice steady stream of income for us.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “You remind me of that mobster and his wife back in Brooklyn, Jimmy Mush,” he said.

  Flo smiled. “How could I forget him? He was aptly named. His face was all pushed in. He looked like a smashed pumpkin.”

  “That’s a rock group, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember when Jimmy Mush and his wife had that dinner for some of his pals? Everybody’s sitting at the dinner table and she’s in the kitchen yelling at Jimmy to go out and kill somebody ’cause they need the money.”

  “And you say that I remind you of her?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, she was right. They needed the money and so do we.” Flo’s smile turned into a laugh. “Go kill somebody, Robert, or at least stifle your urge to tell them to go to hell.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be a pussycat at the meeting.”

  “As long as you keep your claws in.”

  Brixton’s meeting with officials charged with hiring independent contractors to conduct background checks on potential employees was held in a windowless conference room at Justice. After a half-hour wait, he was ushered into the room, where three men greeted him. Being made to cool his heels did nothing for his mood, but he kept Flo’s words in mind as he shook hands and took a chair.

  “Good morning, Mr. Brixton,” the man in charge said.

  One of the others said, “We’ve reviewed your application and credentials, and frankly, I have a few reservations.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Brixton said. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “Well, to be blunt, Mr. Brixton, you’ve had what might be termed a checkered career in law enforcement.”

  Brixton smiled. “I suppose you could say that,” he said. “I was a cop here in D.C. for four years and with the Savannah PD for twenty. If you mean I’ve been involved in some controversial cases, you’re right. But to me that says that that I’ve had lots of experience. I assume that’s what you’re looking for, somebody with knowledge about the way things work here in D.C., somebody who’s good at coaxing information out of people.”

  “That’s true, of course,” the third man in the room said, “but these background checks are highly personal. We have to be assured that those conducting them do so with discretion.”

  “If you’re asking whether I have a big mouth, the answer is no, except when my wife and I get into an argument.” That he referred to Flo as his wife surprised Brixton, but it was better than calling her his girlfriend. He was too old to have a girlfriend. Paramour? Too French. Significant other? Pretentious.

  One of the suits laughed, and Brixton joined him.

  The man in charge hadn’t found anything amusing in Brixton’s comment. He said, “In reviewing your file, we see that you’ve been the subject of numerous stories in the press.”

  Brixton sighed. “A few stories have been written about me, but not because I asked for it.” He came forward in his chair and said, “Look, I have a PI license here in D.C. because I passed the FBI backgroun
d check. If the Bureau thinks I’m … well, as you put it, discreet enough to be licensed, I’d think that should be good enough for you.”

  The edge in his voice silenced the questioner, but not for long. He tapped the cover of a file folder. “One of your references is Mackensie Smith.”

  “That’s right. Mac Smith and I work together. He used to be a top criminal attorney here in Washington before he became a law professor at GW. He’s back in private practice and I do his PI work.”

  “Mr. Smith is well regarded.”

  “He sure is.”

  “You also have an excellent reference from Michael Kogan.”

  “Mike was my superior when I was on the D.C. MPD. I ended up working for him years later at SITQUAL before it was shut down. That was a private agency State hired to beef up its security.”

  “We’re familiar with SITQUAL and its demise,” one of them said.

  “Mac Smith and Mike Kogan know I do good work and that I’m … discreet.”

  The three men sat stone-faced, their faces reflecting that they were in the process of making a decision. Brixton sat stoically, wishing he was someplace else. Questioning his discretion was hypocritical, he knew. As far as he was concerned, the Justice Department was one huge leaking boat, its leaks fed to the press on a daily basis, maybe even hourly. Who were they kidding?

  It was almost noon. He was tempted to get up, thank them for their time, and head for the nearest bar for a drink and something to eat. But he knew that would be foolish. He wanted the job, needed the work. Nailing down the contract would put the agency on an even keel financially and please Flo, whose tasks included juggling the books and paying the bills.

  “When can you start?” one of the men asked Brixton.

  “Right away.”

  “Okay, Mr. Brixton, welcome aboard. There’ll be two days of briefings on procedures, protocol, the filing of reports, etc.”

  “Just tell me where to be and when,” Brixton said.

  They shook hands and Brixton left. He popped into a restaurant, ordered a drink at the bar, and called Flo with the good news.

  “I was on my best behavior,” he said proudly. “I told them that if they didn’t hire me I’d sic you on them.”

  “I knew you could do it,” she said. “Let’s celebrate. Maybe Mac and Annabel would like to join us for dinner.”

  “Great idea!”

  The two couples hooked up for a celebratory dinner at Proof on G Street, where they secured one of two favored booths, table 20, and indulged in a lavish and expensive meal. It turned out to be a romantic evening for both couples. Upon returning home to their Watergate apartment, Mac and Annabel took snifters of cognac to bed with them, toasted all that was good in their lives, and made love.

  In the apartment they shared, Robert and Flo didn’t bother with cognac. They went directly from the front door into the bedroom, where they continued the evening’s celebration in less clothing than they’d worn to Proof.

  * * *

  At Café Papillon on Lee Highway in Arlington, Virginia, Florida Congressman Hal Gannon sat with his intern, Laura Bennett, at the same table he’d recently shared with Rachel Montgomery.

  The evening hadn’t been planned.

  * * *

  At five that afternoon, Gannon had called Laura into his private office in the Rayburn Building and closed the door.

  “What’s bugging you?” he asked as he sat with her on the couch.

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “Come on, Laura, don’t kid a kidder. You’ve been moping around the office all day like you lost your pet dog.”

  “It’s that obvious?”

  “Afraid so. Come on, tell Uncle Hal. Get it off your chest.” Her response was to well up.

  He put his arm around her and left it there until the tears had subsided.

  “It’s my roommate,” Laura said.

  “I figured that might be the case,” he said. “Your dad mentioned when I was back in Tampa that you were having problems with her. I meant to ask you about it, but it slipped my mind. What does she do, borrow your favorite dress?”

  She managed a laugh through her sniffles. He handed her his handkerchief and she dried her eyes.

  “It’s nothing like that,” she said. “It’s just that she’s such an unpleasant person. I feel like I’m living in a convent.”

  It was his turn to laugh. “No love life, Laura?”

  “How can I, when I’m living with a prude? I’ve been out with a couple of nice guys, but we have to say good night at the door, as though I’m in high school and still living with my parents.”

  He gave her another hug. “Tell you what,” he said. “I have to meet with Congressman Clarke in fifteen minutes. Shouldn’t take more than a half hour. How about we go to dinner, someplace nice? You up for that?”

  “Are you sure? I would love it.”

  He stood. “Good. When I’m finished with my meeting, I’ll go to my car.” He wrote his parking space number for her on a piece of paper. “It’s downstairs under this building. Let me have your cell number. I’ll call you and you come down. And look, Laura, don’t tell anyone what you’re doing or where you’re going. I don’t need tongues wagging around here.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  “Good girl. See you in an hour or so.”

  Laura applied fresh makeup and perfume in the lavatory and evaluated what she was wearing. She’d dressed informally that day—tan slacks, a white button-down blouse, and sandals—and debated running home to change into something dressier but decided she didn’t have time. She returned to the office and busied herself sorting constituent questions and requests until her cell rang.

  “Come on down,” Gannon said. “You’ve seen my car, the red Mercedes convertible.”

  Ten minutes later, she was in the tan leather passenger seat as he drove away from the Capitol Building complex, the top down, the wind whipping her hair into what she hoped wouldn’t end up looking like a bird’s nest.

  “Where are we going for dinner?” she asked.

  “Arlington, a favorite restaurant of mine, Café Papillon. Did I say it right?”

  “I think so. I studied Spanish, not French.”

  “I picked up some Spanish from the Cubans in Tampa. By the way, you look great. Usted muy bonita.”

  “Gracias.” She giggled. “If I knew we were going out to dinner, I would have dressed up.”

  “You look just fine in what you’re wearing. But hell, you’d look good in anything.”

  His flattering comments pleased her, and she found herself relaxing for the first time that day.

  “Drink?” Gannon asked after they’d been seated in the restaurant and Laura had spent time in the ladies’ room rearranging her hair and squirting breath freshener from a small aerosol she carried in her purse.

  “I’d love one.” She told the waiter she wanted a cosmo. Gannon opted for a glass of white wine. He offered a toast: “To Washington’s best and most beautiful intern.”

  “Thank you, kind sir.”

  “So,” he said, “tell me about this dreadful roommate of yours.”

  Laura proceeded to vent her feelings about Reis Ethridge. “She’s just so uptight and judgmental, even nasty sometimes. I hate going home to the apartment because I know she’ll be there, reading a book and barely talking to me. I don’t think she’s left the apartment at night since she arrived. She seems to think that because I enjoy going out and having a good time, I’m some sort of bimbo who doesn’t take being an intern seriously.”

  Gannon’s grimace reflected his response to Laura’s description of her roommate.

  “Your dad offered to rent you an apartment while you’re in D.C.,” he said, “but I told him that I thought it was better for you to stay within the system.”

  “I don’t want to cause trouble,” she said as she finished her drink. “Besides, I think I’m old enough to not have to depend upon my father.”

  “Another drink?”
<
br />   “Yes, please.”

  “I don’t want to corrupt you,” he said.

  “I’ve already been corrupted,” she said. “Four years of college will do that.”

  “Steady boyfriend?”

  She shook her head. “Lots of dates in college but nothing serious. College boys are so…”

  “Boyish?”

  She smiled. “Yes, boyish.”

  They continued talking after ordering dinner—seafood crêpes for her, steak tartare for him—and a glass of wine for Laura. Gannon’s wine had barely been touched.

  “I don’t think I could ever eat raw hamburger like that,” she commented on what he’d ordered.

  “You have to pick your place to order it,” he said. “It’s top-notch here. I know I can trust it. Ever hear about the young man being interviewed for a job over dinner with his prospective employer? He wanted to impress, so when the employer ordered steak tartare, the young guy ordered the same—but added, ‘Make mine well-done.’”

  It took Laura a moment to get the humor in the story. When she did, she laughed heartily.

  “Probably apocryphal,” Gannon said.

  Laura shifted the focus of the conversation from her to him.

  “How did you end up in Tampa?” she asked. “You’re originally from Minnesota, aren’t you?”

  “It’s a long story, Laura, but here’s the gist of it. I was within a month of graduating from high school in Minnesota when my dad announced that he was selling the hardware store he owned and they were moving to Tampa. You know, warmer climate, lower cost of living. I was upset by it. I’d been given a track scholarship by the University of Minnesota and was scheduled to begin classes there in September.”

  “It must have been a blow to you.”

  “It sure was. Anyway, despite my mother wanting me to apply to colleges in Florida, I convinced them to let me go to Minnesota. The family packed up and headed south and I settled in nicely at the university. I loved it there. I was on the track team in the quarter-mile and broad jump, and even was cast in the leading role in a play.” His smile was pleasantly self-effacing. “I hated to leave.”

  “Why did you?”

  I got a call from my mother that spring. Dad had suffered a massive heart attack and was hanging on by a thread in the hospital. My uncle, who lived there too, sent me money for a plane ticket. I arrived a few hours after my father died.”