“I like that,” Smith said, “bright young people getting involved. A lot of them sour after a taste of how things really work here in Washington, especially Congress, but it’s a good learning experience.”
“I agree. I gave Laura your name and phone number, and urged her to call if she ran into any serious problems.”
“What sort of problems?”
“Nothing specific, but you know how young people can make a bad decision now and then. I just thought that knowing there was someone with a mature, level head to talk to would be beneficial. I should have given you a heads-up.”
“Well,” said Smith, “if she has run into a problem, she hasn’t called to tell me about it. Has she raised one with you and Grace?”
“Nothing major. She and her roommate don’t get along, but that’s not unusual. Mac, the reason I’m calling is that Laura has been good about staying in touch. I can testify that she calls almost every day because I pay her cell phone bill. We haven’t heard from her in three days, which is unusual.”
“You can’t reach her?”
“Grace has tried. Laura doesn’t have a landline in her apartment, uses only her cell. That seems to be the trend these days.”
“No luck raising her on her cell?” Smith asked.
“No. That bothers us, too. We leave voice messages but she doesn’t return the calls.”
“How about the congressman’s office?”
“Grace and I have been reluctant to call there. We don’t want to embarrass her by having Mommy and Daddy call where she’s working. I’ve tried Hal’s home number, but all I get is his answering machine. I’m sure there’s nothing wrong. Laura can be impetuous. She’s probably taken a few days off and is hiking somewhere with friends. Still…”
Smith said after the pause, “How about if I call Congressman Gannon’s office? I’ll say that I’m an old friend of her father and want to invite her to dinner. I’m sure she’d enjoy a home-cooked meal that isn’t deep fried.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Bennett said.
Mac checked that he had all of Bennett’s contact information and was given Laura’s cell number.
“I’ll give it a try and let you know if I reach her,” he told his friend, whom he hadn’t seen in two years.
CHAPTER
10
“My name is Mackensie Smith. I’m an attorney here in Washington and a friend of Lucas Bennett in Tampa, Florida. Mr. Bennett’s daughter, Laura, is an intern in the congressman’s office. I’d like to speak with her.”
“Please hold a second, Mr. Smith.”
A few seconds later, Roseann Simmons introduced herself. “Hello, Mr. Smith, I’m Roseann Simmons, Congressman Gannon’s chief of staff. How may I help you?”
Smith repeated his connection with the Bennett family and asked to speak with Laura.
“I’m afraid she’s not here.”
“Do you expect her back soon?”
“I’m not sure. Laura has taken a few days off. Have you tried her apartment?”
“I’m told she doesn’t have a phone there, uses only her cell. Her dad has been trying that number but hasn’t been able to reach her. I’m only calling because I thought that she might enjoy a home-cooked meal.”
Roseann laughed. “I’m sure she would. I’ll leave a message for her.”
Smith was distracted by incoming calls before getting back to Luke Bennett in Tampa.
“She’s probably decided to take a few days off from whatever it is she’s been doing in Hal’s office,” her father said. “Laura tends to act on the spur of the moment.”
“A youthful malady,” Smith offered.
“I’m sure she’ll surface any time now and return our calls,” Bennett said. “It’s just that Grace worries about her.”
“If she gets back to me, I’ll let you and Grace know,” Smith said. “I’m sure you’re right.”
That afternoon Smith did what he always tried to do on Thursdays, take a few hours off to play tennis with friends who shared his love of the game. Despite a bad knee and an occasional pinched nerve in his neck, he played these weekly games with serious intent. It wasn’t winning that mattered. Knowing that he’d given it his best was what counted.
Since leaving his teaching position at GW, finding time for tennis proved more difficult. It hadn’t taken long for his client base to grow, and blocking out those few hours every Thursday afternoon took some juggling. His wife, Annabel, knowing how much he enjoyed playing, made him promise that he wouldn’t give up the weekly ritual. Mac Smith believed in keeping promises, especially those made to Annabel.
The matches were held at various venues, depending upon who was playing. On this Thursday, Mac joined political consultant Fred Mayer at his home in the Sheridan-Kalorama area of the District, an expensive enclave bordered on the north and west by Rock Creek Park. After two terms in the Senate representing Ohio, Mayer had done what too many ex-pols had recently done, at least from Mac Smith’s perspective. He’d cashed in on his Washington clout and become a wealthy lobbyist. Smith tended to avoid the lobbying crowd. As far as he was concerned, the lure of easy money had corrupted the electoral and governing process, perhaps beyond repair. But despite those feelings, he’d forged a friendship with Mayer, a former college professor with a keen intellect who hadn’t been blinded by his success and whose private views of what the nation’s capital had become weren’t vastly different from Mac’s.
“You know, Mac,” Mayer often said, “lobbying in its purest form is a positive thing, helping lawmakers understand the complexities of the industry the lobbyist represents.”
“But lobbying isn’t practiced anymore in its purest form,” Mac would counter. “Too many lobbyists simply buy a legislator’s vote in return for the money.”
“True, and I wish it weren’t so. But all lobbyists aren’t the same, Mac.” He smiled. “Just as all lawyers aren’t money-grubbing, ambulance-chasing manipulators.”
That was the last time they’d argued about it. Besides, Mac was well aware that limiting one’s tennis partners to those not part of Washington’s incestuous insiders’ club—government, lobbying, and the media—would reduce the field of possibilities to a precious few. Tennis was a nonpartisan game, maybe the last one in Washington, D.C.
They played on Mayer’s recently installed court at his home. His wife, Suzanne, had put out a pitcher of lemonade and home-baked cookies and chatted with Mac and her husband until she sensed that they were eager to get started with their game and disappeared inside the house.
An hour later, after Mayer had eked out a victory in a hard-fought match, they repaired to his study for a glass of lemonade before Mac headed back to his office.
“So they couldn’t keep the old warhorse out of the courtroom,” Mayer said lightly. “How is it being in the fast lane again?”
“Fast,” Mac replied, “but I’m enjoying it. How are things in the passing lane, Fred?”
“Busy. There was a lull for a while, but things are getting active again. I have a new client who’s vitally interested in the tax bill that’s sure to come up in Congress this session, and I’ll be helping shape Pete Solon’s run for Hal Gannon’s House seat from the Fourteenth in Tampa.”
“From what I’ve read, Gannon has had a lock on that seat ever since he was first elected.”
“It seemed that way, but his hold on it has become more tenuous each year. Hell, it should be a solid seat for him. Registered Democrats outnumber Republicans in the Fourteenth by a pretty good margin, and a lot of Republicans have voted for him because of his so-called nonpartisan approach, bedding down with the right wing on many issues. But they don’t trust him anymore, especially the Tea Party crowd. For them the only good Democrat is a dead one. Bipartisanship is the old politics, Mac, like fax machines and landlines.” He lowered his voice. “And there’s the brewing scandal about Gannon’s sex life here in D.C. that’s filtering back to Tampa. The self-righteous Gannon always runs on being the epitome of a
family man, but that pious claim might be ready to blow up in his face. I think Pete Solon has a damn good chance of unseating him.”
“The daughter of a friend of mine in Tampa, Luke Bennett, is interning for Gannon.”
Mayer laughed. “I hope she packed her chastity belt when she left home,” he said. “The rumors about his sexual dalliances are developing legs, Mac.”
“Sending e-mails of his package to strange women? Frequenting prostitutes?”
“Let’s just say that Congressman Gannon has never met a woman he didn’t covet. At least that’s the scuttlebutt.”
“I won’t ask for more details.”
“And I appreciate that. A refill?”
“Thanks, no. I need to get back to the office.”
Smith availed himself of the shower in Mayer’s home gym that abutted the tennis court, changed into fresh underwear, socks, and shirt that he’d carried with him in a small tote, and walked with the Mayers to his car.
“If your friend’s daughter has anything of interest to say about Gannon, you’ll let me know of course,” Mayer said.
“Come on, Fred, you know that I won’t,” Mac replied.
“Forget I said it,” Mayer said through a laugh.
“I already have. Good game. I look forward to the rematch. The cookies were good, Suzanne. So was the lemonade.”
* * *
On the drive back, Smith pondered what Mayer had said about a sexual scandal developing with Congressman Gannon.
He had to smile at the way Mayer had casually dropped it into the conversation. That’s the way things worked in the nation’s capital. Drop a hint, and anyone who’s heard it passes it along as gospel, embellishing the details, putting his or her private spin on it, and using it as currency in the city that’s built on a swamp and whose denizens too often act like swamp creatures. Whenever someone wanted to tell Smith something and prefaced it with “just between us,” Smith always replied, “Then don’t tell me.”
Mackensie Smith hated the D.C. rumor game and didn’t play it, even with his notoriously close-mouthed wife, Annabel, although he knew that he would tell her what Mayer had said, probably during a moment of pillow talk.
If it weren’t for knowing that Luke Bennett’s daughter was interning with Gannon, Mayer’s hint that the congressman was behaving badly wouldn’t have meant much to Smith. There were plenty of unfaithful husbands in the House and Senate to go around; adding Gannon to the list would hardly be shocking news in a city where scandals were as steamy as the summer weather. It seemed that a day didn’t go by where an elected official, a member of the administration, or someone working for an agency wasn’t caught with his pants down, or videotaped saying something stupid, offensive, or both.
He and Annabel had once heard a former congressman announce at a town meeting that he was dropping out of politics. “The House of Representatives is aptly named,” he’d said. “Every conceivable type of American is truly represented, running the gamut from high-minded do-gooders, attorneys, and businessmen to drunks, wife beaters, and out-and-out thieves. It truly does represent the United States of America.” That got a laugh from the small audience, most of whom assumed that he was making a joke. He wasn’t.
Mac’s thoughts shifted to Laura Bennett and the conversation he’d had with her father.
There was no reason for concern. She wouldn’t be the first young person to neglect to stay in touch with family. Luke Bennett had said that she was impetuous, and the fact that her mother was worried was hardly surprising. She was, after all, a mother.
But he made a mental note to follow up with another call to Gannon’s office if he didn’t hear from Laura in a day or two.
So Republican Pete Solon was about to challenge Gannon for his House seat, Mac thought as he pulled into the parking garage beneath his office building. He didn’t know much about Solon, only what he’d read, or heard from talking heads on cable TV.
Solon was the son of a wealthy real estate developer in the Tampa–St. Pete area and had become a force in local Republican politics when not working in his father’s firm. If Solon ran and appeared to be a viable candidate, that would put Lucas Bennett in an uncomfortable position. He’d championed Hal Gannon because of Gannon’s penchant for often sliding into the Republican camp on issues that mattered to Bennett, and he’d taken considerable flak from his Republican friends for what they considered an almost traitorous act in backing the “enemy.” But if Gannon’s reelection bid became tainted by a sexual scandal, it would be difficult—no, make that impossible—for Bennett to continue supporting him.
“Politics,” Smith muttered as he parked the car, rode the elevator to his floor, and poked his head into Brixton’s office before entering his own. Brixton was behind his desk, feet up on it, reading the paper.
“Catching up on the news?” Smith asked.
“Oh, hi, Mac,” Brixton said, dropping the paper on the desk and his feet to the floor. “I was reading about that woman they found in Rock Creek Park.”
“I heard on the radio,” Smith said. “No suspects yet?”
“No. There’s also a piece about that wife who tried to hire me to put a hit on her hubby. The judge granted bail, said she wasn’t a flight risk with the big house and her kids.”
“No surprise. Are you concerned that she might do something foolish?”
“She already did, trying to hire a hit man.”
“What I mean is, do you think she might try something foolish concerning you? She knows who you are and that you set her up.”
“Like what?”
“Like hiring somebody else to put a hit on you.”
Brixton shook his head. “Nah. That’s not going to happen.”
“It’s happened before,” Mac said, “when that psycho rammed a knife into your arm last year. A few inches to the left and you wouldn’t be here. Where’s Flo?”
“Shopping. We had a little spat. Whenever we do, she goes shopping.”
“You should lock up the credit cards before you argue.”
“Good advice from my favorite lawyer. Things good with you?”
“I lost at tennis, but other than that I’m fine. It was close. I’ll beat him next time.”
“How about I bet on him the next time and you throw the match?” Brixton suggested, laughing.
“Good idea,” Mac said, joining in the laughter.
“Check in before you leave,” Smith said. “I might have an assignment for you.”
Brixton noticed Smith limping as he left the office and went to his own. He knew what a bad knee meant and felt for the counselor. You start wearing out like an old car, he thought, and all the lube changes and new tires and replacement parts didn’t make a hell of a lot of difference.
* * *
Mac returned a call from Annabel the minute he settled in his office.
“I just want to remind you about Celia St. Claire’s party tonight,” his wife said.
“I forgot about it because I wanted to,” Mac said.
“Then we shouldn’t have sent back the RSVP and said that we’d attend.”
“A momentary moment of weakness on my part,” he said. “What time does it start?”
“Seven.”
“I’ll be home in time to change clothes. Sure we have to go?”
“Yes, Mackensie, I’m sure.”
When Annabel called him Mackensie, he knew she meant it.
* * *
Celia St. Claire’s soirees seldom had a theme, for which Mac was grateful. He disliked theme parties, especially when it necessitated donning some sort of costume, even a hat, and he and Annabel had an understanding: When an invitation arrived for a theme party, they were busy, or out of town, or deathly ill. But this night’s gathering was nothing more than yet another reason for Washington’s A-list to dress up and swap gossip about what they’d read that day on Politico’s Playbook, or any of the other “insider” political gossip sheets.
Annabel had become friends with Celia
St. Claire when they worked together on a charity fund-raiser. Celia was indisputably in the top tier of Washington’s social strata. She’d come to D.C. years earlier with her husband, Emile, when he’d been appointed French ambassador to the United States. Emile St. Claire was a wealthy man, having inherited a successful line of department stores in Paris, with satellite stores in other French cities. When his six-year stint in the embassy on Reservoir Road was coming to a close, Celia, who’d become a familiar party giver and had fallen in love with Washington, suggested that they stay. To her surprise—and to the surprise of many, especially family members back in France—Emile agreed, and they put into motion the necessary legalities.
While Celia solidified her position as a favored hostess to the rich and powerful, Emile hooked up with a former high-level member of a previous administration to form a lobbying firm through which they represented numerous companies, many of them French, with a stake in the outcome of congressional legislation and administration foreign policy. Emile’s American partner was the face of the firm when it came to registering as a lobbyist, but Emile, suave, handsome, and persuasive, was the one who brought in the business. They worked well together, and the firm prospered.
Emile’s beautiful wife’s skills included not only planning lavish parties; she possessed a keenly honed sense of whom to invite to ensure mention the following day in the city’s most influential media. She’d even launched a blog in which she gushed about her parties and those who’d attended; it was read religiously by the D.C. in-crowd as well as those salivating for acceptance into it.
“Mr. and Mrs. Smith,” Emile said when Mac and Annabel entered the palatial home in the posh Hillwood section of the city. “How good to see you again.”
“Pleased to be invited,” said Mac.
“The gods have looked down at us with the weather,” Emile said in his French accent. “Lovely evening. We’ll be on the terrace. Please, you know the way there. The bar is open.”
As the Smiths were about to step away, another guest arrived and said something to Emile in French, obviously not his native tongue.
Margaret Truman's Internship in Murder Page 8
