The Sartorial Senator (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 3)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  Agent Anderson said, "Right. So, now you know and I don't get in trouble for telling you, even though I wanted to."

  I could feel myself thawing a bit. I said, "OK. Thanks for that. I see what kinda rock and hard place you're in. Do they know about you?"

  "Not yet. But I'm sure I'll be caught one of these days. Eisenhower does know about me and that's the answer to your question about why I'm working for the Bureau."

  "So he knows but it's not in your record?"

  "It's an informal thing. Any move I was going to make in the Army was stopped. So, I took the Honorable Discharge offered to me and went to the Bureau academy."

  I realized, suddenly, that what I had been seeing in the man as a kind of devil-may-care bravado was really a deep resignation.

  "Why are you still in if you think it's only a matter of time?" I was curious about that.

  He looked down at the floor for a long moment. When he looked up, his eyes were red.

  "Because I'm not gonna let them kick me out for a reason that's not a real reason. You're living proof, Nick. Having certain proclivities doesn't mean someone is sick or dangerous. It just means they're different."

  I nodded. I reached for my crumpled pack of Camels and pulled it out of my coat pocket. I offered Andy one.

  He took it. I pulled out my beat-up old Zippo and lit it for him. As his hand held mine, I could feel it shaking, slightly.

  He took a deep drag.

  "So, what's next?" I asked.

  "You should go do what you're here to do. I'll be in touch about this interview at Senator McCarthy's office."

  I shook my head. "If they wanna see me, they can come to me. We'll be at The Willard."

  That false bravado was back as Andy shrugged. "I'll let 'em know."

  As he turned around to leave, I said, "Wait."

  He turned back and looked at me, the cigarette hanging out of his mouth. "What?"

  "Wash your face. Your eyes are red."

  He grinned and handed me the burning cigarette. I found the move oddly endearing.

  He threw his tie over his shoulder and then ran the cold water for a moment. As he splashed his face, he said, "I've got that letter for Carter, if you want to take it."

  I waited for him to finish and dry off. As he did, I said, "Sure. I'll give it to him. I can't promise anything." I handed the cigarette back to him. He took a final puff then dropped it on the floor and stubbed it out.

  Andy said, "I know."

  Chapter 14

  The Willard Hotel

  1401 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.

  Washington, D.C.

  Tuesday, June 1, 1953

  A quarter after 4 in the afternoon

  Once we were checked in at The Willard and in our suite, I called Senator Bushman's office and got Mr. Jefferson on the line.

  "This is Nick Williams. We're here."

  "Thank you Mr. Williams. Would you be able to come to the senator's office?"

  "Sure. Where do we go?"

  He gave me directions. The office was in the Senate Office Building at the northeast corner of the Capitol.

  We went downstairs and asked the doorman for a cab. In about ten minutes, we had driven down Pennsylvania Avenue to Constitution. The cab dropped us across the street from the front of the building.

  After dodging the traffic to get across the street, we walked in through the main entrance which opened into a spacious, illuminated, and beautiful rotunda. As we crossed the marble floor to the staircase, Carter asked, "Have you ever been here before?"

  "To this building?"

  "To this city."

  "No. Pretty impressive, isn't it?"

  "Yeah." He gazed around a bit as we walked up to the second floor where the senator's office was located.

  We only had to go across the hall from the top of the stairs. I opened the door that was marked, "Senator Xavier Bushman, Pennsylvania."

  The office was tightly packed. I could see four desks parked in difficult spaces. Several people were moving around and talking softly to each other. The feel in the room was one of moderated chaos. The high-ceiling office was surrounded by cabinets stacked with boxes. There were also boxes on tables and boxes on the floor.

  There was a small desk right by the door where a young woman, with glasses, mousy brown hair, and an agitated expression was fiddling with a typewriter. It looked like her overused carbon paper had ripped. She looked quite worked up over it, in fact.

  "Yes?" she asked without looking up.

  "Nick Williams and Carter Jones for Mr. Jefferson."

  This got her attention. And the attention of everyone else in the office. They stopped talking and stopped moving around.

  She stood up and wiped the ink off her fingers on a handkerchief.

  "Thank goodness you're here."

  I looked around the room. Everyone was staring at us expectantly. I wasn't quite sure how to respond.

  "Is Mr. Jefferson available?" That seemed like a reasonable next step.

  "Yes. I'll let him know you're here." She skillfully sidestepped a box on the floor and walked through a crowded path to the large unmarked wooden door on the right that was located at the back end of the room. There was another door on the left that said, "Senator Bushman" on the plaque. It was closed but I could hear voices coming from behind it.

  She knocked on the door. I heard a man's voice say, "Yes." She eased her way in the room and shut the door as she did so.

  One of the young men, who was holding a packet of documents to his chest in the same way that girls in high school carry their books from one classroom to another, said, "Oh! Mr. Williams! You simply have to help the senator! The police are no use at all. None! They just don't know how it is here, to be in the life."

  The other young man rolled his eyes at this and said, "What he means, Mr. Williams, is that only someone like you can help the police catch the killer."

  "Of course that's what I meant!" replied the first young man, somewhat indignantly.

  I looked at the other two young women who were just standing where they'd been when we walked in. They were plainly staring at Carter. I couldn't blame them. He was always stare-worthy.

  At that moment, the door to the office on the right opened. The mousy young woman came out and said, "Mr. Jefferson can see you now. Watch your step."

  We gingerly made our way through the clutter of the office. The young woman stepped aside so we could walk through.

  As I entered the room, I was surprised. This room, in stark contrast to the outer one, was immaculate. There was a leather sofa sitting against the wall to the right of the door. The far wall contained bookcases with neatly arranged volumes of leather-bound books combined with more modern ones of the cloth-bound variety. Two large windows behind the desk looked directly at the Capitol building and all the leafy green trees on the lawn. The windows were pulled down from the top and raised from the bottom and a slight breeze was moving through the otherwise warm room.

  A small bronze nameplate on the desk said, "Thomas R. Jefferson." I wondered, and not for the first time, what the back story was on a name like that.

  Behind the desk that had two empty in-boxes, a pen set, a blotter, a phone, and nothing else, stood a man of about 30, maybe a little older, who looked very serious. He was pale, with light blue eyes, ginger hair that was pomaded into place, and his face was covered in freckles. He was neatly dressed in a light gray three-piece suit with a light blue tie. As he reached out his hand to shake, I noticed he was perfectly manicured.

  "Mr. Williams?" I nodded. "A pleasure to meet you." We shook.

  I turned and introduced Carter. Pleasantries were exchanged and we took the seats we were invited to take.

  As he sat down, I asked, "How can we help you, Mr. Jefferson?"

  "Will you call me Tom?"

  I nodded. "I'm Nick. This is Carter."

  He smiled at us both giving Carter a casual glance before turning his full attention back to me.

  "Th
e senator will be so happy that you're here. Although happy may not be the right word. Relieved, perhaps. I know I am."

  "But what is it that you want us to do?"

  Tom folded his arms on the desk. The diamonds in his cufflinks glittered in the reflected sunlight.

  "Help us find who killed Michael." He said this plainly without any dramatics.

  "The senator's son?" asked Carter.

  Tom glanced at Carter and then turned back to me when he said, "Yes. I assume you read the papers?" As he said that, he ran his left hand over the white paper in his blotter pad.

  "Yes." I always liked to listen rather than ask questions. Most people in a situation like this had an agenda and it was easier to pick out what that was by letting them tell me. They always wanted to. So I let them.

  "Well, in addition to the fact that the house had been ransacked, nothing was actually stolen."

  I nodded.

  "And the police seem to think it's because the person, or persons, were surprised by Michael's arrival and left before they could find anything." Tom ran both his hands over the blotter this time. I tried to see if there was anything on it, but it looked clean.

  I nodded again.

  "However, we think--"

  There was a knock on the door that connected to the senator's office. As it opened, I almost gasped.

  Standing in the doorway was the most handsome and most distinguished man I had ever seen. From where I sat, it appeared he was just about my height. He was trim and looked like he might have been athlete in the past. He had perfectly combed black and silver hair that looked like someone had spent a lot of time trying to color it just right. He had sparkling bright blue eyes. His skin coloring was dark, but barely so. It was as if he just had a nice tan.

  But what stood out were his clothes. Like Tom, he was also wearing a very light gray suit, three piece with a vest that had a chain for a pocket watch. Everything was immaculate. Nothing was out of place. His dark blue tie was in a perfect Windsor knot. Nothing was wrinkled which, for a warm and muggy Washington day, was almost a miracle.

  I processed all of this in about two seconds. Carter and I both stood up as the senator walked into Tom's office.

  "Please sit down, gentlemen." His voice was mellifluous. It had the perfect inflection for projecting warmth and sincerity, even in those few words. It was American but from nowhere in particular.

  We both sat down. He walked around Tom's desk and put a hand on the younger man's shoulder. In the ten seconds that he had been in the room, all attention stayed on him. He was a magnet. And when he put his hand on Tom's shoulder, he made himself vulnerable and accessible. He was a minor deity who walked among mortals. It was stunning to watch, utterly perfect, and obviously staged. But, knowing that it was an act didn't take away from the impact it had.

  "Thank you for coming to Washington."

  "You're very welcome, Senator." I replied.

  "Of course, Mr. Williams, I know of you from your Foundation. They are doing such good work." I had no idea what they did, which is the way I liked it, so I just smiled and nodded. I hoped my mouth wasn't just hanging open.

  He turned to Carter and said, "And I was saddened to read that the San Francisco Fire Department let go of such a promising arson investigator."

  Carter said, "Thank you, sir." It was about a four on Carter's five-star scale of southern charm. I tore my attention away from the senator and looked at Carter, who was beaming with pride. It was good to know I wasn't the only one who was under the spell.

  "I don't want to interrupt or get in the way. Tom will keep me informed. Of course, if there's anything I can do, I expect you will let me know."

  He paused for dramatic effect, but in a way that seemed perfectly effortless.

  "Meanwhile, thank you again for coming out here under such trying circumstances. I know you'll be able to help us." He looked at both of us as he spoke while keeping his hand on Tom's shoulder the whole time. He gazed down at Tom affectionately for a moment, squeezed the man's shoulder, and released it. Then he walked back around the desk, passed through the door, and closed it behind him.

  As though the sun had passed behind a cloud, the room suddenly felt cold and barren without his presence.

  Tom turned to me and said, "The senator is a fine man. He's doing such good work for Pennsylvania and the country. This couldn't have come at a worse time, really."

  I asked, "Really?"

  "Yes. You know he is constantly trying to keep Senator McCarthy from running off the rails. Plus there are several big bills coming through that we simply have to get passed before the summer recess." He ran his hands across the blotter one last time.

  He stood up. I sat there for a moment, wondering about all of this. He said, "I have a contact with the Metropolitan Police who has agreed to show you the crime scene. He'll give you the background. I'm sure when you meet him, you'll understand how valuable an ally he is for this particular fight."

  That struck me as being an odd way of talking, but I didn't say anything. Carter and I both stood up. Tom handed me a card with a name and number written on it. "This is the man to contact as soon as you can. That's his desk number."

  I looked down and it said, "Lt. Dawson Runson. Met. Pol. ME-9220" I put the card in my coat pocket and my hat on my head.

  Carter, who was still holding his hat in his hand, asked, "When should we meet with you again?"

  I watched as Tom once again glanced at Carter and then turned to me to answer the question. "If you could call me tonight after 8? I will be in a committee meeting until then, but should be back here after that."

  I said, "Fine." I turned and walked to the door.

  Tom said, "Oh, and Nick?"

  I turned back around. Carter was right next to me. "Yes, Tom?"

  "Let's try to keep this out of the papers."

  "I can't promise anything. The Hearst papers are watching everything I do, but I assume you knew that already."

  "Sure. But if you could try to keep a low profile, the senator would appreciate it."

  I looked at Tom for a long moment. "Sure."

  . . .

  Once we were back on the street, I said, "Let's go over to that bench and talk for a moment."

  Carter looked down at me. "Am I about to get a lecture?"

  I shook my head and smiled. "No. We just need to discuss a couple of things and I don't want anyone to hear us."

  He nodded and followed me to the bench. I took off my coat. It was too warm otherwise. Carter did the same. We folded our coats together and perched his hat over mine. I always thought that looked very sexy, for some reason.

  "So?" asked Carter.

  "First, the F.B.I. has been listening in on our calls. At least at the motel in Newport Beach. Andy knew we would be here because of my call with Mike this morning."

  "Andy?" he asked sharply.

  I nodded. Now was not the time to give him the letter.

  "He only told me because I figured it out."

  Looking at me squarely and with a slight frown, he asked, "What else?"

  "When you're interviewing someone who's obviously lying, don't ask them leading questions. Just say 'yes' and 'no' and let them do the talking."

  "Got it. What was that about him not replying to me?"

  "Either he's in love with you or he's jealous of you. Or both. I think it's both. Don't take it personally. Use it as an opportunity to watch what he does when he's focused on me."

  "Like when he kept smoothing out his blotter?"

  "Exactly."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It could be a nervous tic. But I think he's holding something back. Was there anything you noticed about the senator?"

  "Other than how he's the most charismatic man alive, apart from Errol Flynn?" I laughed. Carter was smitten with Errol Flynn and constantly watched for any evidence of the actor's alleged sexual proclivities that might swing him our way.

  "Yes. What did you see him do?"

&
nbsp; "I saw him put his hand on Tom's shoulder and never remove it."

  "What do you think that means?"

  "That they're lovers?"

  "Could be. Or, it could be that he's treating Tom like a son."

  Carter thought for a moment.

  "Do you think that Tom and Michael were lovers?"

  "Yep. He broke up on the phone this morning when he was talking about Michael. It was controlled but I heard it."

  "What else?"

  I stood up and gave Carter his hat. "Let's call the lieutenant and see if he can meet us at the crime scene."

  Carter stood up and handed me my hat. I put my coat over my arm. It was definitely too warm to wear it. Carter pushed his hat back rakishly and swung his coat over his shoulder. I smiled up at him. He smiled back.

  Chapter 15

  A phone booth at the corner of Constitution Avenue, N.E. and Delaware Avenue, N.E.

  Tuesday, June 1, 1953

  Just past 5 in the afternoon

  "Runson."

  "Lieutenant, this is Nick--"

  "Damn."

  "Beg pardon?"

  "Was just thinking about tracking you down."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. So, you in town?"

  "Yeah. We wanted--"

  "1700 Q Street, Northwest."

  "OK."

  "10 minutes." The line went dead.

  I stood there for a moment wondering how many cups of coffee the lieutenant had drunk today.

  I stepped out of the phone booth and said to Carter, "This should be interesting." I walked over to the curb and flagged down an available cab.

  As it pulled over, Carter asked, "How so?" He opened the door for me. I got in, scooted over to let him in, and said to the driver, "1700 Q Street, Northwest."

  The cab driver replied, "Sure thing." Carter pulled the door closed and the cab eased into traffic.

  I whispered to Carter, "You'll see. Don't wanna spoil the surprise."

  The cab driver looked in the mirror. "Idn't that where that queer murder happened yesterday?"

  I nodded and waited for him to tell me what he wanted to tell me. Sure enough, he squirmed in his seat a bit and then said, "Everyone knew about the senator's son. Queer as a three-dollar bill and never hid it. I don't judge. Live and let live, I say. Even gave him a ride one time. Nice guy even if he was more woman than man, if you get my drift."