Poisoned Politics

by Maggie Sefton

  This time I laughed out loud. Reading my mind or not, I had to love a man like that. And this time, I meant it.

  _____

  Raymond signaled the waitress for more coffee as the man he was waiting for slipped into the seat across from him in the booth. The sports bar was only halfway full at mid-afternoon. A major league baseball game was playing on the large screen over the bar. New York versus Baltimore. The Yankees were ahead.

  “Coffee, sir?” the waitress asked the sandy-haired man.

  The man smiled warmly at the woman. “No, thank you, ma’am. I’ll take a Sam Adams instead.”

  Raymond loved to watch him work that charm, that warm and folksy manner. No wonder he was always able to get close to every target. He was the guy next door. Wide face, easy smile, relaxed, laid-back manner. The guy at the bar that you’d joke with, share a beer with, and watch the football game on the television above. A woman wouldn’t hesitate asking this guy for help if her car broke down. No hesitation whatsoever, unless … she looked into his eyes. Ice blue. Even on a hot, humid August afternoon.

  Raymond wiped his no-longer-white handkerchief across his forehead and took a sip of the steaming black coffee. The man facing him smiled, just a little.

  “You know, you wouldn’t sweat so much if you didn’t drink that stuff,” he said, pointing to the coffee cup. “It’s August, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “Helps when I’m inside and can’t smoke,” Raymond admitted and picked up one of the paper-wrapped lozenges lying on the table. “Along with these.”

  Something that could have passed for concern flickered briefly across the man’s wide face, then was gone. “You should have that looked at. Sounds worse.”

  Raymond shrugged. He already knew it was. Instead, he lied. “I did. It’s about the same. So, what’s so important you wanted to see me? The Texas job went smooth as silk. You didn’t drive all the way out here to Fairfax to have a beer. What’s up?”

  “I copied the kid’s cell phone logs before I left the motel room. Once I got to my computer I downloaded the numbers he called after he left D.C. A couple of calls to Fillmore’s decoy phone, one call to his parents, his call to my decoy phone, and one call to a D.C. number. That was the longest call, and it was the night he arrived in Houston. I ran a check and the number belongs to Natasha Jorgensen, who used to be Quentin Wilson’s chief of staff.”

  Raymond looked up over his coffee. Damn! He hadn’t expected that. “What the hell? Why’d he call her? Is she still over in Wilson’s office, working for his wife?”

  The man shook his head. “Nope. She ran for the exit like most of that staff. Jorgensen now works as a regular staffer for Congresswoman Sally Chertoff. Like you, I was curious about their connection, so I ran a check on Jorgensen. Seems she and Levitz went to the University of Minnesota together. Were friends with benefits. In fact, she helped him land a job in D.C. after she started working on the Hill eight years ago.”

  Raymond scowled. “Dammit! Now, I’m wondering what Levitz told her that night. Fillmore warned him not to talk with anyone. Told him he had to make a clean break. No contacts. Stupid kid!” He popped another lozenge into his mouth.

  “I wondered about that too. So I took the liberty of starting surveillance on Jorgensen. Started yesterday after she left the Hill. I wanted to let you know now, so you could check with the higher-ups. See how they want to move forward.”

  “Smart move, Trask. I’ll check with Spencer, but I’m sure he’ll want her home computer checked. Meanwhile, stay on her. See who she talks to.”

  “Roger that.” Trask reached inside his shirt pocket and pulled out a key-ring-sized computer storage device. “Meanwhile, you might want to take a look at this. I followed Jorgensen on her early morning run. I was camped out in front of her apartment on Virginia Avenue, so I wouldn’t miss her leaving for the Hill. Instead, she ran out of the building at five in the morning and headed for the C&O Canal to run along the towpath.”

  “Bloody early if you ask me,” Raymond said, then took a deep drink of coffee. The hot liquid felt good on his throat. He popped another lozenge into his mouth.

  “She started running alone then a woman joined her. I followed a safe distance behind. They ran together quite awhile, past the bridge, then turned around and came back. The other woman took off for M Street, but I got a good look at her when I ran past them.” He paused.

  Raymond took another sip, then looked over his cup at his colleague. “And? Did you recognize her?”

  Trask gave a small smile. “Oh, yeah. It’s that Malone woman. The one Spencer said to check on last spring for a couple of weeks. We never picked up anything unusual, so Spencer told us to stop. No need to bother with her anymore.”

  Raymond stared into the ice blue eyes looking into his. “Dammit to hell,” he said softly. “Not good. Not good at all.”

  “I figured that would get your attention … and Spencer’s. Naturally, I ran a check on Malone to see what connection there was with Jorgensen. Didn’t find any. But I did find a ton of stuff connecting Malone with Wilson’s girlfriend, Samantha Calhoun. Seems she and Malone knew each other as teenagers when their fathers were both U.S. Senators here in D.C. There’s lots of stuff here. You’ll enjoy it.” He handed the flash drive to Raymond.

  “Son of a bitch,” Raymond muttered, shaking his head. “I had a feeling about that Malone woman last spring. I don’t like loose ends. And just when we had everything all tied up with Wilson, nice and neat. Damn.”

  “Look at it this way. It keeps us in business,” Trask said with an engaging smile.

  Raymond started to laugh, until the cough started. And didn’t stop. Trask signaled the waitress for more coffee.

  fourteen

  Wednesday morning

  Casey leaned inside the Russell kitchen, coffee in one hand, copy of the D.C. Dirt in the other. “You are really gonna enjoy this,” he said, grinning at me as he waved the paper.

  I watched the stream of coffee pouring into my cup. “Don’t tell me. Widow Wilson again. What’s she up to now?”

  “I don’t want to spoil your fun. Besides, I’ve gotta pick up Peter and the Senator. Don’t forget, another reception tonight.” He dropped the news rag on the counter beside the doorway. “I’ll be back before the caterers show up,” he called as he headed down the hall.

  I took a small sip of the steaming black potion. Hot, hot.

  Picking up the D.C. Dirt, my eyes immediately found the article that Casey had starred with his red pen. I scanned it as I walked back to my office. Only one paragraph. But oh, what was packed into those few sentences.

  No evidence of a blackmail message accompanied photos sent to Congressman Wilson and his paramour. Why, then, were photos taken? And why does Sylvia Wilson have copies of the photos? Did she pay a detective to spy on her cheating husband? Did she threaten to use those photos against him in a divorce? Without Sylvia Wilson’s family money, Congressman Wilson would have had difficulty running for re-election next year. Did Sylvia Wilson’s threats drive her husband to suicide? Widow Wilson has stepped smoothly into the vacancy her husband’s death created. Sources tell the Dirt Sylvia Wilson has always expressed an interest in politics.

  I couldn’t help smiling as I rounded the corner into my office. It looked like the Widow Wilson was beginning to reap what she had sewn. If you live by the sword, you die by the sword. Gossip in Washington was far more effective a weapon than burnished steel. More politicians had lost their “political” lives to gossip and innuendo. In the end, they might still be alive but were seriously weakened. Words were powerful.

  My computer screen was buzzing with flashing e-mails, indicating new messages. I settled into my chair and grabbed my personal phone, then sent a short text to Samantha.

  “Well, we’ve seen her dish it out. Let’s see if Sylvia Wilson can take it.”

  By the
time I’d scrolled through my on-screen e-mails, deciding on which to answer first, Samantha had texted her reply.

  “Washington ain’t Cleveland, sugar.”

  I laughed out loud. Not by a long shot.

  _____

  Raymond settled into the cushioned lawn chair on his shaded backyard patio. Cicadas buzzed in the afternoon heat. No views of cranes or construction back here, just oak trees, elms, and maples edging his back fence, stretching as far as he could see.

  He’d hoped he’d be safe from encroaching sprawl when he left Fairfax County several years ago and moved to adjoining Prince William County. It only took two years for the bulldozers to appear. How long before the trees would be decimated and thinned, as Caterpillars carved out another subdivision?

  His cell phone rang into life on the glass table by his elbow. He took a big sip of brandy before answering. He knew who it was. Spencer. “What did you hear from Fillmore?” he asked in greeting.

  “Not good news. He checked for research requests by congressional offices and Natasha Jorgensen’s name showed up several times last month. So, Wilson wasn’t the only one searching.” Spencer’s voice sounded somber.

  Raymond took another sip of Grand Marnier and felt its golden heat warm his throat. “She could have just ordered the searches for Wilson.”

  “Maybe. But we’ll need to see what’s on Jorgensen’s computer. That will tell us what she really knows.”

  “Agreed. By the way, my guy accessed earlier phone records for Gary Levitz and there were lots of calls to Jorgensen. Several of them after Fillmore had his first conversation with Levitz. That’s a big loose end, and you know how I feel about loose ends. Another good reason to check her computer.”

  “Damn,” Spencer swore, his voice disgusted.

  “Let’s see what we find. Then you can check with the committee to see how they want to proceed with Jorgensen. You already know how I feel. Not that I have a vote.” He chuckled softly, the brandy protecting his throat.

  Spencer snorted. “You might as well have. I’ll get back to you by tomorrow on that.”

  “Oh, yeah. I assume you want us to resume watching the Malone woman.”

  “I think we need to, even if they’re just casual acquaintances. Maybe they ran into each other by accident on the canal.”

  “I don’t believe in accidents,” Raymond sneered. “Unless I cause them.”

  “Who will you put on Malone? Your main man is on Jorgensen.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on Malone. We already know she’s got a pretty regular schedule working for Senator Russell. I’ll start tomorrow.”

  “Field work again?” Spencer said, a slight tease in his voice. “Be careful. And you’d better not use the Maytag uniform again.”

  Thanks to the brandy’s protective layer, Raymond was able to let out a loud laugh.

  Wednesday evening

  I stepped off the escalator onto the Eastern Market Metro plaza. At twenty minutes past six o’clock, rush hour traffic still clogged the avenues bordering the plaza. Peter had cheerfully excused me from this evening’s pre-reception hostess duties so I could meet with Loretta Wade for what I’d phrased as a “research dinner.”

  Turning my back on the familiar and famous coffee chain at the south end of the plaza, I headed toward the section of Eighth Street where the weekend market always set up. Crossing over Carolina Avenue, I noticed the surrounding cafes were already packed. I hoped Loretta Wade had made a reservation at that restaurant; otherwise, we’d be standing in line at the corner bakery and sharing deli sandwiches on a bench in the plaza.

  I’d already explored the other stretch of Eighth Street when Danny and I came to sample some of the cafes across from Barracks Row. A Cuban cafe, a sports bar, and several interesting boutique shops were all mixed together with more cafes along the street. Side streets were filled with lovingly restored townhouses. Gentrification had come and gone. I still remembered when it was called “yuppiefication.” The end result was still the same. The turn of the century rowhouses were filled with an ever-changing stream of Washington wannabees. Few, if any, of the original residents remained.

  Noise greeted me before I pushed open the door and stepped inside the tavern-style restaurant. All the tables were full in the patio section, and it looked like the inside café was packed. I scanned the crowded scene and noticed an African-American woman waving to me across the patio from a small table beside the screened windows. I wound my way around the tables and chairs, the smell of hops and dark beers tempting me. I spotted a patron’s Guinness and my mouth watered.

  “Over here, Molly,” the woman beckoned me forward.

  “Loretta?” I smiled when I reached the table.

  She nodded. “Have a seat. I already ordered a beer. I hope you’re not a teetotaler, because you won’t like this place.”

  “No worries, there,” I said with a laugh as the waiter came up. “A pint of Guinness, please.”

  “A woman after my own heart.” Loretta relaxed back into her chair and observed me.

  Her close-cropped haircut sculpted her head perfectly. Not every woman could wear her hair like that and look attractive. On Loretta Wade, it worked. Her high cheekbones and huge dark eyes dominated her striking ebony face.

  “You know, you still look like your pictures from years ago, Molly. How’d you escape the toll that time takes?”

  Don’t be so sure. “Looks are deceiving, Loretta. The wear and tear is on the inside, trust me.”

  Loretta gave an amused sniff. “Isn’t that the truth. None of us escapes unscathed.”

  Curious that she’d run a search on me, I joked, “Don’t tell me Google has file pictures from all those years ago?”

  “No, but remember where I work,” Loretta said with a smile. “I’ve got all the Washington Post files on digital now. No more of that microfiche nonsense.”

  The waiter set my Guinness before me with a flourish, complete with a little shamrock design in the foam. “Sláinte,” I said, trying to remember the Gaelic pronunciation as I lifted my glass and took a deep drink of the dark brew. Ahhhhhhh. Mother’s milk. Loretta saluted me with her amber ale.

  Licking the foam from my upper lip, I observed Loretta. I could tell from the length of those long legs under the table that she was tall, taller than I was, even. Long-waisted and very slender. One of those women who probably could eat all she wanted and never gain an ounce.

  “Okay, which pictures did you pull from the Post’s archives? I’m curious. Please say it wasn’t those sorrowful ones after Dave’s death.” I took another drink.

  “No, no,” Loretta shook her head. “I got some from those early years when your husband was first in Congress. I was studying for my masters in history at George Washington University then. I hadn’t met my husband Gabe yet. So I was still single.” A smile tweaked her lips. “Lord knows, that feels like a lifetime ago.”

  “That’s because it was,” I said with a laugh. “How long have you worked for the Congressional Research Service?”

  She took another sip of beer. “Practically my entire Civil Service career. Started as a researcher and moved up. Thank God, because Gabe died ten years ago, so I’ve been raising my boys on my own since then.”

  “You’ve only got one son at home, you said. Are your other two in college?”

  “Michael’s finishing his senior year at Cornell, and William’s serving in the Navy on the USS Enterprise, in the Atlantic.” She lifted her chin proudly.

  “Whoa, you’re to be commended, Loretta,” I said, lifting my glass in salute. “You’ve done a fantastic job. William is serving his country, and Michael is at a fine school. Where’s your youngest?”

  “Brian goes to Gonzaga.” She smiled. “I had all three boys go there.”

  I gave her another salute. “Fine school, Gonzaga. Great sports teams too.” I took a
nother sip. “Raising kids alone is a hard job, I know. After Dave died, I had to raise my two girls on my own in Denver. It was such a different life for them than what I grew up with,” I said, unable to keep the slightly wistful tone from my voice. “Thank goodness, my mother and father visited frequently.”

  “My dad drove a D.C. city bus until the day he died. We lived up on Georgia Avenue, near Walter Reed Hospital. When my sisters and I were growing up, he used to read articles from the Post to us every night. He’d go over the names of all the senators and congressmen and what legislation they’d voted on each week. “You know, my dad used to speak highly of your father.” She said with an amused smile. “He always singled out the ones who supported civil rights legislation. You father was one of them. Bless his heart.” She wagged her head. “That was a loooong time ago.”

  “If I’m guessing right, I’d say you and I are about the same age, which means we were still in school then.” I snitched a toasted chip from the bowl in the middle of the table. “I was over in Arlington. Where’d you go to school?”

  “Archbishop Carroll. We weren’t Catholic, but my father insisted my sisters and I go there.”

  “Sounds like my father. Both he and my mother insisted I attend Mount Saint Mary’s. I had to beg them to let me go to Washington-Lee my senior year. Both my cousins, Nan and Deb, went there and it sounded like a lot more fun than the girls’ school.”

  Loretta laughed. “Fun wasn’t on our schedules as far as our parents were concerned.”

  The young waiter appeared by our table. We ordered a cheese and fruit platter. After munching on the ever-present peanuts, we wouldn’t need dinner.

  “So, tell me, Molly, was there a particular area that your niece Karen was focusing on? That will help me narrow it down. After we talked, I did a quick check to see which subjects Congressman Wilson was researching and made a list.” She reached into a purse beside her feet.

  “Why, thank you, Loretta,” I said, surprised she’d acted so quickly on my request. “That will make it easier.”