Murder on Capitol Hill

by Margaret Truman

  “Some people—I’m not one of them.”

  “What are you having?” he asked, changing gears again.

  “Eggs Benedict and a rasher of bacon. You?”

  “Venison, fried egg on the side, over easy.” He gave their order, then recounted for Lydia the details of his interrogation by the MPD detective. When he was finished and their food had been served, Lydia brought up Veronica’s suggestion that she accept a post as special counsel to a Senate committee to investigate Cale Caldwell’s murder. Clarence listened, commenting only by raising his salt-and-pepper eyebrows. Finally when she was done telling him about the offer and the circumstances surrounding it at the Caldwell house, he cleared his throat and said, “It depends entirely if you want to make a name for yourself. If so, by all means do it. If you value your sanity, for God’s sake turn it down—and do it fast and mean it.”

  Lydia said nothing for a minute, then, “I have no interest in making a name for myself as special counsel to a committee to investigate the murder of a friend. But what do you do when his widow—who is also a friend—asks? Just walk away?”

  “Exactly. Besides, what would you do with your private practice if you took it?”

  “Leave it up to my associates, try to keep a handle on things from a distance. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Everything. As Louis Armstrong said when someone asked him what was wrong with a friend who’d suddenly died, ‘When you’re dead, everything’s wrong.’ Eat your eggs, they’re getting cold.”

  “They already are.” She placed her fork on her plate. “I love you dearly, Clarence, and have always had a big fat respect for your opinions, but there are times when I find you to be a trying ass.”

  He sat back, grinned. “And this obviously is one of those times. Sorry. It’s my way of concealing unacceptable levels of anxiety about you. I can understand how you feel and why you’re seriously considering Veronica’s proposal. Personally I think it would be a mistake and that you’ll end up regretting it. On the other hand if you don’t do it you’ll probably spend the rest of your days wondering if you should have. So take it if it’s really offered.”

  “If I do, will you stand by me?”

  He laughed. “Of course not. After all, I’m a prime suspect, and how would it look for the special counsel to be involved with such a person—”

  “Oh, shut up…”

  He did, but her mind wouldn’t. Without quite meaning to, she was already beginning to think as though she’d taken the job.

  9

  The good weather of fall had given way to the harsher climate of early winter. It had rained heavily over the weekend. Now, at ten o’clock on Monday morning Lydia sat in a green vinyl armchair in the drab office of deputy chief of police of Washington’s Metropolitan Police Department, Horace Jenkins. She’d been told to wait; Chief Jenkins had been called away from his desk for a few minutes.

  “Hello, Lydia,” he said as he came through the door. “Nature called.” His voice startled her and she turned abruptly. He walked past her, fell heavily into his green vinyl chair behind the desk and grinned.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “Terrific,” he said, yawning. “I woke up alive this morning, still have my job according to the papers, and retirement is within striking distance. How are you?”

  “Fair.”

  “Special counsel, huh?”

  “Yes… I was flattered to be asked.”

  “Sure you were.” He rubbed his baggy eyes, yawned again. Lydia had once commented to a friend that Jenkins looked like Walter Matthau after a bad night. Sitting across from him she realized how apt her description had been. He was in shirtsleeves, suit jacket a rumpled heap on top of a file cabinet. He had a full head of black hair that hadn’t receded even in his latter stages of middle age. Flesh hung in folds from his jawbone, cheeks and neck. His eyes were large and watery, evoking all the pathos of a hound that hadn’t been fed in days. He was a big man who tended to excessive weight, although his large frame carried poundage rather well.

  “So tell me, Lydia, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like the United States Senate.”

  “My duty, I hope. Besides, I’m not so nice, and you know it. I’m also no longer a girl.”

  “By me you’re still a girl, and I won’t forget how you stood up there in court and defended those bananas. And, damn it, you are nice, if not easy… anyway, how’s the radio and TV business—?”

  “Okay, Horace, let’s cool the chitchat. Here I am as scheduled. I assume your invitation has something to do with the Caldwell murder.”

  “Yeah, well, I figured I’d spare you going through this routine with some of the idiots who work for me, or over me.” He leaned forward, which caused his chair to let out a shrill squeak, leaned on his elbows. “I’m sure you realize this is awkward… here I am interrogating you about the senator’s murder while you act as special counsel to a committee investigating that same murder—”

  “Routine, I know. Besides I was at the party and so theoretically I could be a suspect—but you and I are going to have to work very closely, Horace. After all, we’re after the same thing.”

  He grunted and answered his intercom. “No, damn it, that’s not what I said I wanted.” A pause. “Then do it over. Don’t bother me, I’m wrapping up the Caldwell murder.” There was a hint of mirth in his eyes as he looked across the desk at her. “You were saying?”

  “That I assume we’ll be working closely together on the Caldwell case.”

  “No, we won’t. The last thing I need is to have a Senate committee getting in my way. Caldwell’s murder, senator or not, is an MPD matter and it’s going to stay that way.”

  “I didn’t realize you controlled the Senate.”

  “I’m a cop, Lydia. Murder, however high-placed, is a cop’s business. I don’t know what the hell you people think you’re going to accomplish over there with another damn committee at taxpayer expense. This case is simple. Caldwell has a party thrown for him by his wife. She invites a coupla hundred snowflakes and one of them gets carried away and sticks an ice pick into the guest of honor… Let me ask you a question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No.”

  “Right. Interrogation over. Take my advice, Lydia, go back to getting licenses for radio stations and tell your Senate chums to get back to the business of running the country, not running over it.”

  “I’ll be sure to carry back your sentiments, especially to the committee that funds the District of Columbia. I’ll also remind you, Chief, that the committee is a fact of life. It exists, it’s real, and it’s been created to investigate Cale Caldwell’s murder.”

  “Yeah, and it’s about as necessary as a hind tit. Pardon me.”

  “You’re pardoned. I’m no longer a little girl, like I told you… well, if you’re through, I’ll be going.”

  “Sure… look, Lydia, believe it or not, I wish you well with this. I always admired you when you were doing criminal work. I just hate to see you get messed up in a no-win situation—”

  “I appreciate that.” She stood and extended her hand over the desk. He took it, clicked his tongue against his cheek. “If I was younger, Lydia, I’d make a pass.”

  “Thank you, I’m woman enough to like to hear that, even from an old party like you.”

  “Yeah, old party, well, good seeing you. By the way, do you know how I figure it?”

  She stopped at the door. “How?”

  “That flake of a son, the religious fanatic.”

  “Have you interviewed him?”

  “Sure. We told him to stay around town but he went back to his cult. I sent somebody down there to bring him up here and he starts screaming about freedom of religion and separation of church and state.”

  “And?”

  “We left him there.”

  “You must have felt he wasn’t that much of a suspect.”

  “As good as any, bett
er than most. At this point, anyway. The way I figured it he’s less likely to skip out on his fellow freaks than from the city.”

  “Can I see the transcripts of the people you’ve interviewed?”

  Jenkins shook his head.

  “We’ll subpoena them, Horace.”

  “We’ll play the game an inning at a time, Lydia… You are looking good. Like I said, if I was younger I’d—”

  “Have a nice day, like they say.”

  “Yeah, you too.”

  She controlled any outward show of her irritation until reaching the street, then drew a series of deep breaths and began muttering to herself. Years ago, when she’d worked as a public defender, she’d enjoyed the daily battle with the MPD. The truth was she’d lost as often as she’d won, but the challenge was always a highly exhilarating one.

  Now, instead of feeling challenged, she felt a deep, abrupt frustration. She’d been out of that arena for a long time, comfortable, secure behind her desk from which she navigated the tricky waters of the FCC on behalf of clients who paid handsome fees for her knowledge and expertise. Any infighting was accomplished with padded gloves. In criminal matters there were no gloves. She’d nearly forgotten that, and the realization sent a chill through her that a gusty north wind whipping up the street could not match. She pulled her coat collar tighter around her neck and walked briskly across town to her office, where she returned phone calls, dictated a brief to her secretary, then left for an appointment with Senator Wilfred MacLoon, who’d been chosen to chair the Caldwell committee.

  The choice of MacLoon to chair the committee had disheartened Lydia, but she decided not to allow her feelings to interfere with her performance. She had, however, raised the question with Veronica Caldwell about whether it was a wise idea to have an avowed political enemy of her husband’s heading up a committee to investigate his murder. Veronica’s answer made sense. Because MacLoon and Caldwell were known to dislike each other, it could only add to the public’s confidence in the committee’s integrity. MacLoon would be under the gun to disprove any personal grudge, would be doubly aggressive in the investigation. At least that was the theory.

  ***

  Lydia was kept waiting in MacLoon’s outer office for fifteen minutes before an aide ushered her inside, where the senator was giving an interview to a young newspaper reporter. “With you in a minute,” he told Lydia, waving his hand. He said to the reporter, “It will be the duty of the committee to assure the American public that the murder of Senator Caldwell was in no way connected with any government institution, nor did it have overtones or implications that in any way reflect on this nation’s governing bodies or those of its allies. Got that?”

  “Yes, I think so. Thank you, Senator.”

  MacLoon grinned broadly, stood and shook the reporter’s hand. “Anytime, my dear. The door is always open to you.”

  The reporter nodded at Lydia as she left the office.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” MacLoon said. “Sit down.”

  Lydia sat in an armchair next to his desk. “Isn’t it a little premature to be giving interviews about the committee’s work?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so. No sense in trying to play games with the press. I’d like to see this committee be an open one that the press and public can have faith in. No stonewalling. Doesn’t that make sense to you?”

  “Of course… within reason.” She observed MacLoon as he swiveled his chair and began rummaging through a file drawer. She could hear his heavy breathing, the result of a lifetime of cigars and cigarettes and a paunch that threatened to burst through his belt. MacLoon was almost totally bald, and had a full face that was made to appear even more so because of a tight shirt collar that pressed into the flesh of his neck.

  He found what he was looking for, turned back to his desk and suppressed a belch as he opened a file folder and thumbed through its pages.

  “Senator MacLoon, I know you’re busy but so am I. I wonder if we could discuss the committee and my role on it. I assumed that was your purpose in asking me here.”

  “Yes, sure. Just give me a minute.” He frowned as he read a page from the folder, then called through the open door, “Margaret, in here.” One of his aides, a buxom young woman wearing heavy makeup, entered and MacLoon handed the page to her. “Copy it and get it out to Markovich right away.”

  Lydia fought down her impatience, cleared her throat. “I’ll come back when you have more time.”

  MacLoon looked up, appearing to be surprised. “Relax, we’ll get to it in a moment. How about lunch? I’ll have it sent up—”

  “No, thank you. Senator MacLoon, I accepted this committee post at the request of Veronica Caldwell. I have mixed feelings about it. On the one hand I’m pleased to be able to contribute something to solving this tragedy. On the other, I have a pretty successful law practice that will suffer during my absence. I want to get on with my work on the committee. I want you to understand that.”

  He looked at her as though she were an errant daughter. “Miss James, let’s not get off on the wrong foot. Frankly, when Veronica insisted on you as special counsel I opposed it. As far as I was concerned, what we needed was an attorney with a clean sheet who’s used to working behind the scenes and fitting into a team that has a clear-cut game plan—”

  “Why do men always use a sports metaphor? And in this case a mixed one.” Before he could answer she added, “I just left Horace Jenkins at the MPD and he talked about playing an inning at a time. You talk about teams and game plans. I’m sorry, but I don’t see this as a game.”

  He squinted through the heavy, mottled flesh of his face. “No need to get testy, Miss James. We’re in this together, after all.”

  “Over your objections.”

  “That’s right. After Veronica did some talking I decided that having you on the team might not be such a bad idea after all. Your reputation is solid, no obvious skeletons in your closet, you’re close to the family and you understood Caldwell and all this arts nonsense he was involved with.”

  Lydia shifted in her chair. “You might as well know, Senator, that I don’t consider it nonsense. I’ve been involved myself, which is how I got to be friends with Veronica Caldwell.”

  “Senator Veronica Caldwell,” he said.

  “That’s right. I also became friendly with your wife through the arts.”

  “The difference there, Miss James, is that my wife’s dabbling never influenced my Senate duties.”

  “Are you saying that Veronica Caldwell’s activities influenced her husband’s?”

  “You know it. You might also be interested to hear that Senator Caldwell was about to get in some hot water over it. The arts section of the last Interior bill upset a lot of people around here. The same thing happened when he worked behind the scenes to kill a committee bill to investigate these damn cults and the brainwashing they use. That was one of the things that drove Jimmye McNab out of the Caldwells’ life.”

  Lydia wasn’t sure whether to admit her ignorance of what he was saying or to pretend some knowledge of it in the hope that it would encourage him to say more. She decided to say nothing. It didn’t work. MacLoon looked at his watch. “Tell you what, Miss James, I have some things to do. I’ll have one of my people show you to the office we’ve found for you. It’s not much but it’ll have to do. We’re cramped for space all over the building.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine. What about staffing?”

  “It’s in the budget. I’ll have someone fill you in completely. I’d like to get started on this immediately so that we can get it over with.”

  “I’ll do all I can to see that it’s a thorough and efficient investigation. I’m concerned about leaks to the press of the committee’s activities. I feel it’s vital we be able to function quietly.”

  “We can talk about those things later.” MacLoon unwrapped a cigar and chewed off its tip. “Hope you don’t mind working with a cigar smoker.”

  “Not at all.”<
br />
  He held a lit match close to the cigar’s blunt end and slowly, carefully inhaled. As his first exhalation of blue smoke curled easily toward the ceiling he said, without looking at her, “Let’s understand one thing right from the top, Miss James. This investigation in the Senate has nothing to do with solving Cale Caldwell’s murder.”

  “Pardon?”

  He drew on the cigar again, stood and came to the edge of his desk, and leaned on it, his face close to hers. “Solving murders is for the MPD. This committee’s function is to assure the American people that the murder had nothing to do with their government.”

  She leaned away from him as she said, “I gathered that was your position from what I heard you tell the reporter, although I assumed you viewed it as only one of the committee’s functions. Now I take it you view public assurance as our only function.”

  “That’s right.” He perched on the edge of the desk.

  “I’m afraid I don’t agree.”

  “You will as it progresses.”

  She stood. “Thank you for your time, Senator. I’d like to see my office.”

  He told a young man who’d been reading a newspaper in the outer office to escort Lydia and see that she had access to any supplies, furniture and staff help she needed. The young man, who introduced himself as Rick Petrone, and who told her he’d been working for Senator MacLoon for over a year, led her down a long corridor and up a flight of stairs to an office which, Lydia instantly decided, had once been a large storage closet that had recently been cleaned out. A battered metal desk occupied the center of the room. Rings of dirt on the buff walls outlined where a row of file cabinets had once stood. Two small windows were caked with dirt, and what light they did allow to pass through had a yellowish-gray cast to it.

  “Just name it and it’s yours,” Petrone said. Lydia had taken an instant liking to him. He was tall and undeniably handsome, with a mop of brown hair that was appealingly unkempt. His smile was warm, genuine. He wore a brown plaid vested suit and tan knit tie.