Murder on Capitol Hill

by Margaret Truman

Jenkins shrugged, drank his coffee and said into the cup, “I just wanted you to know, Lydia, that there are no hard feelings. Now that I’ve cleaned this thing up, you’re free to do the job you were supposed to be doing in the first place. I mean, come up with a report to the American people.”

  A tinge of sarcasm in his voice? “Which is what I intend to do.”

  Jenkins finished the contents of his cup, sat back. “There’s going to be things come out of the indictment that probably should stay between friends, if you get my drift. I’m talking about personal things, family matters. The point is that you’ll hear about some of them and be tempted to put them in your report.”

  “And you’re telling me that I shouldn’t?”

  “Suggesting it. I don’t think anything is to be gained by dragging out family dirt, even for the American people.”

  Lydia dabbed at her mouth with a paper napkin and grabbed the handle of her briefcase.

  “Calm down,” Jenkins said as she slid to the edge of the booth, reached across the table and took her wrist. “What are you so sore at? You act as though you expected a different ending to all of this and are mad at the world it didn’t come out like you wanted…” He glanced around the coffee shop, then leaned over the table. “If you want some juicy gossip, Lydia, I’ll give it to you. Frankly, I didn’t figure you got off on that kind of thing.”

  Don’t, she told herself, rise to the bait. Stay in the game. She took a breath, affected a smile and returned to the center of her seat. “All right, I’ve calmed down.” She expanded the smile, which brought one from him.

  “This,” he said, “has nothing to do with your report, although I suppose it wouldn’t hurt anybody to add it. Caldwell was going to die anyway.”

  She cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you know that the autopsy on him was sealed at the family’s request. He had cancer.”

  “How bad?”

  “Terminal. The doc who did it figured he had maybe six months.”

  “Did Senator Caldwell know he had cancer?” she asked, not so much of Jenkins but of herself.

  He shrugged. “Could be. It really doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “I suppose not.” She spent a few moments lost in her own thoughts. Finally, she said, “It’s interesting how the Caldwell family tends to pull strings where autopsies are concerned.”

  “Why say that? I don’t blame the family for not wanting details played out in the scandal sheets.”

  “I wasn’t referring to the senator’s autopsy, Horace. I was talking about the Jimmye McNab autopsy that never was.” She glanced up. He didn’t respond, so she pushed further. “Why wasn’t an autopsy done on Jimmye?”

  Jenkins motioned for a waitress to bring their check.

  “Why did Cale Caldwell prevent an autopsy on Jimmye McNab?”

  “Who says he did?” Jenkins asked as the waitress handed him the bill.

  “I do, and so do some other people. Why?”

  He shook his head. “Yeah, Caldwell brought some pressure on the department to skip an autopsy. Why, you ask? The way the story goes, the esteemed Senator Caldwell was, as they say, having his way with Miss McNab for quite a while. Who knows, maybe he even made her pregnant. But so what? They’re both dead. If which elected officials were cheating on the side was important after he died or left office, there wouldn’t be space in the newspapers for much of anything else…”

  He dropped her off in front of the Senate Building. “Forget the McNab thing, Lydia. That’s really over now. Do your report nice and neat, take the bows and get back to making money. If there’s anything I can do, give me a call. As I said, I’m always happy to cooperate with the U.S. Congress.”

  18

  It was the early morning hours and the Quentin Hughes show was in progress. Christa Jones noted that her boss was edgier than usual in his interview with his guest.

  It had been a trying day, although no worse than many other days of the recent past. She’d been staying with Hughes in his Watergate apartment for a week, returning home during the day only to feed her cats and to get a change of clothing. The beginning of the week with Hughes had started smoothly enough; in fact, the first few days found Hughes in as good a mood as she could remember. Of course, in the early phase of their relationship he was often relaxed and pleasant to be with. Those early days in Des Moines provided Christa with one of the most pleasant memories of her life…

  Her father had deserted the family when Christa was an infant. Her mother, an industrious, uneducated woman, had done what she could to provide a home for Christa and her two younger sisters, but the woman eventually buckled under the pressure. After six months in a state institution, she’d returned home, packed a few belongings and left Des Moines with a truck driver she’d met only days earlier. Because there were no relatives, the three Jones girls were placed in a state home.

  Memory of life in that home could reduce Christa to immediate tears and terror. She’d found a job and taken courses at night at a local community college; she’d always been an avid reader and found herself immersed in her classes, particularly those dealing with communications.

  Hughes, who’d become the most successful and well-known broadcaster in Des Moines, lectured one evening at the college. It was, as they say, love at first sight for the orphaned Christa. She was enthralled with his sureness, his ability to spellbind anyone within listening distance, his tall good looks. When they’d talked after class, his slate gray eyes seemed to burn right through her. He was power and authority.

  Until Quentin Hughes, Christa had never been particularly interested in how she looked or in what she wore. But after that night at the college she found herself making a conscious effort to look better. She knew even then that she was attractive, tall and fair-skinned, with a figure full enough to encourage appreciative stares from men on the street. Now she did what she could to enhance her attributes, then went to the radio station where Hughes was employed, asked to see him, and to her surprise was immediately ushered into his office.

  He hired her on the spot to replace a young woman who’d been his producer and was leaving to marry someone from another city. The pay wasn’t much, but that didn’t matter to Christa. The job created many perks for her, to say nothing of the pride she felt at being inside the exciting world of radio and television. And, of course, there was the fringe benefit of being close to Quentin Hughes on a daily basis.

  She was a virgin when she took the job with Hughes in Des Moines. That lasted two days. Soon they were living together, although Hughes insisted that she maintain a separate apartment for, what he termed, “appearances’ sake.” She hadn’t argued, simply looked forward to when they would be together in a house he rented on the outskirts of the city, six blocks from the home in which he was born and where his mother still lived.

  Christa had assumed—presumed, Hughes would say—that one day they would be married. Hughes had been married before meeting her, and had gotten his divorce during the time they were together. Christa understood that to push him would be a mistake, and so she said little, dropping only occasional hints and hoping that he would respond to them. He didn’t. He also occasionally saw other women and, to Christa’s shock, one day announced that he was marrying one of them. That time she stayed away from the station for a week, mostly in bed in her apartment. Eventually Hughes came to visit her, and told her he needed a producer and if she was quitting he’d have to find somebody else.

  It wasn’t easy, but she went back to the station. Hughes treated her well, gave her substantial raises and seemed understanding of her occasional flip-outs that made her stay away from the job for a few days at a time. Of course, she was paying her dues to him for such minor indulgences.

  And so it had gone for all these years, Christa always there even as he went through his succession of women, marrying some of them, only sleeping with most of them, all during his rise in the broadcasting business to his present position in Washington. N
ot that Christa was monastic when he wasn’t available. She dated a variety of men, but always found something lacking in them—or in her… She knew it was a failing, but… the only close female friend she’d ever had told her that she was throwing away her life by staying with Hughes, dancing attendance on him. Christa had to agree, but divorcing her emotions from her intelligence was another matter. Somehow, and for no good reason, she had the notion that one day Quentin Hughes would realize the mistake he’d made in not committing himself to her and would do something about it. She was too much like too many women—even in the so-called age of liberation….

  She snapped out of her reverie and glanced at her reflection in the glass separating the studio from the control room. She knew she’d been reverting back to her younger years when she’d done so little to improve her appearance. Especially over the past year. At the moment her hair was disheveled. Her powder blue turtleneck sweater had a coffee stain over one breast. A black felt skirt was rumpled and covered with cat hair. She wore no makeup and noticed that a streak of black ink from a Flair pen was still on her hand after she’d inadvertently picked up the pen by the wrong end almost two days ago. My God, Christa, you’re a mess… She considered taking a Valium from her purse but fought the urge. She knew that pills had become too much a part of her life. They were so easy to get. Always on hand were amphetamines and the depressants, Desoxyn and Plexonal, always something to pick her up from the depths or to bring her down from the heights. There had been other drugs, too, that Hughes occasionally enjoyed using recreationally, particularly to enhance his sexual pleasure. They’d done nothing to Christa, although she never argued with him when he insisted that she share his use of them.

  And there was alcohol. As much as she knew how dangerous it was to combine drugs and alcohol, she’d been drinking more heavily than ever. In fact, she’d gotten quite drunk two days ago and had gone through a shaky, painful day-after.

  A recorded commercial, then Hughes’s voice through the intercom: “How about some coffee?” Christa went to a small room, drew two cups and delivered them to the studio.

  “Thanks, babe,” Hughes said.

  She nodded, returned to the control room and remained there for the rest of the show.

  “I have to feed my cats,” she told him as they stood together in the office and prepared to leave the station.

  “They’ll live.”

  “Just drop me off. It will take ten minutes and I’ll feel better.”

  “All right,” he said, tossing letters as fast as he could open them into an already overflowing wastebasket.

  They arrived at the Watergate, parked his car in the underground garage and rode the elevator to his floor.

  “Can I get you something?” she asked after they were in the apartment.

  “No, thanks,” he said, kicking off his shoes and sprawling on the couch.

  “I think I’ll make myself a drink,” she said.

  “You drink too damn much,” he said.

  “No, I don’t.” (Yes, I do.) “Sure you don’t want one?”

  He didn’t answer. She went to the kitchen and poured herself a gin over ice, returned to the living room and sat next to him on the couch, drawing her feet up beneath her as she did. Hughes looked straight ahead across the large room.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “About you.”

  His comment pleased her. She touched his arm. “That’s nice to hear. Good thoughts, I hope.”

  He continued to stare straight ahead. Then: “I think it’s time for you to move on, Christa.”

  For a moment his words didn’t penetrate. He turned, looked into her eyes. “Did you hear me? I said, it’s time for you to move on.”

  Her laugh was purely nervous. She quickly took another drink of the gin. “Move on?… What do you mean? From my apartment?… From here?…” She knew damn well what he meant, was too terrified to acknowledge it.

  He continued to focus on her eyes, and as hard as she tried to avoid his look she found herself drawn back to them like metal shavings to a magnet. “I mean really move on,” he said. “We’ve been together too long, Christa. I think you ought to get out of the station, out of Washington. You’ll have no trouble getting another job in the business. I can arrange that with a phone call.”

  Her stomach knotted, she had difficulty swallowing the remaining gin in her glass. Often when they would fight she would be overcome with the same grip of inertia, nerve ends all activated at once and trying to propel her in a dozen different directions. She wanted to cry, to scream, to physically hurt him, to wrap her arms around his neck. She could do none of them.

  She went to the kitchen, where she filled her glass to the brim. She gripped the edge of the Formica counter and tried to stop herself from trembling. She drank, grabbed her purse and popped a Valium in her mouth.

  “What are you doing?” Hughes called from the living room.

  She came around behind him as he sat on the couch and used the back of it as a brace for her trembling hands.

  “Sit down, damn it,” he said, turning so that he could look up at her.

  She took a chair across a coffee table from him.

  He squinted. “We’ve had a good long run, Christa. Everybody moves on at some point in their lives.” He moved to the edge of the couch and reached for her hand. She pulled it away. She knew what she looked like at that moment. She remembered her mother looking that way…

  “Calm down,” Hughes said. “I’ll see that you’re set up with one hell of a good job. I’ll also make sure that you leave here with plenty of money in your pocket—”

  “You are a terrible person,” she said softly.

  “What did you say?”

  “I also love you. God, don’t you know that?”

  He placed his arm on the back of the couch, crossed his legs and jiggled his stockinged foot. “Love. That’s for kids, Christa. Grow up.”

  “I was a kid when I fell in love with you.” A large, immovable lump was in her throat. “I’ve stayed all these years because of that love—”

  “That’s your problem. I never told you to do it. I never promised you anything. It was your choice. I say it again, grow up, Christa.”

  She stood up and threw the contents of her glass in his face.

  “All right, damn you, I just have.”

  It took him a moment to recover from the shock. He shook his head, quickly got to his feet, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. He was across the room in a moment, took her by the throat with one hand, crossed his right arm over his body and brought the back of his hand sharply against the side of her face. He stood over her, forced her face up so that she was looking directly at him. “You’re sick, Christa. I’ve been telling you that for a long time. You’re sick and need help. Do you want help from me, Christa? Do you want me to see that you’re put someplace where they can help you?” He, of course, knew all about what had happened to her mother.

  Nothing in her now except terror. She broke down, begged him to forgive her, not to tell her she was sick. He finally let go of her hair. She fell back on the carpet and stayed there, motionless, while he disappeared into the bedroom.

  He came back wearing fresh clothes. “I’ll be out for a while. I want you gone when I come back. Go home, get drunk, pop some of your damn pills and sleep it off for a couple of days. When you come back to the station I’ll have it all worked out for you, a new job, a new city, a new life. That’s the trouble with people like you, Christa, you can’t tell the black hats from the white hats. I’m doing this in your best interests, but you’re either too stupid or too sick to understand that.” He left the apartment, slamming the door behind him….

  Fifteen minutes later Christa Jones stood at the wide expanse of window overlooking the city of Washington, D.C. She’d been standing there all that time, her mind a jumble, her breath coming in short spasms, her chest filled with the ache that had been there for so many years.

&nbs
p; She left the window and entered the bedroom, where she went directly to one of the closets that held Hughes’s extensive wardrobe. She got down on her knees and found what she was looking for on the floor of the closet, his fireproof storage vault. Quickly she went to the kitchen and felt around behind the refrigerator, removed a key from a nail, returned to the bedroom and opened the vault with the key. It was filled with papers, some cash, jewelry. None was of interest to her. She removed a package wrapped in brown paper, closed the lid, locked the box and returned the key to its hiding place behind the refrigerator. She put on her coat, looked about the apartment, then left.

  She hailed a cab outside and rode in it to her own small apartment, the package cradled on her lap as though it might have been a living thing. She locked the door behind her, took off her coat and flipped on the overhead lights. She was terrified. She drew a glass of water from the kitchen tap and used it to wash down another tranquilizer. An empty gin bottle stood in the sink along with dirty dishes. She found an almost empty bottle of cognac in a kitchen cupboard and poured what was left of it into a glass, then returned to the living room where the brown package sat next to her telephone. She found a slip of paper on which a phone number was written, picked up the phone and dialed the number. She let it ring fifteen times before hanging up.

  ***

  Lydia James had just left her apartment on her way to an appointment with Cale Caldwell, Jr. She heard her phone ringing and debated going back to answer it. She didn’t. “They’ll call back if it’s important,” she muttered to herself as she continued toward where she’d parked her car.

  Christa Jones hung up the telephone. One of her two cats jumped up on her lap and meowed. The animal pressed against her and rubbed back and forth. From its throat came rumblings of contentment.

  Christa looked down and smiled. “There, there, babe,” she said as she petted the cat’s head. “There, there, now. Mommy loves you. Love…”

  19

  Cale Caldwell, Jr., had called Lydia earlier that morning and asked her to come to his office to discuss an important matter. She hadn’t spoken with him since the night they’d had drinks together at Hogate’s.