Well, she’d gone this far… She went back to the terminal, found and opened the locker. Inside was a package wrapped in brown paper that she removed, tucked under her coat, then went to her car and drove too fast to Clarence’s apartment.
***
“What do you make of it,” Clarence said as they sat at the dining room table, about to dig into his dinner of rock Cornish hens, baked potatoes, string beans and a tomato-and-onion salad with Italian dressing. Clarence, Lydia thought—and warmly—the complete man.
“She seemed to want to tell me that she or Hughes killed Jimmye McNab. When she called me she said she had something to say about the Caldwell murder, but then she never mentioned Caldwell… Well, she’s obviously been crazy—and I use the term advisedly—in love with Quentin Hughes for years, apparently since she first met him. I know it’s hard to understand, Clarence, especially for a man—but there are women, unfortunately, who fall in love with a man and stay with him no matter what happens, no matter how much abuse he heaps on them. That’s even part of the attraction, I’m afraid. Think of the battered wives who keep coming back for more. And I couldn’t help but think of the Jean Harris case in New York. The doctor she killed was a Quentin Hughes of sorts, a womanizer who for fourteen years shoved his affairs under her nose. Still, she hung in with him. I hate to admit it but it seems a female failing at times, this need to love a man no matter what he is or what he does.”
“Could be… by the way, do you know where Christa was going?”
“Yes, to New York, to stay with some friends.”
“And she claims the videotape has the answers to this mess… or some of them… Let’s see the letter again… All right, so she accuses Quentin Hughes of murdering Jimmye McNab and Senator Caldwell, with no evidence.”
“She says the tape will explain things, although like you I’m not sure exactly what.” She hesitated, knowing what he was thinking and not wanting to face the next step… “Clarence, I felt I had to betray a confidence to the extent of opening the letter, but the tape…?”
“Well, look, you can’t do anything about it tonight. And to see the tape you’d need special equipment. Let’s leave it alone for now.”
It was, of course, what she wanted to hear.
“You know, Lydia, I can accept the fact that she stayed with Hughes despite, or even because of, the s.o.b. he is. But it’s also logical to assume that Christa Jones killed Jimmye McNab out of jealousy—”
“But what about Hughes?”
“Why, if he was so crazy about her?”
“Remember, Christa also said that Jimmye was as bad as Hughes, a user… she could have provoked him to murder… except how does all this relate to Senator Caldwell’s murder?”
“Eat before it gets cold. We’ll solve this over coffee and dessert.” He smiled when he said it.
But when they were finished he had a better idea. “You know, murder will out but it can also wait… how about coffee in bed?”
Lydia looked up at him. “Best offer I’ve had all day.”
***
John Conegli sat in his car outside Clarence’s apartment building and leaned close to the speaker that picked up some of the dialogue between Lydia and Clarence. He’d heard Lydia say that Christa had gone to New York, and he’d picked up the reference to the tape. From what he heard he assumed Christa had taken the tape with her, but of course he couldn’t be sure. He also heard that Lydia had opened some letter from Christa, and wasn’t feeling too good about it…
The sound of the television set and the rustle of the bedclothes now took center stage. He sat back and bit his lip. He wanted to stay and keep listening, but knew he had a much more pressing obligation. He got out of the car and went to a phone booth on the corner, pulled out a little black book from his pocket and thumbed through it until finding the name he was looking for. He dialed the New York City area code, then a number. To his relief, it was answered by the person he wanted to reach.
“Johnny, how the hell are you?” the voice from New York said.
“Not so good, Hal. Look, I don’t have much time. I’m working on a big case down here and I need your help.”
“I’m busy.”
“Just tonight, Hal. There’s a woman arriving on a bus from Washington any minute now. I don’t know exactly how long it takes buses to get up there but I figure it should be pulling in about now. Her name is Christa Jones. She’s kind of a wacky-looking broad, tall, lots of gray streaks in black hair, doesn’t wear makeup, as I remember. The point is she’s getting off the bus and visiting a friend. All I want you to do is meet the bus, if it’s not too late, follow her and find out where she’s going to be for the next three days.”
“Hey, Johnny, I got a date and—”
“This client of mine pays good, Hal. I’ll take care of you. Besides, you owe me a couple.”
Hal yawned. “All right, all right, I’ll do it. I wish I had a better description.”
“Just do your best and let me know.”
Conegli went back to his car and took up his listening again. He heard sounds, which he matched to his fantasies.
Eventually, no sound from the bedroom. The television set was turned off. Conegli looked at his pad, reviewed what he’d written. Obviously the most important piece of information was the mention of an envelope that Lydia James had been given, and that she was to open if this Christa Jones didn’t come back to Washington.
Home and a few hours sleep, but first he needed to stop at a luncheonette in Maryland, where he met with a young man with long black hair, who wore a fringed suede jacket over a red-and-blue cowboy shirt, dungarees and cowboy boots. “I got a job for you, Billy,” Conegli told him as they had coffee at the counter.
“Can use some work.”
“This one’s important.”
“They all are, ain’t they? Lay it on me.”
25
Boris Slevokian, noted violinist, had spent the afternoon at Foster-Sims’s rehearsing pieces he’d perform on a tour of the Far East. It had taken considerable arm-twisting to convince Clarence to work with him, and Clarence was even more surprised than Boris that he’d agreed to do it.
It had been the first time he’d touched a piano in so many years, the Steinway seemed a formidable enemy.
He interrupted the rehearsal with Boris—less painful than he’d thought—to phone Lydia and tell her he’d gone back to the ol’ debbil piano. She’d like that.
“Lydia?”
“Hi,” she said as she continued stripping off her clothes for a calisthenics session she felt she needed to pick her up.
“I’ve been worried all day about you.”
“Why?”
“Because of the letter Christa Jones gave you. You must realize that certain people might do just about anything to get it away from you—”
“Clarence, no one knows about the letter or the tape except you, me and Christa. I sealed the letter in a committee envelope and gave it to Ginger to put in the office safe, along with lots of other documents. I didn’t tell her what it was, and she didn’t ask. I’m always giving her bundles of documents to secure—”
“You gave it to Ginger? Do you think that was smart?”
“Smart, safe—pardon the pun—and sound. Ginger may talk like a flake but she’s far from it. I also put the videotape in the safe, me myself. I checked with the Senate television studio and they told me it can only handle three-quarter-inch tape, the kind used in electronic news operations. The tape I took from the locker is two inches. I guess the only place to see it is at a television studio that has two-inch equipment.”
“I have a friend who has his own recorder at home—”
“No good. Those are too small, too. Willy-nilly, it looks like I’ll come close to honoring Christa’s request. Which, matter of fact, I’m kind of thankful for.
“And now I’m off for dinner with the fair Ginger. I like her a lot. She’s full of beans…”
“Not my style, lady, but… He
y, guess what… I’ve been playing the old piano all afternoon.”
“That’s terrific. What brought it on?”
“The people’s choice… Boris Slevokian. I’ve been working on a new piece he’s going to incorporate in his next tour. The fingers are pretty stiff, Lydia.”
She smiled, allowing herself a prurient thought without a single redeeming social value. “Clarence, darling, I’ve got to go… I’ll call you if I don’t get home too late…”
“Please do, I’ll be up late.”
***
John Conegli, who’d arrived in front of Foster-Sims’s apartment an hour earlier, had heard Clarence’s side of the telephone conversation with Lydia, heard him echo Lydia saying that Ginger Johnson had been given the envelope, which meant that Conegli needed to change some plans he’d made for the evening. He pulled quickly away from the curb and drove to Ginger’s address, checked the mailboxes to note that she lived in 14-F, then left the building and went to a phone booth. His call was answered on the first ring by a woman.
“Let me speak to Billy.”
“He ain’t here.”
“Who’s this?”
“His mother. Who’s this?”
“A friend. Did he say where he was going?”
“He said he had some work to do.”
Conegli hung up and stepped outside the booth. He considered trying to head Billy off himself but was reluctant to leave. Given what Foster-Sims had said, the best shot he had at the envelope was Ginger Johnson. Besides, he reasoned, nothing would really be lost by having Billy go through with the job he’d assigned him to. Sort of an insurance job.
***
Lydia sat in a booth in Martin’s Tavern on Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown. Martin’s had been a landmark since it opened in 1933. To Lydia it somehow represented the quintessential Georgetown hangout—dark wooden booths, veteran waiters in green jackets, a long oak bar behind which an extensive collection of steins stood proudly on shelves. Martin’s attracted the athletic set, which was not surprising considering the fact that it had been opened by a former baseball player with the Boston Braves, Bill Martin. A small back room was known as the Dugout.
Lydia was not worried by Ginger’s lateness. She was never on time. As she sat alone and sipped a Kir, she thought on her theory about people who were chronically late. It was a way to ensure attention… people were either waiting for their entrance or helping them make an exit for an appointment.
It didn’t really matter, she decided, unless it was deliberate. She took another sip and waited for Ginger to come through the front door in her usual state of high energy, plus a little high anxiety.
When another twenty minutes had passed, Lydia put aside philosophy and began to worry. She was sure this was the night they’d planned to meet… she considered calling Ginger’s home, told herself she’s probably on her way right now…
Fifteen minutes later Lydia made the call to Ginger’s apartment. Harold answered.
“This is Lydia James, Harold. I was supposed to meet Ginger for dinner but she hasn’t shown up yet. I was getting worried—”
“You were right…” He sounded out of breath and in a hurry. “I just got a call from the police. Somebody attacked her again.”
“What? My God… is she all right?”
“I think so. They were taking her to the hospital when they called. I heard her yelling in the background that she didn’t want to go to any hospital, I’m glad they insisted…”
Lydia told the waiter that her plans had been changed, paid for the Kir and left Martin’s. She was annoyed at herself that she’d been so upset she hadn’t asked what hospital Ginger had been taken to. She’d go home, wait for a call.
***
She pulled her Buick into a tiny alley to the rear of her brownstone, got out and walked quickly around the side of the building and toward the front door. In the darkness she stumbled over a loose red brick in the narrow sidewalk. She’d noticed it before and had meant to fix it. She continued along the path—
“Don’t move.”
A man stepped out from behind bushes that lined the side of the house, brought his left forearm around her neck and pushed the point of a knife into her back.
Lydia felt paralyzed.
“Walk nice and easy to the front door.”
She did. When they got to the front door she said, “I don’t have any money in the house, it’s in my purse, take it and please leave me alone—”
“Shut up and open the door.”
Her only thought was that she was about to be raped. If he didn’t want money, what else? As she fumbled for her keys, she actually tried to remember what she’d read or seen on television about how to handle a rapist. It had all seemed so clear and sensible before. Now, faced with the reality, it was anything but… was it better to put up a struggle, or go along and try to talk him out of it? She opened the door and they stumbled inside, his arm still around her neck. He kicked the door closed, loosened his grip and pushed her. Her face hit the wall and she felt a dull ache in her cheekbone.
“Don’t turn around, lady.”
She didn’t, but caught her first sight of him in a mirror—young, long black hair. She was surprised to have enough composure to take stock of him. She also noticed he wore a buff, fringed suede jacket over a dark shirt.
He looked around the entrance hallway. She saw the knife for the first time. It looked like what she thought of as a hunting knife, and large.
“Come on, let’s go in,” he said motioning his head toward the living room.
Lydia turned to face him. “Who are you?” Not, she told herself, a particularly sensible question under the circumstances. Come on, Lydia…
He smiled. “Don’t be silly, lady. Now take it easy, I ain’t going to hurt you unless I have to.”
He was going to rape her. Well, she’d damn well put up a fight, he’d have to use his knife to—
He grabbed her arm and whirled her into the living room. “You can save me a lot of time, lady. Just give me the envelope that’s so important.” (Conegli, a real sweetheart, hadn’t bothered to call off his dogs.)
His demand shocked her. Why would he want Christa Jones’s envelope? How did he even know about it? Did he know its contents, or, more likely, was he acting on someone else’s orders?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“Lady, I don’t mind tying you up and tearing this place apart if I have to. Be a smart lady and give me the envelope and save us both time and trouble.”
She decided to tell the truth, which as any lawyer could tell you, was often the least convincing in a court of law. Well, this was no court of law. This was, for God’s sake, the real thing… She said, “I don’t have the envelope you’re looking for. I gave it to someone on my staff, it’s in my office…”
Of course, he didn’t believe her… “It could be so easy, lady, but you don’t seem to care.” He stepped closer. The knife in his right hand was pointed at her stomach. He grabbed her right shoulder and spun her around. She stumbled across the room, fell onto the couch. He was on her, twisting her left arm behind her back and forcing it up with increasing pressure toward her shoulders. She called out in pain, furious to give him that much satisfaction. “Shut up and tell me where that envelope is or I’ll break your arm off—”
“I don’t have it… let go of me and I’ll tell you how we can get it.”
He slowly released her wrist, stood, propped one scuffed cowboy boot on the edge of the coffee table. Slowly Lydia pulled herself up, turned and sat on the arm of the couch.
“Okay, lady. I’m all ears.”
She closed her eyes against the pain in her arm, tried to collect her thoughts. “I told you the letter is in my office. We can go there now and get it, I promise you I’ll give it to you there—”
“How far is your office?”
“Senate Building—”
“You a senator. A woman?”
“I work there, for a
committee.” More truth, which she gambled he’d never believe.
He seemed to think for a moment, and as he did she felt a rising, pulsating anger. No question now, if she’d had a gun she’d have used it on him, would have taken pleasure in doing it. She’d stood in court many times and defended people like the man threatening her right now. She’d pleaded for their rights, pointed to their sad “socioeconomic” disadvantages, used everything the law allowed to combat the prosecution and, often as not, was successful. She’d believed in what she was doing, genuinely felt for most of her clients.
Not now. What attorney… possibly herself?… had set this man free so he could put a knife to her…
He’d made up his mind. “Get up.”
“What are you going to do?” He slapped her. She was surprised how little it hurt. “Where’s your bedroom?”
She stood and slowly led him from the living room to the bedroom. He flicked on an overhead light. “Nice,” he said. “Nice big bed.”
She said nothing, just stood there and waited for his next move. He was directly behind her, she felt the knife was poised for action.
“Let’s see, where would a classy lady like you hide an important letter? Hard to say. Have you got a safe here?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure, just as I’m sure the letter you want is”—and then she glanced at the night table next to her bed on which a lamp, a clock and a small box of Kleenex sat. The table had one drawer. She drew a deep breath. “All right, I do have the letter here. If I give it to you will you promise to leave me alone?”
“Now that you got smart and stopped lying, I’ll take it into consideration.”
“I’ll get it for you.” She went to the night table. She couldn’t see him but knew he was following closely behind. In the drawer were envelopes containing legal documents from her law practice, to be reviewed at home before returning to the office.
She paused, then bent over and slowly opened the drawer. Her left hand reached inside and found a long, white envelope stuffed with legal carbons. She quickly turned and thrust the envelope at him, saying as she did, “Here’s your envelope.” In the moment it took him to receive the envelope her left hand fell back into the drawer, her fingers clutched a four-inch black cylinder of CS tear gas—more commonly known in its packaged state as Mace. She’d been given it a year ago by an attorney friend, who’d told her she needed it, given the city she lived in and the people she represented. He’d actually wanted her to apply for a gun permit, but she’d always been against keeping firearms in a house. More to appease him than anything else, she’d accepted the Mace, had put it in the night table drawer and pretty well forgotten about it. She had no real idea what effect it had on a person.
Murder on Capitol Hill Page 19
