She giggled. “Of course you can’t. Now watch, follow me. It’s easy.”
Yvgeny kept his eyes on Bakst’s daughter, Trina, all night. He liked her. She was pretty, like Sofia, but without Sofia’s silly ways. Trina had called her father by his last name. Strange, thought Yvgeny. It must be the way mafiya bosses are referred to in America. Each time Fodorov thought of what Trina had said, that her father considered him an important person from Moscow, he was filled with pleasure he dared not exhibit.
After all, he was now a hardened, paid killer.
Hardened, paid killers did not smile.
At five in the morning, Yvgeny lay in bed with a prostitute Bakst had dispatched to Misha’s house for the visitor’s pleasure. He knew he was not a skilled lover, so sought to compensate by treating the short, pale, chubby girl roughly. She didn’t complain, simply went through her motions as quickly as possible and left the small room.
Outside, she climbed into her Russian pimp’s Cadillac. The sun was rising over Coney Island and Brighton Beach. She gently touched her breasts through the fabric of her dress, where Yvgeny had hurt her.
The pimp had told her that her final customer for the night would be an important visitor from Moscow, according to Bakst.
“How was he?” the pimp asked, lighting a cigarette and starting the engine.
“Creepy,” she replied. “A faggot.”
Her pimp laughed as he pulled away from the curb. “Next time we should send him a boy,” he said.
“Next time,” she said, “send him a dog.”
20
Mac Smith walked into the office of former congressman Paul Latham and went directly to where Bob Mondrian sat at a computer. Mondrian held up his index finger, and went back to his task. Smith waited patiently. Finally, Mondrian stood, shook Smith’s hand, and suggested they go into the congressman’s office.
“Getting squared away?” Smith asked once the door was closed behind them.
“In a manner of speaking,” Mondrian said. “The official ME’s autopsy report is about to be announced. I got the call a few minutes ago.”
“No surprises, I assume.”
“No. It was murder. That’s a definite. The FBI is holding a news conference in a half hour.”
“Murder’s no novelty in Washington,” Smith said, more to himself than to the chief of staff. “But a congressman …”
“Presidents have fallen to the bullet,” Mondrian said, settling behind Latham’s desk and gesturing to a chair across from it.
Smith sat.
“Another blow to the country,” Mondrian said. “Every time a leader is killed, the whole nation loses another thread in its moral fabric.”
Smith looked across the desk at Bob Mondrian. He was aware of the high regard in which Latham had held his COS. Mondrian, besides being a skilled and effective staffer, was a keen student of history. Latham had once told Smith, “Sometimes I feel downright inferior to Bob. I love history, but he really knows it. Quotes Thucydides all the time. Considers him the greatest of all the historians. Spends his vacations traveling to major historical sites. He’d make a hell of a professor, if he wasn’t such a good pol.”
Smith asked Mondrian, “Any leads that you know of?”
Mondrian shook his head. What he then said gave credence to his reputation. “I spent a few weeks this summer in Albania, Mac. On a CODEL.”
“CODEL?”
“Congressional Delegation trip. Never got close to Corfu, though, where the Peloponnesian War took place between Athens and Sparta. It settled the question of who would dominate Greece. Once Athens lost its navy, it was no contest.” Mondrian smiled. “Don’t mean to ramble.”
“Feel free.”
“The minute I heard about Paul’s death, all I could think of was what Pericles said about leaders being killed.”
“What did Pericles say? My history’s not up to yours.”
“ ‘Trees, though they are cut and lopped, grow up again quickly, but if men are destroyed, it is not easy to replace them.’ ”
“As true now as back then, before the coming of Christ,” Smith said.
“Maybe even more so now,” Mondrian said gruffly.
“The FBI interviewed me this morning,” Smith said.
“Right. You said they would be. Painless?”
“Relatively. They’ve put out an all-points on Marge Edwards.”
“So I understand. Her father called here this morning.”
“And?”
“He was upset. He now knows about the story that Marge was poised to charge Paul with sexual harassment. Some local press out there are bugging him for a statement. And he was visited last night by a guy billing himself as a private detective.”
“Who’s this detective working for?”
A shrug from Mondrian. “I didn’t ask. Her father said his name was Petrone. Something like that.”
“Uh huh. Any word on who’ll fill Paul’s seat?”
“The leadership wants Ruth to push for it.”
“Oh?”
“She won’t, of course. A great congressman’s wife, but basically apolitical.”
Smith smiled. “That might be one of her most endearing attributes.”
Mondrian raised his eyebrows, then allowed a half smile to surface. “Not a fan of the political process, Mac?”
“Depends upon who’s doing what in that process. Bob, when I told you at Paul’s house about the Marge Edwards rumor, you dismissed it, then said that if it were true, it was because she’s so—how did you put it?—because she’s so ‘damned unstable.’ Care to elaborate on that?”
Mondrian chewed his cheek, sat back, and rubbed his eyes. He came forward again and ran his hand through his thinning hair. “What I’d rather do, Mac, is wait to see if she was, in fact, going to charge Paul. No sense telling Marge Edwards tales out of school unless necessary.”
“You already have,” Smith said, slightly annoyed at Mondrian’s sudden concern for her reputation. “You’ve told me she’s unstable. I’d like to have some examples of what leads you to that conclusion.”
Mondrian sighed. “I understand what you’re saying, Mac. But I also know that with Paul’s murder, you don’t have an official reason for staying involved. As I understand it, your only role was as Paul’s counsel at his confirmation hearings.”
Smith didn’t allow the comment to nettle him. He replied, “That’s right. But I feel a continuing obligation to Paul’s family. That’s not hard to understand, is it?”
Mondrian shook his head. “No, it’s not. Forgive me. I’ve been under the gun.”
Smith acknowledged that he understood; no forgiveness necessary, despite the overly apt expression. He also knew that Mondrian was not about to offer more about Marge Edwards. He stood. “Thanks for your time, Bob.”
“Lunch? I’ll order the sandwiches.”
“No, thanks. By the way, how about giving me Marge’s father’s number?”
Mondrian thought for a second, then said, “Sure. I have it outside. Anything else I can do for you?”
“I don’t think so. Not for the moment anyhow.”
“Amazing,” Mondrian said as he walked Smith to the outer offices. “It’s only been a day since Paul was murdered, and all the focus is back on politics. Who’ll run for his seat? Who will the president nominate now for State? Who will the leadership put up for Paul’s chairmanship of International Relations?”
“Just business as usual, D.C. style,” Smith said, accepting the slip of paper from Mondrian on which Marge Edwards’s father’s number was written.
“Just a word of caution, Mac,” Mondrian said.
“Yes?”
“I’d think twice about contacting the father.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t sound—I don’t know—maybe he’s old, losing it. Just a thought.”
Just a thought, like his off-hand comment about Marge’s stability was “just a thought.”
“Thanks, Bob. Stay in touch.”
&
nbsp; Smith meant—with reality.
21
Congressman Paul Latham’s funeral service was held at night in the National Cathedral, where former secretary of state Jake Baumann’s death had been officially mourned. His body would be flown to California for burial.
The day after the funeral, a tribute to him was held in the Capitol’s Statuary Hall. A succession of congressmen and senators offered words of praise and sadness, and directed their condolences to Ruth Latham and her three children, who sat erect and proud in the front row. Priscilla had flown in from London, arriving just in time for the National Cathedral service.
When it was over, the Latham family formed a receiving line of sorts, and greeted the hundreds of friends and colleagues who’d shown up, Mac and Annabel Smith among them.
“They were touching and fitting tributes,” Smith said to Ruth Latham.
“Paul would have been proud,” she replied, dry-eyed.
Smith shook Martin’s hand. The only Latham son, hair tied in a long ponytail, wearing one of his father’s suit jackets over a T-shirt, chino pants, and black sneakers, thanked Mac for coming.
“Your father was a good friend,” Smith said. “And a good man.”
“Your tennis partner.”
“Among other things.”
As they spoke, Annabel chatted briefly with Priscilla Latham. She hadn’t seen Priscilla in at least two years, and was struck by the young woman’s radiant beauty. She carried her nicely cut English suit and simple silk blouse with grace; she spoke with parallel aplomb.
“… I suppose the hardest part, Mrs. Smith, is knowing my father was murdered. That happens to other families, inner-city families, poor families.”
“I’m sure they’ll find the person responsible soon,” Annabel said, continuing to hold Priscilla’s hand.
“I hope so. We could use some closure.”
Smith had moved on to Molly Latham. He wasn’t sure what to say to the sixteen-year-old, whose expression told him she was trying to balance a desire to appear composed with the need to bawl her brains out.
“As sad as all this is, Molly,” Smith said, “I find myself celebrating all the years your father was my friend. Hard to do sometimes, but it’s the way he would want it. At least that’s the way I choose to view it.”
She nodded and forced a small smile. “He always said such nice things about you and Mrs. Smith.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“I remember when he and mom came back from your wedding.” She glanced at Annabel. “I remember he said you were the best-looking couple in Washington, except for him and Mom.”
Smith laughed, squeezed her hand, and moved to the next person in line. Molly introduced her: “This is my roommate in the page dorm, Melissa Marshall.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Smith said, noticing that Annabel was now in front of Molly.
“Mah pleasure,” Melissa said.
Smith turned and asked Molly, “When will you be getting back to being a page?”
She shrugged.
Melissa answered for her, “As soon as possible, Mr. Smith. Ah certainly do miss her.”
The Smiths left the Capitol and stood in the sunshine, as far from the hundreds of press people as possible. Security was heavy. The Lathams had twenty-four-hour-a-day MPD escort. Capitol police seemed to be everywhere. FBI agents, trying to be unnoticed, were obvious in their attempt.
“Lovely day.”
“As far as the weather goes,” Annabel said.
“They seem to be holding up quite well.”
“The collapse will come later. What time is your flight?”
“Four. Out of National.”
“Still sure you want to go?”
“Yes. I’ve been chafing ever since Bob Mondrian told me I basically didn’t have any business asking questions about Marge Edwards. When I called her father, he came off to me as a rational, intelligent man. Mondrian said he was losing it, as he put it. Why?”
“Maybe that’s the way the father came off to him.”
“Possibly. His name is Jim. The father. I didn’t intend to go out to Indiana to see him. But when he said the last time Marge called him, she said that if she were ever in trouble in Washington she’d call me, I figured I owed her this.”
“You no longer think she’s simply gone underground to get away from the glare?”
“Still a possibility, Annie. But I have this gut feeling that—”
“Which you tend to trust more than I trust mine, women’s intuition aside.”
“I have this feeling that Marge Edwards is in trouble beyond simply claiming her boss sexually harassed her. If that’s even true.”
Annabel said, “Go to Indiana and talk to … Jim, is it? I just hope you’re wrong.”
22
Jim Edwards picked him up at the Indianapolis Airport. He was not what Smith expected him to be.
For some reason, since his conversation with Bob Mondrian, and during the flight from Washington, Smith had conjured a vision of an old, crusty Indiana farmer.
Instead, he was greeted by a handsome, youthful gentleman dressed in sport coat and tie. He had a full head of bushy brown hair, with some gray at the temples. Mac judged him to be in his mid-fifties—maybe a few years older than that, considering lines in his ruddy face. His smile was wide and genuine, his handshake firm.
They drove to Edwards’s home in his red Jeep Grand Cherokee. His home wasn’t far from the airport, a well-kept small tract house with a manicured lawn and pretty white front porch. As they approached, Edwards slowed down and pointed to a TV satellite van and four or five people leaning against it.
“The press caught up with you, I see,” said Smith.
“Yes. I don’t know how people in the public eye stand it, the constant scrutiny, the interference in your life.”
“It’s a negative perk,” Smith said. “Goes with being a public figure.”
They pulled into the driveway. Smith, carrying his small overnight bag, walked with Edwards across the lawn and to the porch. The reporters cut them off before they had a chance to go up the four steps.
“Any word from your daughter?” Edwards was asked.
“No,” he responded. “No word.”
“Who are you?” a reporter asked Smith.
Smith smiled against the questioner’s bluntness. “Mackensie Smith.”
Another reporter said, “Congressman Latham’s lawyer.”
“Former counsel,” Smith corrected.
“Why are you here, Mr. Smith?”
“Just visiting,” Mac said. To Edwards: “Can we?”
They stepped up onto the porch. Edwards opened the screen door, used his key to unlock the inner door, and ushered Smith inside.
They stood in the living room, a square space with sheets on the chairs and couch. “I keep the furniture covered, Mr. Smith, because of the dogs and cats.”
Smith looked about. “My dog would be all over a guest,” he said.
“So would mine, if I let them. I keep them in a small apartment over the garage when guests are coming. The cats are probably frightened. One of them will venture out in a while. Please. Sit.” He whipped the sheet from the couch. “Can I get you something? You haven’t had dinner, have you?”
“Peanuts and a Coke on the flight,” Mac said. “That’s what seems to pass for a ‘snack’ these days with the airlines. But I’m not hungry. I’ll eat later at the hotel.”
“I made a reservation for you at the Holiday Inn. Only a few miles away. The invitation to stay here is still open. It’s just me and the animals these days.”
“Thanks, but I don’t want to intrude. A cup of coffee would be fine, if it’s no trouble.”
“Never any trouble with instant coffee, Mr. Smith.”
Smith, a self-acknowledged coffee snob, said, “Any tea?”
“Sure. Only be a minute.”
Smith used Edwards’s absence to stroll and to take in the living room. Mondrian had said Edwards�
��s wife was dead; a dozen pictures of a woman, obviously her, helped to preserve the memories for her widower.
There were also pictures of Marge; as a small child cuddling a puppy, at high school graduation, on prom night, and a more recent one taken in front of the Capitol Building. She looked happy in all of them.
Smith had just picked up a book from a table—surprised to find a collection of short stories by Arturo Vivante that had appeared in The New Yorker; Smith also had a copy, which rested in a section of a bookcase reserved for favorite works—when Edwards reappeared with tea and a small plate of vanilla cookies.
“Perhaps you’d prefer a drink. Liquor, I mean,” Edwards said.
“No, thank you. Tea is fine.”
“You don’t mind if I do? It’s that time.”
“Sure. Go ahead,” Smith said.
They passed the next few minutes talking about Vivante’s book and others. Edwards said he and his deceased wife, Sue, had always been ravenous readers despite jobs that were distinctly not literary. Sue Edwards had worked as a secretary at a small manufacturing plant. Jim was employed as a maintenance supervisor at a rental car’s Indianapolis office.
Smith finished his tea and addressed his reason for being there. “Jim,” he said, “Paul Latham was a dear friend of mine. His family, too, has always been close. As you know, a rumor surfaced that Marge was considering—I suppose that’s the accurate way to put it—she was considering bringing a sexual harassment charge against Latham, which conceivably could have caused a serious problem with his confirmation hearings as secretary of state.”
Edwards, who sipped from a glass, said nothing, simply nodded as Mac made his points.
Smith continued. “Then, of course, as you know, Congressman Latham was murdered.”
“That’s definite?” Edwards asked. “It wasn’t suicide?”
“No. The autopsy confirms it was murder. It was on the news.”
Edwards sounded defensive. “I don’t watch much of the news. Everything’s so grim these days. I prefer to read.”
“I can certainly understand that,” Smith said. “Naturally, with Paul Latham dead, the question of whether Marge was, indeed, intending to bring the charge changes considerably. A question for you, Jim. Did she ever indicate, in any way, that Paul Latham had demonstrated sexual, romantic interest in her?”
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