Brazier’s personal assistant knocked.
“In!” Brazier said.
She opened the door and said the visitors for his nine o’clock appointment had arrived, and were waiting in his office.
“Thank you,” Brazier said, closing the file folder and leaving the room without another word.
The Bureau had assigned two of its most senior special agents to interview Brazier that morning, Matthew Miller and Kenneth Wahlstrom, both from a division formed after the collapse of the Soviet Union to deal with the new challenges presented by that dissolution.
Brazier’s greeting of them was abrupt. He sat behind his desk and said, “I trust this won’t take long. I have meetings scheduled all day.”
The agents had dealt with difficult individuals long enough not to be put off by such behavior. Miller said, his face void of expression, “We’re here to ask questions of you in the matter of Congressman Paul Latham’s murder. You’re free to have counsel present, if you wish.”
“I don’t need any lawyers here,” Brazier shot back. “Ask your questions. Let’s not waste time with needless preliminaries.”
Again, Miller ignored it. “Where were you, Mr. Brazier, the morning Congressman Latham was shot?”
Brazier met the special agent’s steady, unblinking stare. “Here,” he said. “In my office.”
“At that early hour?”
“I don’t keep bureaucrat’s hours,” Brazier said. “Next?”
“Was anyone here with you?”
“No.”
“There’s no one to verify your statement?”
“My word is good enough.” Brazier made the checking of his Rolex a conspicuous action.
The two agents had decided before confronting Brazier to allow Miller to do the questioning, and for Wahlstrom to make notes, not only of Brazier’s responses, but to characterize his demeanor.
The picture Wahlstrom presented externally was as noncommittal as his partner’s. Inside, he seethed with dislike for this cocky, arrogant little man whose power stemmed only from money. Unlike Miller, who tended to shrug off such people, Wahlstrom actively disliked them to the extent that he felt the excessive, even obscene wealth of industrial leaders—garnered on the backs of working people, whose relatively meager salaries were increasingly considered impediments to their leaders’ bottom line—was the greatest threat the nation faced. Of course, he seldom expressed those sentiments. The Bureau tended not to react favorably to special agents with mildly socialist-sounding views.
“When was the last time you saw Congressman Latham, Mr. Brazier?”
Brazier’s shrug was barely discernible.
“I’ll repeat the question,” Miller said.
“I saw him that afternoon.”
“That afternoon? You mean the previous afternoon.”
“I mean the afternoon of the day before he died.”
“What time was that?”
“Late. Four o’clock, maybe. Four-thirty.”
“You don’t keep records of your meetings, especially with members of Congress?”
Brazier narrowed his eyes.
“Sir?”
“We were friends. I don’t keep records of getting together with friends.”
“Where did you and Congressman Latham meet?”
“His office.”
“A social visit?”
“It was to discuss a few things.”
“And what were they?”
“I don’t think that’s of concern to anyone but Paul Latham and me.”
“The FBI is officially charged with investigating the murder of Congressman Latham,” said Miller. “What things did you and the congressman discuss?”
“I really don’t recall.”
Agent Wahlstrom thought back to his pre-Bureau days, when he was a police officer in Los Angeles. Anyone displaying Brazier’s swagger during questioning might have been made more cooperative with a fist to the face. He wanted to go over the desk at the contemptuous industrialist, his impatience magnified by what he and Miller had been told prior to coming to interview Brazier. Warren Brazier had become a prime suspect in Congressman Latham’s murder. If Brazier had been behind it, Wahlstrom looked forward to playing a part in nailing it down. But as frustrating as it was, he knew he’d have to wait for that satisfaction. He wrote on his pad that Brazier did not recall what had been discussed during his last meeting with Latham.
“No idea?” Miller followed up. “Not even one thing that came up during your meeting?”
“No. It was a social call. Idle conversation. Sports. Movies. Family.”
“Family? Did you talk about your family? His?”
“Both.”
“Did the congressman seem upset about anything that afternoon?”
“No. He was in good spirits.”
“Did anything he said indicate that he intended to be in that pocket park at such an early hour the next morning?”
“No.” Another overt look at his watch.
“Did he indicate to you during that social call, or during any previous meetings, that there might have been someone with enough of a grudge against him to contemplate killing him?”
“Of course not.”
“Why do you say ‘of course not’? A man in his position of leadership would naturally make enemies.”
“I wasn’t one of them.”
Brazier’s response piqued the interest of both agents, but they said nothing to indicate it.
“You and Congressman Latham worked together closely over the years, didn’t you? On legislation regarding your business interests in Russia?”
“You don’t ‘work closely’ with a congressman. You help a congressman think through a piece of legislation, provide him and his staff with needed, helpful facts, point out the potential impact of legislation.”
Miller dismissed Brazier’s capsule education on congressional lobbying, and asked his next question: “Did you have an argument with Congressman Latham during that last social visit?”
“No.”
A buzzer sounded. Brazier pushed a button on a compact intercom unit on his desk. His assistant’s voice said, “You’re running late for your next meeting, sir.”
“Thank you,” Brazier said. He removed his finger from the button and said to the special agents, “You’ll have to wrap this up. As you can see, I have nothing to offer, except to again extend my condolences to Congressman Latham’s fine and grieving family.”
He stood. The interview was over, as far as he was concerned.
Neither agent left his seat. Wahlstrom continued writing as Miller asked, “Have you been in touch with the congressman’s family?”
“Of course,” Brazier said.
The agents knew he hadn’t. Ruth Latham had informed other agents who’d interviewed her late the previous afternoon that she was disappointed at Brazier’s lack of communication with her.
Miller pressed on. “Where, when, and how did you learn of Congressman Latham’s death?”
“Sorry, but I must leave … gentlemen.”
Special Agent Wahlstrom broke his silence. “How long will you be in your next meeting?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“We’ll wait,” Wahlstrom said.
“If you wish,” Brazier said, going to the door and gesturing for them to follow. “You can wait in the reception area. You might be there awhile. A few days, perhaps.”
The agents stepped into the hallway. Brazier said, “Good day.” With that, he set off at a quick pace, turned a corner, and was gone.
Wahlstrom swore under his breath.
Miller smiled, placed his hand on his colleague’s shoulder, and said, “Just goes to show money doesn’t buy class. Or honesty. Let’s get out of here.”
At two that afternoon, Dr. Giles Broadhurst, head of the CIA’s new division to foster American business competitiveness abroad, attended a meeting at FBI headquarters, in the J. Edgar Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue between Ninth and Tenth streets, N.W.
Its ironic location, two blocks south of the Martin Luther King Memorial Library, wasn’t lost on Broadhurst. Hoover had tried to bring King down, yet the monuments to both shared that small parcel of land. If it was any consolation to Dr. King, his building was clearly superior in architecture—to say nothing of public sentiment—to the controversial former FBI chief’s memorial. It was sometimes termed Washington’s major contribution to the new design “Brutalism.”
The meeting took place in a windowless office. With Broadhurst in the room was the Bureau’s special agent in charge of the Latham case, Gerry Lakely.
“How did it go?” Lakely asked.
“Good,” Broadhurst replied.
“He’ll do it?”
“I think so. No commitment from him this morning, but my guess is he will. He’s a careful, prudent man. Lawyer, you know. Professor.”
“What questions did he ask?”
“Oh, why we were asking him. Why you and your people didn’t simply confront Brazier with the information yourselves.”
“And you said?”
“I said what we’d agreed I’d say. That his close relationship with Latham, professional and personal, made it more likely Brazier would buy what he was saying—and offering.”
“Good.”
“A question.”
“Yes?”
“Why are you taking this approach, using him?”
Lakely, whose reputation within the Bureau was that of a cold, methodical agent with the ability to create elaborate scenarios in which to trap suspects, rubbed his hands together as though they were cold. He thought for a moment before replying, “If we actually had the evidence against Brazier, we’d take it to him. But since we don’t physically have possession of it—although I’m sure we will in due time—we don’t want this agency, or yours for that matter, to be out there swinging in the breeze. Better someone without official connection to either body. Don’t you agree?”
“Of course. No progress on locating Ms. Edwards?”
“None. But there will be. Any problem with your assistant, Ms. Belle?”
“No. Should there be?”
“Only because she brought Smith into the picture. Her teacher, pedagogue, and preceptor, man to look up to. No problem that might cause her to balk? Maybe tip him off to what we’re doing?”
“No. No problem.”
“Good. Then I think this should move along smoothly. Thanks, Giles.”
“Happy to help, although I’ll be glad to get back to what I was hired for—boost American business abroad.”
“I think you’re doing precisely that, Giles. Let’s face it. Warren Brazier, and the way he does business overseas, doesn’t do anyone any good. Let me know when Smith gets back to you.”
At three that afternoon, Warren Brazier’s secretary took a phone call.
“My name is Mackensie Smith. I was counsel to former congressman Paul Latham.”
“Yes, Mr. Smith. How may I help you?”
“I would like to make an appointment to see Mr. Brazier at his earliest convenience.”
“I see. May I ask what it’s in reference to?”
“Well, that’s hard to explain on the phone. You might simply tell Mr. Brazier that I’ve come into possession of certain information regarding Congressman Latham that I know will be of great interest to him.”
Smith waited while she wrote down every word.
“How can we get back to you, Mr. Smith?”
Mac gave her his number.
“I’m sure Mr. Brazier will return your call shortly. Thank you, Mr. Smith.”
“I’m sure he will. Thank you.”
28
Anatoly Alekseyev’s attempts to arrange a meeting with Warren Brazier had been a resounding failure. Once he accepted the reality that Brazier would not allow him to plead personally to stay in Washington, he sent him a long, detailed memo pointing to contributions he’d made to the company’s success, his loyalty to the firm’s goals and its leader, and reasons why a sudden transfer back to Russia would pose a personal hardship for him. The latter reason for remaining in Washington was weak, he knew. Brazier never made personnel decisions based upon individual needs, which Alekseyev understood from a management perspective. Still, he felt he had to pull out all the stops.
There hadn’t been any response from Brazier to the memorandum, nor did the young executive hold out much hope there would be. He and his two colleagues had been instructed by Human Resources to be prepared to depart within four days. The thought of leaving a city and lifestyle he’d grown to love was anathema.
This day, after starting the process of cleaning out his desk, and having made a few calls to friends in search of another job that would keep him in Washington, he left the office at four. He didn’t want to stop in at any of his regular Georgetown haunts because he wasn’t in the mood for idle chat. Instead, he chose the Hotel Washington, where he sat alone in the Sky Terrace Lounge, nursing vodkas on the rocks and contemplating his situation. He’d been to the hotel’s rooftop before, once with friends to observe the city’s Fourth of July celebrations; its panoramic views of Washington were unrivaled.
Feeling the effects of the vodka, but not drunk, Alekseyev retrieved his car from a parking garage and headed for his apartment complex, stopping on the way at Jaimalito’s to take out two orders of enchiladas.
By the time he walked into his apartment, a pervasive sense of desperation had set in, fueled, to some extent, by the alcohol. He sensed he had to do something, and do it fast.
But what could he do?
Finding a new job would take weeks, perhaps months. He hadn’t saved any money to sustain him through a prolonged search. Too, there was the fear that Brazier would put out unfavorable references about him. Or worse. The man was capable of that, Alekseyev knew. A brilliant businessman—and a ruthless one, with little or no regard for people.
“Hello,” he called out, shutting the door behind him and putting the shopping bag of food on a nearby table. “Marge?”
Marge Edwards, dressed in a bathrobe and slippers, emerged from the bedroom. Her disheveled hair and puffy eyes said she’d been sleeping.
“Hi,” she said in a husky voice.
“Hi,” he said. “Any calls?”
“No. I don’t think so. I was sleeping.”
Alekseyev checked the answering machine. No tiny red blinking light.
He tossed his jacket on a chair and brought the takeout dinners into the kitchen. She followed. “Anything new with Brazier?”
“No.” He removed the aluminum-foil dishes from the brown shopping bag and pulled two plates from a cupboard. “Wine?” he asked.
“I’ll get it. White?”
“Yes.”
They sat at the kitchen table. Alekseyev’s disposition was not gregarious. He ate in silence, chewing aimlessly, drinking his Pouilly-Fuissé without tasting it.
Marge Edwards respected his mood, and silence. She knew what a blow Warren Brazier had dealt her lover. And she was not oblivious to what Brazier’s decision might mean to her, at least in the short haul.
She refilled their glasses.
“I don’t know what to do,” Alekseyev said.
“Nothing from him?”
“No. Just Human Resources. Pack up and be gone in four days.”
She covered his hand on the table with hers. “You don’t have to go back to Moscow,” she said. “Quit. Tell Warren Brazier to stuff it.”
“And live on what? If he fired me, I could collect from the unemployment insurance. If I resign, I have nothing. And there is my status in this country.”
“You have your dignity, Anatoly. You’ll be able to find another job and stay here, if you work at it.”
His face was drawn, sad, as he said, “The man is insane, Marge. To blame me and the others for his bad deals in Russia … it is wrong. Unfair. I have always done good work. I have been so damn loyal, even though I know things about him and his company that would put him in jail.”
Up until being told he was being sent back to Russia—exiled there—Alekseyev had told Marge little about the inner workings of Brazier Industries. Nor had she confided in him what she knew about her boss, Congressman Paul Latham, and his dealings with Warren Brazier. They tended to leave work at their offices each evening, content to revel in the newfound pleasures each gave the other. What had begun as a one-night sexual fling had quickly developed into a deeper, more caring union.
They kept their relationship low-key. Their being romantically involved—sharing pillow talk—would be viewed negatively by their employers. Once, and only once had Marge casually mentioned to Latham that she’d been seeing someone who worked for Brazier Industries: “A nice guy, pleasant to have dinner with once in a while. A little strange at times. Nothing serious.” Latham didn’t press for further details.
But by then it had become serious. Marge Edwards, daughter of Jim and Sue Edwards of Indiana, and Anatoly Alekseyev, born, raised, and educated in the Soviet Union, now enjoying the rewards of working for a multinational company, had found each other, and had even begun to talk of spending their lives together.
She cleaned up the kitchen while Anatoly changed into his pajamas and slippers. They sat side by side on the couch and watched a television sitcom, the only laughter in the room the show’s laugh track.
When the program was almost over, Alekseyev clicked off the set with the remote control, turned, and looked into her eyes. “Marge,” he said, “we have to take steps now. Even if I was not being sent home, you could not stay hidden here forever. What sort of life is this? You stay in these four walls day and night, afraid to go out, to walk in the sun, drink a cup of coffee in a café.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?” she asked, lightening her tone to indicate she was being playful.
He took her seriously. “You know that is not true.”
“Anatoly, you know why I’m here. I’m afraid to face the world because of what’s happened. I want to leave. I want to walk in the sun and sip that coffee in a café. But you know what certain people will want of me.”
He slapped his hands to the sides of his head and stood. “Marge, this silly thing about sexual harassment means nothing. Stand tall, tell them it is not true. You make such a statement and walk away. It is over. What are you so afraid of? Of telling the truth?”
Murder in the House Page 21
