Murder in the House

by Margaret Truman

  “Bob?” she called, her voice lacking strength.

  “Come on in,” he replied from Latham’s office.

  She stood in the doorway. He sat behind Latham’s desk, one foot propped up on it. He was in shirtsleeves. His tie, pulled loose from his neck, was a muted montage of game birds in a green forest.

  “Hi,” she said, giving a little wave.

  “Hi,” he said, not moving.

  “Well …” She entered the office and stood across the desk from him. “Surprised to see me?”

  “No. Close the door.”

  She did what he asked.

  “Sit down,” he said. His stare was hard, his voice firm and angry.

  Once she’d pulled up a chair, he lowered his foot from the desk, leaned forward, rested his chin on his clasped hands, and said, “Where is it?”

  “It’s safe, Bob.”

  “Safe?”

  “Yes. Safe from you.”

  He cocked his head. “Marge,” he said, “I don’t know where you got it into that crazy head of yours, but Paul’s investigation and report doesn’t have to be kept from me. We’re on the same side.”

  She locked eyes with him. “No, we’re not,” she said. “And you know it. That report on Warren Brazier and Brazier Industries was meant to go to the Justice Department. Paul spent the last year of his life compiling information on Brazier for Justice. And it cost him his life.”

  “It probably did,” Mondrian said. “So why did you run off with it? The least we can do in Paul’s memory is to make sure Justice gets it.”

  “Exactly. And if I left it here with you, it never would arrive there.”

  “Marge, I—”

  She stood and placed her palms on the desk, jutted her chin at him. “Bob, I know about the overture Brazier made to you through his intermediaries. What were you offered? Fifty thousand? Was it more? No matter what it was, it was cheap, Bob. Cheap to sell out a man like Paul.”

  “I don’t need a lecture, Marge. Being offered and taking are two different things.”

  “You didn’t take money from Brazier Industries?”

  “No. Not that money.”

  “Not that money? What does it matter what money you took from them? Even if you took a dollar from that sleazebag Brazier, you sold Paul out. If you’d do it for one thing, Bob, you’ll do it for another, in this case the report. That’s why I grabbed it from Paul’s safe and ran.”

  He glared at her.

  “How could you?”

  “Who the hell are you to lecture me, Marge? You ever have to scrape just to get by?”

  “That doesn’t justify anything.” She softened. “Bob, I don’t care that you sold out to Brazier Industries in the past, in some—in some goddamn moment of weakness. That’s human. You’re human. But it isn’t too late. Let’s take the report to Justice together, in Paul’s memory, as you put it. I’ll forget you ever took a nickel from Brazier.”

  He sat back and exhaled. “Why didn’t you just take it to Justice, Marge?”

  “I would have. But then Paul was murdered. I didn’t know what to do. And there was the story that I would charge Paul with sexual harassment. Nonsense! That’s all it was. But—”

  “There was a diary,” Mondrian said. “Wasn’t there?”

  “I don’t care about that, Bob. Maybe it was just as well that everyone thought I ran because of the harassment rumor. No one knows about Paul’s investigation and report except you, me, and the people at Justice who set it in motion a year ago.”

  “God, you are naive, Marge. Justice didn’t set it up. It was CIA. They had Broadhurst working on this back when he was with the trade commission. He’s the one who approached Paul. Once he and his people started putting together the case against Brazier—and God knows there was enough to make that case—he saw Paul as the perfect insider. No one was closer to Brazier than Paul. He knew every dirty deal Brazier was involved with.”

  “And you’d sell out to someone like that.” Her tone wasn’t one of disgust. Fatigue more accurately described it.

  “What about Paul, Marge? He knew about Brazier for years, but kept right on working with him. How many times did you hear him defend Brazier, praise him as some goddamn gift to free economy and the democratic process? All those bills he ramrodded through. Did he sell out to Brazier? You bet he did. And you and I did, too, every time we advanced trade legislation to benefit Brazier.”

  “Paul really believed in Brazier, at least until a year ago,” she said. “Sure, he knew he owed Brazier for all his support over the years, the fund-raising, the contributions, the influence on voters in Paul’s district. But give Paul credit, Bob. When he realized what Brazier was really like—the huge payoffs in Russia, his covert support of the Communists, his use of mobsters—God, the man is a godfather of Russian mobsters here. Once Paul saw this, had it pointed out by Broadhurst and the others, he didn’t hesitate to cooperate, to document everything he could in the report. To even consider protecting Brazier is to spit on Paul’s grave.”

  “I never intended to cooperate with Brazier on the report, Marge. You know that. Hell, when Paul confronted Brazier at their meeting the day before Paul died, told him what he intended to do, he put his life on the line.”

  “Literally,” she said.

  “As it turned out. Where is the report, Marge?” he asked.

  “Where I know it won’t go to Warren Brazier.”

  Mondrian sighed. “Okay,” he said. “Wait here.” He left the office, returning a minute later with a small envelope, which he handed to her.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Open it. You’ll see.”

  Inside was the check from Brazier Industries, written to Robert Mondrian.

  “When did you get this?” she asked.

  “Earlier today.”

  “And you—”

  “Go ahead, Marge. Tear it up.”

  She hesitated, then tore the check into four pieces, placed them in the envelope, and handed it to him.

  “Satisfied?” he asked.

  She looked down at the floor, then up at him. She smiled. “I guess I get carried away sometimes,” she said.

  His smile was broad, but not as spontaneous as hers had been. “Look, Marge,” he said, “I’m really glad you’re okay, and that you’re here. It’s easy to get carried away in this insane place, isn’t it?”

  Her response was a stream of air directed at an errant strand of hair on her forehead.

  “You’re right,” he said, coming around the desk and placing his large hands on her shoulders. “Let’s take the report to Justice together. Lay it all out for them. Do right by Paul.”

  She nodded.

  “Where is the report? You have it with you?” He glanced at her oversized shoulder bag.

  “No,” she said.

  “Well?”

  “I put it in a package of books and papers I gave Molly.”

  “Molly? Molly Latham?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? What did you expect her to do with it?”

  “Nothing. Frankly, I didn’t think she’d even open it.”

  “And if she did … open it?”

  Marge shrugged. “I didn’t think that far ahead. All I knew was that I wanted it out of here. Paul gave me the books and some of his speeches to package up for her, so I included the report in with it.”

  “And she’s had it all along.”

  “Yes. She would have gotten hold of me if she had opened it and saw what it was.”

  “How could she? You disappeared.”

  “I know. The sexual harassment thing. The report. I—I just panicked, Bob. That simple. Excuse me. Nature calls.”

  “Molly’s probably on page duty. I’ll try to call her. They’re still in session. We’ll find her and put this thing to rest.”

  “Yes,” Marge said. “That’s what we’ll do.”

  * * *

  “It’s time for your other meeting.”

  Yvgeny Fodoro
v picked up his briefcase from the floor and stood. Another young Russian also stood; he, too, held a leather briefcase in his hand. The others in the room watched with interest as they left the room. “Where are they going?” one asked.

  “A meeting. A related topic,” Patiashvili said.

  “A security meeting?” another said, his tone skeptical.

  Patiashvili trained his black eyes on the questioner.

  There were no further questions.

  Fodorov and his colleague from security approached a uniformed Capitol Hill police officer in the hall just outside H 139. They nodded.

  “Good evening,” the officer said, eyeing the official visitor badges hanging from their jacket handkerchief pockets.

  They proceeded down the hall to a stairway leading to the basement, where the Capitol subway system linked the building to the House and Senate office buildings. They climbed aboard the sleek, open tram, operated by a young black man in white shirt and tie. Others boarded, too. When the cars were full, the subway left the loading ramp and, in a few minutes, came to a stop beneath the Rayburn House Office Building.

  Fodorov and his partner joined the flow of passengers riding the escalator to the floor above. They paused at an intersection of hallways. Fodorov had been given a map of the building to study. Still, it was confusing.

  “Where?” the other man said.

  “This way,” Fodorov replied, choosing one of the halls and leading them down it.

  They reached the outer door to the office suite with Paul Latham’s nameplate still on it. Looking left and right, they opened the briefcases, removed the weapons, and secured them in the waistband of their pants. A glance at each other, a nod, and a hand on the doorknob.

  32

  Molly Latham had returned to the Democratic cloakroom after delivering a message on the House floor to Congressman Barney Frank, when the phone rang again. Melissa looked at Molly, who’d rolled her eyes up in an expression of fatigue and frustration. Melissa laughed. “Ah’ll get it, hon,” she said.

  Melissa wrote down the message—“For Mr. Skelton,” she said, waving to Molly and heading for the floor.

  Molly sat heavily in one of the many leather chairs.

  “Got you running, huh?” a congresswoman said pleasantly.

  “I have to get better shoes,” replied Molly.

  Phones started ringing again.

  “Relax,” another page said. “Take a break.”

  As her fellow pages answered phones, and ran messages to the floor, Molly picked up the wrapped package from her father, plopped it on her lap, and slowly began to undo it.

  “Present, Molly?” a congressman asked.

  She smiled and shook her head. “Just some dull reading,” she said, wondering whether she dishonored her father by saying it.

  The ringing phones were now a discordant chorus. Molly dropped the partially opened package to the floor and started answering calls again. She hoped the House finished its business soon. A pile of homework awaited her back at the dorm.

  This was shaping up to be a longer night than she had thought.

  “Democratic cloakroom,” she said, answering yet another call.

  “I’m trying to reach Molly Latham.”

  “This is Molly.”

  “Molly. Bob Mondrian.”

  “Oh, hi, Mr. Mondrian. You’re looking for me?”

  “Yes. I—I’m in your dad’s office with Marge Edwards.”

  Molly’s eyes widened. “Marge is there?”

  “Yes. It’s very important that we talk with you.”

  “Right now? I’m real busy.”

  “Is your supervisor around?”

  “Yes.”

  “Molly, do you remember a package Marge gave you?”

  Molly’s hand went to the scarf she wore, Marge’s gift to her at lunch. “I’m wearing it,” she said.

  Mondrian’s momentary silence testified to his confusion. “Wearing it?”

  “The scarf she gave me.”

  “No, Molly. Another package, with books and—”

  “From my dad. I have it here with me. Mom dropped it off this morning.”

  “Have you opened it?”

  Molly laughed. “I started to, but the phones went crazy again and—”

  “Look, can you hop on the subway and come over here to the office? Bring the package with you.”

  “All right. Where has Marge been? Is she all right?”

  “She’s just fine, Molly. Put your supervisor on.”

  “That was wonderful,” Smith said, sitting back and admiring his empty plate. He’d opted for a porterhouse steak. Annabel had chosen a smaller version.

  “I’m stuffed,” she said. “Nothing but apples and water for the next few days.”

  Smith made a face. “Dessert?” he asked.

  “You jest, of course.”

  “No, I—”

  Their waiter came to the table. “An after-dinner drink, compliments of the manager?” he asked.

  They looked at each other.

  “We really shouldn’t,” she said.

  “No, we shouldn’t,” he said. To the waiter: “That is, cognac, please.”

  Annabel laughed.

  The manager, whom they knew, joined them. “Still planning your trip to Russia?” he asked.

  “Planning it,” Annabel replied. “Whether we’ll ever get there is another question.”

  “I can put you in the mood,” the manager said.

  “Oh?”

  “A special after-dinner drink. The Commissar. Equal amounts of vodka and Triple Sec. Very smooth.”

  “No, I—”

  “Try it,” said Mac.

  “All right.”

  “And as long as we’re going this far—”

  “Bread pudding with whiskey sauce?” the manager asked, knowing of their fondness for the restaurant’s special dessert.

  “Mac!”

  “Just one to share,” Mac said.

  And so they lingered over their cordials, and dipped spoons into the heavenly pudding, content to be together sharing the meal, one hand occasionally touching the other’s, the problems of Washington, especially of murder, kept at bay by the window separating them from Connecticut Avenue.

  “I’m getting sleepy,” she said.

  “I’ll be tucking you in very soon, Annie,” he said. “How’s the Commissar?”

  “Good. He sends his best.”

  She delivered the message with a light kiss on his lips.

  33

  From the private bathroom in Paul Latham’s office suite, Marge Edwards heard the door open, and close. “Damn,” she said softly. It didn’t strike her as strange that someone else had arrived at that hour, but it was dismaying. She wanted to talk alone with Bob Mondrian. She reacted by putting on lipstick and fluffing her hair.

  Yvgeny Fodorov and his colleague, Vladimir Donskoi, stepped into Latham’s private office, where Mondrian had just hung up on Molly Latham.

  “Can I help you?” Mondrian asked, standing behind the desk.

  Fodorov and the other man, Donskoi, answered by drawing their weapons.

  “Who the hell are you?” Mondrian said, starting around the desk.

  “Where is the report?” Donskoi said in almost flawless English.

  “Report? Hey, come on. Put those down. I’m—”

  Fodorov swore in Russian as he squeezed the trigger, sending three bullets into Mondrian’s chest. The chief of staff fell back against the desk, his hands desperately attempting to stem the sudden rush of blood and searing pain.

  Donskoi turned to Fodorov. “Fool,” he shouted. “Imbecile.”

  Fodorov ignored him, pushed Mondrian’s lifeless body to the floor from where it was sprawled over the desk, and started going through piles of paper in a frenzy, sending files flying.

  Donskoi was tempted to shoot him. Their orders were to go to the office and demand of the man and woman who would be there that they turn over the report. Donskoi was in cha
rge. He’d been shown photographs of Marge Edwards and Robert Mondrian, and had been briefed on the nature of what they were looking for. It was only after they’d gotten their hands on the report, or couldn’t, that they were to kill both people.

  In frustration, Donskoi joined Fodorov in his haphazard search.

  The sounds from the office froze Marge Edwards in the bathroom. What could be happening? Should she remain there until the intruders left? She decided she couldn’t. They might search the entire office. Who’d been shot? Bob Mondrian? Why? Who?

  She opened the bathroom door an inch and peered through the gap. Sounds came from Latham’s office—muttered voices, things being thrown about.

  She opened the door farther, wide enough to slip through, drew a deep, desperate breath, and crossed the office to the door leading to the hallway. Should she stop to see what had happened to Mondrian? No. There was nothing she could do by herself. She had to find help, the Capitol police, let them know.

  The door to the suite had a heavy latch bolt that made a loud metallic sound whenever the door was opened and closed. Marge Edwards paused, held her breath, and opened the door, the noise sounding to her like a cell door in prison movies. She glanced at Paul’s office. No one responded, thank God.

  She stepped into the hallway and allowed the door to slam shut behind. “Oh, God,” she gasped, again gripped with inertia as she tried to decide in which direction to run. She looked back at the door. It opened. A face appeared—and a revolver.

  She bolted toward an intersecting hallway, slipped as she turned the corner, retained her balance with one hand on the marble floor, and ran as fast as she could to a stairway leading down to the building’s main lobby. She was afraid to look back, but did, only for a second. A man holding a weapon stood at the intersection of hallways. He’d stopped there. No matter. Marge stumbled down the stairs two at a time, grasping the railing to keep from making the descent headfirst.

  She reached the main floor and went to where the uniformed security guard sat behind a table.

  “Please,” she said. “There are men with guns in Congressman Latham’s office.”