A chill passed through me then, and it wasn’t because of the breeze. Another runner approached me, coming from that direction. I waved at him as he neared and yelled, “What’s happening by the bridge?”
“D.C. cops and medics. They blocked off the towpath,” he said as he passed, slowing his stride to glance back at me. “Saw a girl on a stretcher. Lots of blood.” Then he took off running again.
His words stopped me in my tracks. A cold fist twisted my stomach. Natasha. God, no. I took off, running faster, drawing closer to the uniformed personnel clustered beneath the huge span that was Key Bridge. I spotted an ambulance parked on the roadway directly above the Canal. Two white-uniformed men hurried down the steps that edged the stone wall bordering the Canal and towpath.
“Ma’am, stop! You can’t run here. You gotta turn around now,” a heavyset D.C. policeman commanded as he approached, waving at me.
I stopped immediately. “What happened?” I asked him, my voice higher pitched than normal. “I’m … I’m going to meet my friend. She’s up ahead.” I pointed toward the bridge.
“You’ll have to meet her somewhere else, ma’am. Now, turn around and head back the way you came, okay?” He directed me in a no-nonsense tone, pointing down the towpath behind me.
I obeyed without a word, retreating a few paces. The policeman made a shooing gesture with his hand, and I turned around and started slowly walking back down the towpath, looking over my shoulder as I did. The white-uniformed medical personnel were hovering together at the far end beneath the bridge span. Several other runners and onlookers stood on the side of the towpath along the Canal, watching the proceedings. I left the towpath and joined them. We were far enough away so we did not attract police attention.
The cluster of police separated as two medical personnel carried a stretcher out from under the bridge. Two other medics accompanied them. The person on the stretcher was covered totally by a white sheet or blanket, including the face. The person had to be dead. The medics angled the stretcher as they slowly started up the steps bordering the stone wall.
Suddenly a slender leg slipped from beneath the white cover and dangled over the side of the stretcher. One of the medics walking beside stopped the stretcher carriers for a moment while he tucked the gray-clad leg beneath the white shroud once again. The men resumed their careful climb.
It was only a moment, but it was long enough for me to spot the bright-yellow running shoe on the foot that dangled over the side. The cold fist in my gut squeezed tighter. Natasha wore neon, bright-yellow running shoes. She joked they were her nighttime and early morning alert system. Drivers and cyclists couldn’t miss the bright-yellow shoes.
I stared, unwilling to move until the medics had the girl on the stretcher safely loaded onto the ambulance. That’s when I took off, running as fast as I could down the towpath. Back to Thirty-first Street and back toward my house. It was too early to call Natasha’s office. No one would be answering the phones. But my gut told me what I didn’t want to know. Natasha was the girl on the stretcher. I knew it.
Digging my phone from my pants pocket again, I scanned the directory and slowed down long enough to press Casey’s number. He was the only one I knew who could find out the girl’s identity and what happened to her. Maybe. I listened to his phone ring three times before his gruff voice answered.
“Molly? Has something happened? Why are you calling so early?”
I slowed enough so I could make sense. “Casey … I’m here on the towpath. I was supposed to meet Natasha Jorgensen …”
“Who?”
I let loose a torrent. “She used to work for Quentin Wilson, but I was gonna meet her because she had notes from Quentin Wilson. But she never showed up at six thirty, so I went down the path toward Key Bridge where she was running, and … and I saw cops, Casey. D.C. cops and medics and a body on a stretcher. It was all covered up, so I knew the person was dead. I knew it. And I saw Natasha’s running shoes! I recognized them.”
“Whoa … slow down, Molly! Where are you now?”
“I’m running down the Canal, heading home. But I wanted to ask if you could check with your D.C. cop friends to find out what happened here. I know it was Natasha, Casey! I just know it!”
“Okay, hold on. You get home, Molly, and I’ll see what I can find out while I’m heading to the senator’s house. Hell, I haven’t even gotten in the shower yet. The cops probably don’t know much, to be honest. Whoever it was probably didn’t have an ID on them. Most people don’t carry an ID when they run. So it may take a while to identify her.”
I hadn’t even thought of that. “You’re right. Okay, find out what you can. I’ll see you at the office. Thanks, Casey. I—I appreciate it.”
“Talk to you later, Molly. And for God’s sake, be careful while you’re running. Pay attention. It’s rush hour. Where’s Danny?”
“He’s probably sitting in rush hour on the way to a meeting at Quantico.”
“Well, better him than us. See you at the office.”
“Thanks, Casey.”
I shoved the phone into my pants pocket and picked up my pace, running as if the Devil himself were behind me. For all I knew, he might be. That had to be his handiwork beneath Key Bridge this morning. Too close. Much too close.
_____
I stood in the hallway of the Russell mansion and watched Casey pace at the other end of the hall, next to the living room and the French doors leading to the garden outside. He was still on the phone with one of his D.C. cop friends trying to find out details about the dead girl found beneath Key Bridge this morning. Clasping my coffee mug with both hands, I held it close to my chest, absorbing its warmth.
Peter stepped out of his library office down the hall, glanced to Casey, then walked over to where I stood by the door to my office. The emails accumulating in my inbox would have to wait.
“Have you called Chertoff’s office yet? Any word on Natasha?” he peered at me in concern.
“I called as soon as I got back to my house. I asked them to let me know the moment Natasha came into the office. I said I was worried something had happened to her, because she didn’t show up to meet me this morning. I didn’t say anything about seeing a body on a stretcher.” I closed my eyes. “Just in case I’m wrong. God, I hope I’m wrong. I hope Natasha spent the night with some fantastic guy and totally blew me off this morning. God, I hope so.” But my gut didn’t believe it.
Peter made an attempt to smile, but his smile couldn’t make it past the worry already on his face. “I hope so, too, Molly. I don’t want to think about the other.”
I wished I couldn’t think about it, but that image of a dead girl’s body shrouded on the stretcher, slender pant-covered leg dangling over the side. Neon-yellow running shoes. How many people wore shoes that color? I had only spotted one pair like that since I’d been running in Washington, and they were on Natasha Jorgensen’s feet.
“I checked with some friends in the Rayburn building,” he continued. “Their office is next to Congresswoman Chertoff’s. So if anything happens there, like police show up or something, they’ll give me a call.”
“Thanks, Peter. Let’s hope they don’t see anything.” Just then, my attention was drawn to Casey. He was pocketing his cell phone and walking down the hall toward us.
“That was Lieutenant Schroeder. He said they’re checking into the dead girl’s identity now. Her throat was cut. They think it may have been an attempted sexual assault and she fought back. No witnesses, of course,” Casey added. “Any drunks sleeping under the bridge would take off the minute they heard a scuffle.”
I felt a shudder run over me at that image. “A guy on the towpath told me he saw a girl on a stretcher and there was lots of blood.”
Peter flinched. “Good God. With all those people running in the morning. You’d think you’d be safe.”
“It’s fall n
ow and still Daylight Saving Time. So it’s actually dark before six a.m. Schroeder said the girl had her cell phone and keys but no other ID. I told him about your planned meeting with Natasha Jorgensen, Molly. And your concerns, especially after you witnessed the medics taking the body away.” He looked at me sadly. “Schroeder said to thank you for the information. They’re going to contact Congresswoman Chertoff’s office.”
Lieutenant Schroeder was the D.C. police detective in charge of investigating my niece Karen’s murder last spring. He was very good and worked very hard trying to find the killer. “Well, that’s something. Detective Schroeder is certainly thorough.”
Peter put his hand on my arm and looked at me solicitously. “We don’t know it was Natasha, Molly. Try not to worry.” The sound of his cell phone buzzed from his jacket pocket. “That’s probably Jackie from the Hill reminding me of a meeting.”
“Go back to work, Peter. You’ve got to stay on task. I’m okay. I’ll keep you posted if I hear from Natasha’s office.”
Casey gave my arm a squeeze before he started toward the front entry. “I promise I’ll call as soon as I hear from Schroeder, Molly.”
Peter gave me a half smile as he backed away. “I’m still hoping it’s that hot-date scenario you described.”
“See you later, guys,” I half waved to them as I headed toward the kitchen. I needed another mug of coffee to keep away the chill that had penetrated through my clothes.
five
Thursday, Mid-morning
Raymond jumped at the sound of his cell phone on the table beside him. He’d been staring at the smaller monitor screen, watching to see if any phone calls or texts appeared. There was nothing. Which meant Jorgensen wasn’t using her phone like she did every morning. Trask was successful. There was a little blip on the monitor for a second, then nothing more.
Noticing Trask’s name flash on his cell phone, Raymond snatched up the phone before it rang again. “It’s about time. I was starting to worry. Any problems? How’d it go?”
“Messy, but effective. She screamed like hell when I grabbed her. Woke up a drunk under the bridge, so I had to move faster, that’s all. It took me longer to get rid of my clothes behind the university, though. I had to wait till the old maintenance guy wasn’t watching the incinerator.”
“Anyone else around that might have spotted you running away?”
“Nope. No one else was on the towpath. I ran up the steps and changed clothes halfway to the street. Put all the bloody stuff in the backpack, then I watched it burn.”
Raymond relaxed a little. “Good. Good. So you got the list. Better bring that over. And her phone.”
“I got the list but wasn’t able to get her phone. I searched her jacket pockets, but she was flailing around on the ground so much, I couldn’t search her pants. Meanwhile, the drunk was starting to make noise, waking up. I had to take off. Didn’t want to risk anybody else coming close.”
Raymond grimaced to himself. “Damn,” he said softly. “That means the cops have her phone. They’ll find the bug.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on who checks the phone. Besides, there’s no way to trace anything to us.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s just another one of those loose ends that keep appearing.”
“Look, let me jump in the shower, then I’ll come over there with the list. I think you’re going to be surprised what’s on it. And those guys will be glad we took care of Jorgensen before she could pass it on. Put a lid on this.”
“Okay, sounds good. And bring more of that good coffee, wouldja?”
“Sure thing.”
Put a lid on this, Trask said. If only, Raymond thought as he turned off the smaller monitor screen.
_____
I saved an email to one of my computer file folders as I reached for my office phone. Casey’s name flashed. “Hey, there. Have you heard anything yet?”
“Yeah. I just got off the phone with Schroeder.”
I could tell what Casey was about to say from the sound of his voice. “It was Natasha, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was. They checked the cell phone card for her name and identification, then contacted Congresswoman Chertoff’s office. The staff confirmed Natasha hadn’t come into work yet today. They also described her car and where Natasha usually parked every morning while she ran. Officers found the car with Natasha’s purse and photo ID. One of Chertoff’s staffers is coming down to identify the body.”
I felt an old chill ripple over me. Last spring, I’d been the one to find my niece Karen shot dead in her car, blood everywhere. I didn’t wish that experience on anyone. Gruesome didn’t even cover it. “Good Lord. I feel sorry for that young staffer. You said Natasha’s throat was cut. That’s going to be hard to forget.”
“It’s not a pretty sight, I can vouch for that. Listen, Molly, I’m on the way back to the mansion. Senator Russell is holed up on the Hill all day. Peter too. Is there anyone else you’d like me to call?”
“No, thanks, Casey. I’ll leave Danny a message. He’s tied up all day. Then, I’ll call Samantha. She needs to hear it from me rather than the newspapers.”
“Okay. See you later.” He clicked off.
I placed my office phone beside the computer, then pulled my personal phone from my purse. Taking a deep drink of the barely warm coffee, I pressed Samantha’s number in my directory. Mid-morning. She should still be home. Probably preparing for another charity luncheon with Eleanor. After three rings I heard Samantha’s warm Mississippi drawl sound in my ear. Honey-smooth. I found that somehow reassuring.
“Hey, there, Miss Thing. How’s the charity circuit going?”
“It’s heating up, believe it or not. Everyone is gearing up for the holidays. There will be fundraisers and galas and concerts galore, so keep your checkbook out. We’re coming after your charitable dollars.”
I heard the humor in her voice and it felt good. Familiar. And it chased away a little of the chill. Unfortunately, I was about to spread that cold feeling to my dear friend. “Thanks for the heads-up. The nuns would be proud of you, Samantha. They’re probably smiling down beatifically at you from heaven right now.”
She snickered. “Well, that’s a pretty picture, but I’m not so sure. I was not one of their favorites. But, I did see one of the sisters a few weeks ago, believe it or not. She’s in her eighties and still working with the charities. In fact, she introduced me to the person in charge of arranging support groups for the veterans returning from Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“Well, that’s certainly a worthwhile effort.”
“Absolutely, so I will gladly add them to my donation list. How’s it going over at the Russell ranch? It’s been pretty quiet these last couple of months.”
“It’s still quiet. Listen, Samantha, I wanted to call you and share some pretty awful news before you read it in the papers.”
“Oh, Lord, Molly … what’s happened? The senator hasn’t had a heart attack, has he?”
“No, no, he’s healthy as a horse. This bad news concerns someone we both know. Natasha Jorgensen. She … she was killed this morning on the Canal towpath while she was running. She runs really early, and some bastard must have been hiding in the dark near the Key Bridge underpass. Waiting for some young girl to run past so he could jump her.”
Samantha gasped. “No! God, no! Not Natasha! How horrible! How did you hear about it? I’ve seen nothing on the news.”
“It probably won’t be on the news until tomorrow. I know because she was supposed to meet me at the bridge on Thirty-first Street and we were going to run together. But she never showed up this morning. So I walked down toward Key Bridge, because that’s where she always turns around. When I got there, D.C. cops and medics were swarming all over. I saw them carry off someone on a stretcher, and I glimpsed Natasha’s yellow running shoes.” I released a tired sigh.
“Oh, Molly … you were there?”
“Yes, so I ran home and phoned Casey to find out what the cops knew. They called him a few minutes ago after they’d identified the victim. It was Natasha. Someone from Chertoff’s office is going to identify the body. Casey said that bastard slit her throat.”
“Good Lord … I can’t believe this,” she said, shock evident in her voice. “I simply cannot. I don’t want to believe it. It’s too awful. We’re losing these wonderful people. I don’t understand. What is happening?”
Samantha’s question gave me pause. She was right. In the past six months four bright lights on the Hill had been taken from us. Some prominent, others laboring behind the scenes. Karen. Celeste. Congressman Quentin Wilson. And now, Natasha Jorgensen.
“I can’t understand it, either. All four of them. Dead from vicious attacks in the streets or by random accidents. All gone.”
It was true, Karen was shot in her car, Celeste Allard—a coworker and friend of Karen’s—died in a horrible explosion, Congressman Wilson died of an overdose, and now Natasha, killed on the C & O towpath.
“Thank you for telling me, Molly,” Samantha said sadly. “I’m going to send some flowers to Chertoff’s office. I imagine they’ll arrange a service for her here like they did for Karen. If I remember correctly Natasha’s parents live in Minnesota.”
“Yes. Flowers are a great idea. I’ll do the same. I’ll arrange for some to be sent from me and from the senator and Peter.”
“I’m going to have to meet Eleanor in a little while for lunch. Smithsonian lecture this time. But let’s get together later this week if we can.”
“Sounds good. Danny leaves on Friday again. I’ll give you a call. Take care. Give my regards to Eleanor.”
Samantha promised to give her regards, then she clicked off, and I returned to my computer. Only immersion in work would drive away the memories of violent deaths that lurked at the edges of my mind.
Bloody Politics Page 4
