Bloody Politics

by Maggie Sefton

  “Oh, yeah,” Raymond’s voice came over the phone. “Gotta hand it to her. She hit them where it would hurt the most. Nothing gets their attention like publicity. Lots of it.”

  Trask tasted the fresh-squeezed orange juice the waitress set before him. Along with a plate of fresh croissants. “All major news outlets at once. Those guys are probably frothing at the mouth. What did Spencer say?”

  “I haven’t talked to him. It’s still early in today’s news cycle. The press has probably camped out around Ryker’s home. This melodrama is just starting. We’re gonna watch it play out. Now you know why they had you eliminate Eric Grayson years ago. They had to keep that information under wraps.”

  “Well, they bought themselves more than ten years. No one else has raised questions since.”

  “By the way, what’s Malone been up to? Any early morning visits?”

  “Nope. She already had a visitor. DiMateo must have wormed his way back into her good graces. His car was already in the driveway when I got there, and he drove her to Russell’s. No escort.”

  Raymond chuckled. “My condolences, Trask. That must have been a disappointment. But, you know … women are fickle.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll keep an eye on her. Who knows what other surprises she’s got planned. More politicians. More press.”

  “Keep track of her. Let me know if she contacts anyone else. Meanwhile, stay low.”

  “Don’t worry. I always do.”

  Friday noon

  I smeared a spoonful of duck pâté on a super-thin cracker and savored. Luscious and deadly. I didn’t even want to know the fat calories. Off the scale, no doubt. Ducks were fat, anyway. I remembered watching the caterers spooning off rendered duck fat from their roasted creations.

  “Oh, this is divine,” I said to Samantha before I took another sinfully rich bite.

  “Isn’t it, though.” Samantha polished off her last bite of pâté and chased it with a fat green olive. “I thought we deserved to celebrate. Thanks to you, Molly, one of the biggest bastards in Congress is finally going to be exposed. Hallelujah!”

  I grinned. “Amen, to that. But it’s Eric Grayson’s doing, not mine. And I know I can trust you to keep my role in this totally private.”

  “No one will ever hear it from my lips, girl.” Samantha leaned back against the bench in the shaded gazebo at the edge of the Russell gardens.

  All the fall plantings had been mulched and pruned and were ready for winter. Boxwood hedges were neatly trimmed and had fresh pine bark layered around. So did the other perennials. I wasn’t ready. I was never ready for winter or cold weather. Colorado’s low humidity made winter much easier, especially with all the sunshine. But I was back east now, the damp, humid east, where the cold penetrated and winter lingered. Brrrrrrr.

  “Let’s hope the press doesn’t let up on him. Ryker has always been able to slip away from scandal before.” I held up crossed fingers.

  “Don’t worry. The press is more vicious now. They’ve drawn blood already. People have started to talk. All those skeletons will come out of the closet.” She poured more of the sauvignon blanc into the wineglasses she’d brought along.

  “A gourmet picnic basket. I love it.” I lifted my glass. “To us. And to fighting the good fight.”

  Samantha raised hers as well. “May we keep it up. Bloodied but unbowed.” She sipped, then gave me a smile. “I still can’t believe you gave that info to Sylvia Wilson.”

  “I thought it only fair, considering it was Quentin’s notes that provided clues to help Loretta unravel the puzzle.” I took another fruity sip. “Without Loretta’s digging into Eric’s and Quentin’s information, we wouldn’t have discovered anything. And Loretta led me to the retired researcher Eric used years ago. He’d been keeping Eric’s detailed research information on a disc all these years. That was a gold mine.”

  “What do you think Sylvia Wilson will do? Will she jump into all of this?”

  “I’m hoping she will. She’s a pit bull. We’ve seen that already. And she’s hungry enough to want to make a name for herself.”

  “True enough.”

  “I told her as the widow of an idealistic young congressman who wanted to expose corruption, she had more reason than most to raise questions about abuses of power. So, let’s see what she does.”

  Samantha stared into her wineglass. “Talk about politics making strange bedfellows. I trust my name never came up.”

  “No. I promised you that. She did ask how I knew that Quentin had overheard Ryker and Holmberg talking.”

  Samantha closed her eyes. “I knew it.”

  “I told her my source was completely reliable but confidential, and I wasn’t at liberty to reveal it. Sylvia smiled just a little and said she understood.”

  “You’re kidding!” Samantha looked shocked.

  “No, I’m serious. I think it’s over. The Widow Wilson has seen what happens when she’s on the bad side of the press, and I don’t think she’s going there again. Besides, I gave her the chance to curry favor with the press. Far better to help bring down the powerful.” I grinned.

  Suddenly I heard Luisa’s voice calling my name. I leaned out of the gazebo. “Hey, Luisa! Is there a call for me?”

  “No, no. It’s that congresswoman on TV.” She beckoned from the garden steps. “You’re going to want to see this!”

  Samantha and I looked at each other. Congresswoman. We bolted from the gazebo and into the mansion. Luisa beckoned to us from the kitchen as we sped down the hallway, laughing as we ran.

  “She’s talking now. See!” Luisa pointed toward the television screen located on the kitchen counter.

  Sure enough, there was newly appointed Congresswoman Sylvia Wilson, in a drop-dead gorgeous crimson-red suit, hair and makeup perfect, looking straight into the camera.

  “Naturally, I was curious what my late husband’s notes meant when I found them. I could not understand why he would research topics like international banking regulations. His committee assignments had nothing to do with financial matters. But after watching recent news broadcasts, I realized I had to speak out. You see, my husband Quentin had also written the names of Congressman Ryker and Senator Dunston in his notebook.”

  She held up Quentin Wilson’s spiral notebook, and the press erupted in a raucous chorus of shouted questions and demands. Cameras pushed forward, zeroing in on the now-notorious notebook.

  “You go, girl,” I said, laughing softly.

  Samantha wagged her head slowly as she smiled. “I’ll be damned. Quentin must be laughing his ass off, wherever he is.”

  Shouts of “Congresswoman!” “What did he know?” “Did he tell you?” clogged the air.

  “Quentin never mentioned this subject to me before he died. But I have the feeling my husband overheard a conversation or accidentally learned something that was not intended for him. And these notes were his attempt to reveal it. Quentin was an honorable man and spent his entire career as a district attorney fighting corruption. Unfortunately, he died before he could bring this information to light.”

  This time the press shouts were deafening. Shouts of “Was his death an accident? Congresswoman! Did someone kill your husband to shut him up!”

  I stared at the chaotic televised eruption. “Whoa …”

  “Good God,” Samantha breathed.

  Luisa stared at the television, clearly shocked. Then crossed herself.

  A young man stepped in front of the congresswoman and waved his arms. “No more, please! Congresswoman Wilson has a meeting. She has nothing else to say at this time.”

  He took Sylvia Wilson by the arm while others I figured were staffers surrounded her as he escorted her out of camera range and away from the baying hounds.

  Samantha and I simply looked at each other solemnly for a minute. Finally, my dearest friend spoke. “It looks
like she took your advice, Molly. Talk about bringing down the powerful.”

  “Brilliant. Simply brilliant,” I said, letting admiration fill my voice. It was even better than I’d hoped.

  Friday afternoon

  My cell phone flashed beside my elbow and I clicked on before the music started. Danny’s name. “Hey, there. Thanks to Samantha, I’ve been catching up on the news coverage. Watching Ryker try to fight his way through those gangs of reporters everywhere he goes just makes my day. Of course, Sylvia Wilson’s performance was the pièce de résistance. Masterful.”

  Danny laughed. “I figured you’d enjoy all of it. Ryker’s trying to stonewall reporters now, but that won’t work. Listen, we’ve finally made a definitive match with the software. And it is the guy I remember from years ago. He hated my guts because I got him thrown out of the Corps. I caught him stealing money from another Marine’s gear, and I brought him up on charges. He was out. Dishonorable discharge. He hated me, that’s for sure. And he’s the kind that would try to get even.”

  “Really? After all this time?”

  “Some guys never let go of a grudge. We traced him through every system, and he got hired on as a mercenary for some guerrilla outlaw group in South America not long after his discharge. He even worked for gun runners in Africa. So he’s gotten his hands dirty in different places. Plus, he’s made enemies along the way. Some real bad guys. Then, he dropped off the radar screen entirely. We figure that’s when he started working for whatever group Ryker’s connected to. Believe me, Trask is not the brains behind something like this. He’s a hired gun, that’s all. There’re others who are calling the shots. We’ve just got to find out who.”

  “Is that his name, Trask?”

  “Yeah. We were thinking we might try to flush him out and get a really good look at him tonight, if you’re comfortable with going someplace this evening alone.”

  “As long as it’s not a dark alley. This guy sounds dangerous. Before I just thought he was a sleazy stalker.”

  “No dark alleys. We thought the National Gallery around seven thirty tonight. You’d let Jeremy take you home, then after he leaves you can slip out the front door and walk toward Wisconsin. Let it look like you’re trying to give Prestige the slip. You’ll take a cab to the gallery. We’ll already be in position, staking out all the entrances and exits. You won’t be alone, for sure, but there will be less tourists this time of year on a late weeknight. Gallery closes at nine.”

  “What do I do there, wander around?”

  “You’ll go straight to the café downstairs, get some coffee, sit at a table, then wait. Bring a magazine to read. Keep looking around like you’re expecting someone. Check your watch every few minutes. Wait till they’re announcing the gallery is closing, then go upstairs and leave. There will be practically no one there by then. So when you leave, we can hopefully catch him leaving afterwards. He’ll be convinced you were waiting for someone who didn’t show.”

  I felt a slight feeling of unease in the pit of my stomach, but I ignored it. We needed to catch this guy. “Okay. I’m in. The National Gallery, it is.”

  nineteen

  Friday evening

  The taxi driver pulled to the curb on Constitution Avenue, right in front of the National Gallery. I glanced out the window at the impressive marble façade above. Dark now at seven thirty, but the building was beautifully lit, shining in the night.

  “Keep the change,” I said, handing the driver a twenty dollar bill as I opened the door.

  “Thank you,” he called out in accented English as I slammed the taxi door and resisted the urge to look around for my constant shadow. Instead, I hurried up the long flight of steps leading to the brass doors above.

  I had visited the gallery twice since I’d returned last spring. Once with family and another time with Samantha for a concert. Danny and I had been in the Sculpture Garden and all the surrounding areas and neighboring walkways during the spring and summer. But I’d been too busy to indulge in a leisurely browse like I loved to do.

  Now we had ourselves and our belongings scanned upon entry. Sign of the changed times. I took the information booklet from a kindly museum docent who reminded me that the gallery closed at nine tonight. I was counting on it.

  I’d said I would go directly downstairs and pretend to wait, but I couldn’t resist visiting one of my favorite spots. I skipped up the greenish marble steps that curved around the landing leading to the upper floor, which held my favorite exhibits, and headed straight for the fountain in the center beneath the gorgeous domed ceiling. I stood for a moment watching Mercury, still balanced gracefully, water splashing down, and remembered. Remembered all the field trips, all the family trips, all the trips with my daughters young, and daughters older—all stopping for a moment at this pleasant restful spot.

  I checked my watch and did a speedy walk-through of the gallery wing, which held my favorite paintings and peeked at some of the old masters. Old friends. Clearly I would have to return when I had more time. Right now, I was on assignment. Assignment: sit and wait. I headed for the marble staircase again and returned to the first floor, then went to the staircase that led to the lower level. If my shadow was following, at least he’d get a workout.

  Following the winding hallway toward the bookstore, gift shop, and café, I deliberately paused at the bookstore and browsed. I made a point to look up and glance around, then check my watch. Nearly eight o’clock. I’d noticed the gift shop and bookstore had a fair amount of people in them still. I chose one of the Gallery’s beautiful booklets on French Impressionists. Hoping that peaceful scenes of Paris and ballerinas and cafés would be calming, I felt my heart racing already and I was only browsing. I must not be cut out for this work.

  As I paid for the booklet, I checked my watch again and glanced around. I saw students, older people, younger ones, business suits, casual gear, but no dark-mustached guy. I also didn’t see any shaggy blonds, no older gray-haired men, and no priests.

  I used the coffee machines in the only open area of the café and sat down at a table along the edge. People walked by on the way to the entrance to the Hirshhorn Museum. The artistic wall of water was directly across from me, providing a soothing sound of water falling and splashing on rocks. Artistic rocks, of course. I glanced around again, over both shoulders, checked my watch, 8:15. I opened the booklet and proceeded to wait; I stared at the beautiful paintings on the pages. Paintings that should have given me pleasure. This time, I barely saw them. I concentrated on studying every line, then reading every word of the description.

  I checked my watch, 8:30, then glanced around. There were definitely fewer people here now. A tall man in an overcoat with graying red hair and a thin face. Couldn’t be the same man. Elderly woman with a National Gallery shopping bag. A young woman with a briefcase. Two tourists with Asian features who were holding maps and guidebooks. A guy with a leather jacket and “Hells Angels” emblazoned on the back.

  Puzzled, I returned to the booklet and memorized a Degas. Then a Toulouse Lautrec. I checked my watch: 8:43. I glanced around. The two students were still there. So was the Hells Angel guy, talking to the girl behind the cash register. The elderly woman had a pile of books in her arm, still browsing. The tall man had left.

  Just then a voice sounded overhead, announcing the gallery would be closing in fifteen minutes. “Please finish up all purchases and leave. Tomorrow’s opening hours are …”

  I glanced around again and saw the Hells Angel guy finishing up his purchase, the elderly woman right behind him. The two students were hurrying down the hallway.

  Assignment completed. My orders were to leave now, and I was more than ready. I grabbed my purse, tossed the empty paper cup into a nearby trash can, returned the book to the shelves, then headed for the hallway and the stairs. Hells Angels guy was checking out more books and Granny was at the register.

  I resist
ed the urge to race down the hallway and made myself walk at a leisurely pace, listening to the sound of my high heels echoing in the empty hall. The sound bounced back from the marble at me as I walked alone. I rounded a corner and headed for the lower staircase leading to the first floor above, my footsteps echoing after me.

  The sound of a person’s whistle floated farther behind me as I started up the long flight of stairs. A tuneful whistle, quite good, actually. Whistling a familiar tune. I continued to climb as the whistling followed me. What was that melody?

  Suddenly I recognized the tune, and the words came to my mind. “In Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty, there lived a fair maid named Molly Malone …”

  I froze there on the steps. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. All I could do was listen to the whistle as it sounded behind me. Coming closer. The familiar words were the only thing in my head.

  “She wheels her wheelbarrow through streets broad and narrow, singing ‘Cockles and mussels …’”

  Run!

  The command came from deep inside me. I raced up the stairs as fast as I could. The whistle still echoing behind me. Reaching the landing, I sped for the front door, ignoring the docent’s “Come again.” I shoved open the first brass door I came to and raced outside. I gulped in a huge breath of chilly, damp air and flew down the long flight of steps leading to the sidewalk below, praying I wouldn’t trip and break my neck.

  I hesitated briefly at the edge of the sidewalk, then sprinted into Constitution Avenue, arm outstretched, frantically waving down a taxi. Blessedly, one pulled up in front of me. I jumped inside. Anywhere. Anywhere but here.

  _____

  Trask pushed open the brass door and peered at the traffic-filled street below. Malone was frantically waving down a taxi. He smiled, just a little. Run, little rabbit. Run.