Poisoned Politics Read online

  I joined in her laughter. “I’ll remember that. We’ve both survived a lot over the years, Samantha. We’re battle scarred, but still standing. To us.” I held up my glass, then drained it. “By the way, how’s your scintillating liaison going with that Ohio congressman you’ve taken under your wing. Quentin Wilson, right?”

  “Swimmingly,” she teased with a wicked grin. “We’ve spent some glorious weekends at my Winchester retreat.”

  I remembered Samantha’s country house nestled in the rolling Virginia hills west of the Washington Metro area. Horse country. Dave and I had enjoyed many wonderful parties there years ago. That was when Samantha and her elderly husband, the Senior Senator from Alabama, Beauregard Calhoun, dominated Washington’s party scene. Their close-in McLean, Virginia, home was large but not enough to entertain on Beauregard Calhoun’s grand scale.

  “Boy, you two must rattle around that estate mansion all by yourselves, except for the help.”

  “I let the staff have the weekends off whenever Quent and I are there. I want to show him what our hot, humid Washington summers are good for. And we need privacy.” She winked at me over her glass.

  I matched Samantha’s low laughter. “You are truly heartless. Torturing that unsuspecting Ohio innocent like that. You know no shame.”

  “Actually, he’s not so innocent. He’s been indulging in discreet affairs ever since he first came to Washington four years ago. Apparently he and his wife have an arrangement. She doesn’t mind as long as he stays out of the papers. She comes from old Ohio money and cuts a swath on the Cleveland social scene. She comes to Washington once a month.”

  I’d heard stranger arrangements than that over the years. “That’s convenient, I guess.” I said with a little shrug. “Well, when he starts ‘making his mark,’ I imagine his wife will want to jump into the scene here. But I’m sure you would have cut him loose by then, right?”

  Samantha swirled the bourbon in her glass. “Probably.”

  That answer got my attention even through the vodka. “Probably? That doesn’t sound like your usual operating procedure. What’s up with this guy, Miss Thing? Does he need more coaching than normal?”

  She looked out into the backyard, her teasing smile missing. “In a manner of speaking. Quent’s smart as a whip, smarter than a lot of his House colleagues. But he can also be a little obsessive sometimes. I mean, when he delves into some sub-committee topic, he keeps on digging. Keeps his office staffers overtime. He’s like a dog with a bone and doesn’t know how to pace himself yet. He’s going to wear himself out or cut his own throat by annoying senior congressmen.”

  “Hmmmmm. That’s a fine line. He’ll either learn to walk it, or he’ll find no allies when he needs them.” I recognized some of that behavior from my young husband’s passion for pursuing a subject dear to his heart years ago. A worthy trait until you stepped on powerful toes. The U.S. House of Representatives was filled with senior congressmen who held the most powerful positions on certain committees.

  “I know. That’s why he worries me, Molly. I confess Quentin has gotten to me more than any other of my … uh, pupils.”

  I stared at Samantha. I had never heard her say that about any of the casual liaisons she’d had since her husband died. Old recently departed friends like Senator Sol Karpinsky were in a different category.

  “Well, I can’t think of anyone better to coach Congressman Wilson the art of moderation than you.” I sent my old friend a warm smile. I sensed Quentin Wilson had gotten to Samantha despite her vow to not become personally involved. We were all human, therefore, susceptible. The heart knew no rhyme or reason.

  Samantha met my gaze. “Thanks, Molly. I appreciate that.”

  “And if necessary, I’ll stand beside the deep end of the pool and throw you a life preserver if you need it,” I repeated her promise to me.

  _____

  “I assume all systems are good to go?” Raymond’s scratchy voice came over the cell phone.

  “Of course,” the sandy-haired man replied, breaking his long stride as he ran along the trail beside the Potomac River. Friday night, and less runners were out. The late-day July heat kept the weak-willed away.

  “I know I don’t need to ask, but the higher-ups need reassurance.”

  “Understandable, at these rates.” The man chuckled as he settled on a cement bench set back from the water. Directly across the river, East Potomac Park stretched out. Rugby and soccer teams were scrimmaging in the early evening twilight.

  “Any security at her place?”

  “Just run-of-the-mill, several years old. I checked it out the other day when she and her housekeeper were gone. No problem getting the codes.”

  “Excellent. We don’t want any unexpected problems. I promised Spencer this would all go like clockwork. Are the packages ready for tomorrow?”

  “Yes. Both local and Ohio special delivery.”

  Raymond chuckled. “By the way, those were some great photos. They’ll definitely get his attention.”

  “You can’t beat digital,” the man joked.

  Raymond’s loud laughter came over the phone, followed by a wheezing cough.

  two

  Saturday

  I sipped the last of my morning coffee as I stood by my kitchen window. I’d grown familiar with the regular morning flow of people passing my Georgetown townhouse on P Street, hurrying to work on weekdays or hurrying somewhere else on weekends. Even mothers pushing baby strollers seemed in a hurry. Nobody strolled anymore. Of course, I seldom strolled either. So I couldn’t fault everyone else for rushing about when I succumbed to the same behavior.

  Even though it was Saturday, I’d be rushing to the Russell mansion as soon as I finished my coffee. Tonight was Senator Russell’s celebration dinner, and the house would be packed. But that was nothing compared to the congratulatory messages that would be waiting via e-mail, texts, and phone once I got to my office. I’d be working all day.

  I rinsed my empty coffee cup, grabbed my briefcase, and headed out the front door. The large, striped tabby cat that camped out every day beside my terraced brick flower beds glanced lazily over his shoulder and meowed.

  “Hey, Bruce. Watch over everything while I’m gone,” I said racing down the brick steps leading to the sidewalk below. “And leave those birds alone.”

  Bruce gave me one of those inscrutable kitty smiles in reply. Where Bruce lived, I hadn’t a clue, but he appeared in my front yard daily. He was a big tomcat. Not fat, but muscular, which made his owner’s choice of a name even more incongruous. A couple of months ago, I’d checked his license and ID tags and was surprised to see only his name engraved. No owner’s name nor address, not even a phone number. Apparently Bruce’s owner didn’t care if he returned or not.

  I headed down P Street, careful to avoid the broken sections of brick pavement that jutted upward, waiting to send someone sprawling. I’d been living in this lovely and exclusive neighborhood ever since I began working for Senator Russell in March. The townhouse Peter Brewster let me use rent-free was only three blocks from Senator Russell’s mansion, so I’d been walking to and from work every day.

  I thoroughly enjoyed the morning walk through Georgetown’s historic shady streets, lined on both sides with beautiful examples of Federal and Georgian architecture. Later designs were also present, but my tastes ran to the earlier periods. That bias came from being a Virginian and living in a state filled with former Presidents’ mansions. A great many of Georgetown’s period homes bore the metal plaques identifying them as belonging to the National Historic Register. History was all around on these streets. Inescapable.

  My cell phone’s distinctive music sounded. Rolling Stones, “Brown Sugar.” Since this was my personal line, I figured I could indulge my rock ‘n’ roll addiction. Plus, it was fun watching people’s reactions if they heard it. I dug the phone out of my purse and l
et a few seconds of guitar riffs disturb the Georgetown quiet as I walked along. Danny’s name appeared on the cell phone screen, and my pulse sped up.

  “Hey, you’re back early,” I said, unable to disguise the pleasure in my voice. Why would I want to?

  “I’m not back yet, but it’s getting closer. I thought I’d give you a call and see what you’re up to. You going over to visit your cousins this weekend?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. This whole weekend is turned around. Russell’s staying in town and we’re hosting a dinner tonight for his entire staff, here and on the Hill. Everyone. It’s going to cost a fortune.”

  Danny chuckled. “Ever the accountant, right? Relax and enjoy it, Molly. What’s up? Russell usually heads to Colorado each weekend.”

  “We’re celebrating tonight. Yesterday Senate Majority Leader Stanley offered Russell the vacant seat on the Senate Banking, Housing, and Urban Affairs Committee. Sol Karpinsky’s old seat.”

  Danny whistled. “Sweet. That’s quite a coup for Russell.”

  “My words exactly. I’m sure the Democrats are gambling this plum assignment will guarantee Russell voting with them. But that gamble probably won’t pay off. Russell’s his own man and determined to stay Independent. He’ll vote with them sometimes and other times, not.”

  “That’s my kind of senator. Hat’s off to Russell. I’ll bet Brewster is running in six directions at once.”

  “Ohhhh, yeah.” I laughed as I turned onto 30th Street, angling toward Q Street. “And I’ll be buried on the computer answering all those e-mails.”

  “Listen, where do you want to go to dinner when I return?” Danny’s voice had dropped into that low tone that always made my heart skip.

  Your place, Crazy Ass tempted.

  McDonald’s, Sober-and-Righteous countered. Bright lights. Lots of people. Safer.

  I ignored the two competing voices inside my head. Crazy Ass, the wild, go-for-it voice, was getting stronger lately, I’d noticed. But good old watchdog Sober-and-Righteous could usually be counted on to throw cold water on any untoward suggestion. Boring as hell, but dependable, was Sober.

  “Ahhhhh, I don’t know,” I demurred. “You pick.”

  “Okay, I have a new place in mind over on Connecticut. I think you’ll like it. Great Indian food and excellent wines.”

  “Plus several of those yummy desserts I can’t resist like Gulab Jamun.” I pictured the delicious and deadly golden confection saturated in sugar syrup and rose water. For someone like me with a sweet tooth, it was heavenly.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Absolutely, Squad Leader,” I said as I pushed open the Russell mansion’s wrought iron front gate. “Hey, I’ve arrived at Russell’s. I’ll text you after that huge dinner is over. Let you know how it went.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Try not to do anything really scary dangerous,” I joked.

  “I’ll take it under advisement.” He paused, then added in that low voice. “By the way, I miss you.”

  I stopped in the middle of the mansion’s front steps, pulse racing, and not from the steps. I pondered what to reply, when Crazy Ass spoke up for me.

  “Roger that.” I clicked off before he could say more.

  _____

  Leaning on the doorway to the Russell kitchen, I watched the catering staff stream in and out of the kitchen from their truck in the back driveway. Pushing metal carts loaded with rectangular metal serving pans, carrying empty coffee urns and cartons of fresh berries and vegetables, everyone on the caterer’s staff was busy.

  Senator Russell’s housekeeper Luisa ruled the Russell kitchen and stood in the corner overseeing the proceedings and preparations. Her husband, Albert, was Russell’s longtime chauffeur and had been running errands non-stop all morning. The Senator and Peter would return about an hour before everyone was due to arrive.

  Sunlight poured through the wide upper windows, bathing the kitchen in bright light. I took a sip of Luisa’s strong dark coffee and watched the catering staff begin their preparatory routine. I’d seen it so often since late March that I had their routine memorized by now. Part of my duties for Senator Russell was to be the “stand-in” hostess whenever the Senator was delayed. Having grown up in the midst of Capitol Hill politics and Washington parties, it was as natural as breathing for me. My U.S. senator father, Robert Malone from Virginia, entertained often and strategically. Plus, my husband, David Grayson, had served three terms as a rising-star young congressman from Colorado, so the two of us entertained frequently before his future was cut short. Asking me to handle a room full of politicians and political staffers was like telling a duck to leave the pond and go swim in the lake. Quack, quack.

  Casey Moore, the senator’s security guard, joined me in the doorway. The tall, broad-shouldered African-American was a retired career Marine like Danny and had actually served under him in Beirut during those tragic days of 1983. He’d been the one to translate the young lieutenant’s nickname, “Double D.” Casey said it stood for Damned Dangerous. I should have known.

  “I can see dollar signs dancing above your head, Molly,” Casey teased.

  “You bet they are. I shudder to think about the bills.” I took another sip of coffee. “At least we finally finished entertaining the Congressional hordes last month. I thought we’d get a breather with only a weekly dinner or two.”

  Casey chuckled over his coffee mug. “Dream on. You’ve seen the Senator in action for four months now. You know he thrives on these big events.”

  “You’re right about that,” I sighed in resignation as we turned toward the long stretch of walnut hallway.

  “Hey, look at it this way,” he said as he fell in step beside me. “As long as Russell is entertaining like this, you’re guaranteed a job as his accountant.” He laughed and saluted me with his mug as he headed toward his post outside in Russell’s manicured backyard gardens. His perch on the patio gave him a bird’s-eye view of every kitchen worker who scurried from caterer trucks to the kitchen and back.

  I continued down the hall, passing the elegant formal living and dining rooms. I noticed that Luisa had placed more fresh flowers in the vases in the living room and the round crystal bowl in the midst of the mahogany dining room table. I turned the corner into my office just in time to hear “Brown Sugar” blasting from my private phone. Samantha’s name flashed on the screen as I picked up.

  “Hey, how’re you doing?” I asked as I sank into the upholstered desk chair. Moving the mouse so I could see how many e-mails had accumulated during my coffee break, I flinched at the number.

  “Not good at all, Molly,” Samantha said, her voice sounding tight. “I’m mad as hell and getting madder by the minute.”

  I forgot about the e-mail deluge and swiveled my chair around. “What’s the matter? Has something happened?”

  “I just got off the phone with Quent Wilson. He called to tell me that he and I had to stop seeing each other. Right now. He had a special delivery this morning. It was a package of 8 x 10 photos. Surveillance photos, if you can believe that. Taken of Quent and me at my Winchester home last month. He could tell from the dates and times on the bottom of the photos.”

  I set my coffee mug aside as a chill passed over me. A blackmailer. It had to be. Everyone in Washington knew that Samantha Calhoun was beyond wealthy. And what had she said last night? Wilson’s wife was from “old Ohio money.”

  Clearly, someone had learned of their affair and was attempting to cash in on that knowledge.

  “Oh, my God …” I whispered. “What kind of photos? Were they …”

  “The very worst kind. As I was talking to Quent, a delivery service brought the same package to me. That freak took photos of us in the bedroom!”

  “Oh, no … Samantha … I’m so sorry. That’s awful! Was there any note or anything from the person who took the
photos? It’s got to be a blackmail attempt, don’t you think?”

  “That’s what I thought, but Quent said there wasn’t any blackmail note included in his package. And there wasn’t one in mine. And neither of us has received any phone calls. Needless to say, Quent is panicking. He’s afraid that his wife hired the surveillance.”

  “Uh oh. I remember you said he and his wife had an arrangement. Do you think she found out about you two and is going to divorce him or something?”

  “That’s what he’s afraid of. And since she’s the bankroll behind his campaigns, you can understand his panic. What’s worse is he’s afraid she’ll be vindictive and try to ruin his career by leaking these photos on some sleazy website.”

  “Oh, no …” I breathed, picturing lurid photos showing up online going worldwide in an instant and lasting forever. As long as someone could save them to a file or flash drive, those photos could be used to torment Samantha and Wilson for the rest of their lives.

  “Which means I’ll be dragged through the mud along with him. Dammit!” Samantha said, her voice tight with anger.

  “Maybe his wife won’t do that. I thought their arrangement was Wilson could see whomever he wanted as long as he didn’t get into the papers. The last time I looked, you guys weren’t in the Washington Post or even the D.C. Dirt.”

  “Good God, don’t even think it.”

  “You two have been discreet. Neither you nor Wilson has flaunted the affair. So, maybe she just wants to make him squirm. You know … show she has power over him.”

  “Lord, Molly, I hope you’re right.”

  “Has Wilson called his wife? Has he heard anything from her?”

  “No. He’s afraid to call. He doesn’t know what to do, he’s so scared. He’s gone to the Hill for a scheduled staff meeting. Then he’ll come back to my house tonight and retrieve his personal belongings. Damn, this is so … so tawdry. How can that woman put herself through a feeding frenzy? The vultures will come after her too.”

  My first thought returned and pushed itself forward. “Samantha, maybe it isn’t Wilson’s wife behind this. Maybe it really is a blackmailer.”