A Vote for Murder (25 page)

“Hello,” I said.

His nervousness was palpable. His head was in constant motion, looking left and right, and past me as though to see whether I’d come alone.

“Hello,” he managed. “Thank you for coming. No one is with you, is there?”

“No,” I said. “No one is with me. I suggest you get right to the point, Mr. Carraway. As I said, I have a dinner engagement at seven.”

“I know, I know,” he said, moving to a small bench to his right and plopping down on it. I debated joining him but decided to continue standing.

“You said you feared for your life,” I said, hoping to jump-start the conversation. “What did you mean?”

He pulled a handkerchief from his suit jacket pocket and wiped his brow and the back of his neck. Then, as though he’d suddenly heard my question, he jerked and said, “Sit down, please, Mrs. Fletcher.”

I reluctantly did. I faced him and waited for an answer.

“I know too much,” he said. “Like Nikki.”

“Know what?” I asked.

“Why she was murdered.”

He got to his feet and surveyed the garden again for signs of intruders.

“I’m listening,” I said. “Why was she murdered?”

“To shut her up, that’s why. They’ll do the same to me.”

“What did she know that would cause someone to want her dead?” I asked.

He drew a series of deep breaths, rejoined me on the bench, and looked into my eyes beseechingly. “I come here a lot,” he said, the subject totally changed. “Sometimes I get so mad I want to kill somebody, and I come here and it relaxes me, makes those feelings go away.”

“That’s certainly better than acting out your angry feelings,” I said. “But—”

“Like when Nebel hired Nikki and demoted me. I wanted to kill him
and
her.”

“You were saying something about what Nikki knew that got her killed, Mr. Carraway.”

“Please call me Richard.”

“All right, Richard. Now, what did Nikki know? Nothing will be accomplished if you keep circumventing the issue.”

Another series of deep breaths before saying, “She knew about the payoffs.”

“Payoffs? To whom?”

“Lots of people. Senators. Congressmen.”

“Senator Nebel?”

Panic crossed his round face. “Yeah, the senator has been on the take big-time.”

I paused to put my thoughts together before asking, “And Nikki was blackmailing him about the money?”

He shook his head. “I never liked Nikki, Mrs. Fletcher. I already told you that. But I’ll say one thing about her: She was a straight shooter, straight as an arrow when it came to government and money and the like. When she took over my job, she was up to her neck in legislative matters, including the Sterling Power plant in Maine. But when Nebel got wind she’d discovered the payoffs, he shifted her to more administrative duties and handed me back the legislation. But she wouldn’t let go. She kept digging until she came up with proof of the payoffs. That’s when she wrote a letter to him.”

“The threatening letter,” I said.

“You know about that?”

“Yes. Did you provide that letter to Detective Moody?”

He shrugged. “I thought maybe it would help him in his investigation.”

“I’m sure it has,” I said. “The letter refers to Congressman Barzelouski. It also talks about Gail. I assume that’s Congresswoman Marshall-Miner.”

“They’ve been on the take, too.”

“You mentioned Sterling Power. Is Mr. Grusin the source of illegal payments to the senator and others?”

He guffawed. “Who else?” he replied. “He’s been funneling money—big money—to the senator and the others.”

“What constitutes big money?” I asked.

I detected the hint of a smile on his otherwise sour face. “A million to the senator.”

My gasp was involuntary. “A million dollars?” I said.

“That’s right.”

“For his vote on the power plant?”

“Yes.”

“I see why you might be concerned about your safety. Let me ask you something. Were you aware that Nikki wasn’t really having an affair with Senator Nebel?”

“Yeah. ’Cause she was gay, right?”

I sighed and nodded. “Yes.”

“I knew that, but not right away.”

“Why didn’t the senator make it public in some way to quash the rumors of the affair? Was it because he respected Nikki’s wish to have her sexual orientation kept private?”

Another small smile from him as he replied, “The senator’s only interested in his own secrets, not anyone else’s.”

“But he could have exploded that rumor of an affair, and he didn’t.”

“It was better to let that rumor fly than one about Gail Marshall-Miner.”

This time the smile was on my lips. I’d suspected there was something going on between Nebel and the congresswoman beyond their political and professional relationship in Congress. Grusin had hinted at it, and now Carraway had confirmed it. I also suspected that Senator Nebel’s reason for not leaking Nikki’s sexual orientation was something other than altruistic. Keeping the rumor going about him and Nikki might have served to keep his wife from suspecting he was having an affair with Gail. He could tell her with a straight face that there was nothing between him and Nikki—because there wasn’t.

I glanced at my watch. It was twenty of seven.

“Richard,” I said, “I appreciate your telling me these things. The question is, why me?”

“I had to unload on somebody,” he responded. “Oh, I’ve told the story a couple of times to my priest. I knew he’d have to keep it confidential between us. But I wanted to make someone else aware, someone like you. Maybe if enough people know, there won’t be any need to kill me.”

I stood. “I must go,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m already running late.”

“I’ll drive you to your appointment,” he said.

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

We walked from the Bishop’s Garden to where he’d parked his car. As we approached it, I saw a man exit quickly from the cathedral through its main entrance and fairly run to his car, the black Mercedes. He got in, started the engine, and drove off.

“Strange,” I said.

“What is?” Carraway asked.

“That man who came out of the cathedral. I could swear it was Jack Nebel.”

“Why would he be here?” Carraway asked.

“I have no idea,” I said. “And I’m probably wrong. I only had a fleeting glimpse of him.” Still . . .

It wasn’t until we’d reached the heart of Georgetown and the Latham Hotel, in which Citronelle was located, that I saw the Mercedes again. It drove past us as Carraway pulled up in front of the hotel. Once more I had only a fleeting glance at the driver, but this time I was certain whom I’d seen. It
was
Jack Nebel.

I thanked Carraway for the ride.

“No problem,” he said. “What are you going to do now? You know? With what I told you?”

“That’s all that’s been on my mind on the way here,” I said. “Richard, do you think you could arrange for certain people to meet us at the senator’s house tomorrow?”

“What people?”

“Congresswoman Marshall-Miner and Congressman Barzelouski?”

“I can try.”

“That’s all I can ask.”

“What about the senator?”

“I believe I can convince him to be there,” I said. “And his family, too. What about Walter Grusin? Can you contact him?”

“Sure. I don’t know if he’ll come, but I’ll give it a shot. What time?”

“Let’s say one o’clock.”

“Okay, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Good.”

“Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks for listening. I think that for maybe the first time in my life, I picked the right person to confide in.”

“That’s flattering. Safe home, Richard. With a little luck, this will all be resolved tomorrow.”

Seth was waiting at the bar when I entered the restaurant. I didn’t see George. It was seven-fifteen. I’d never known George to be late.

Seth read my mind as I approached. “Haven’t seen your Scotland Yard friend,” he said.

“He must have gotten tied up with the terrorist investigation,” I said. “I’m surprised he hasn’t called. He has my cell number.”

“What held
you
up?” Seth asked.

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you over dinner.”

“I suggest we take the table, unless you’d like a drink here at the bar.”

“No drink for me,” I said, “but let me try to reach George from here. I wouldn’t want to disturb other diners by making a call.”

I reached his voice mail.

We went to the table that had been reserved in the name of George Sutherland, and settled in for a lovely dinner, three courses price-fixed at seventy-five dollars a person. But I’m afraid I wasn’t the most receptive of dinner companions. I kept thinking of what Carraway had told me, and of Jack Nebel and why he would have been following me. And, as time passed, I grew increasingly worried about George. After our first course, I excused myself, went to the ladies’ room, and tried George again. No luck.

Over our entrée—lobster medallions with garnishes of sliced artichoke bottoms and Jerusalem artichokes, nestled in a fried nest of finely shredded potatoes—which the jaded Dr. Hazlitt pronounced “
Magnifique
!”—I recounted for him what Carraway had told me at the cathedral. He listened with rapt attention, interrupting only occasionally to ask me to clarify a point. When I was finished, he said, “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a crooked senator from Maine, Jessica. What do you intend to do with what you’ve learned?”

“I don’t know,” I replied honestly, although a plan had begun to formulate in my mind.

Our third and final course was about to be served when a manager came to the table. “Mrs. Fletcher?” he said.

“Yes.”

“You have a call from Inspector Sutherland.”

“Wonderful,” I said. I excused myself from Seth and followed the manager to a phone.

“George, are you all right?” I asked immediately.

“I’ve been better, love,” he said.

“What’s wrong? Another terrorist attack?”

“In a manner of speaking. One of Washington’s terrorists mugged me.”

“I was on my way to meet you when it happened. Three of them, actually. Young randies. That’s Scottish for thugs. Hooligans.”

“Good heavens! Are you hurt badly?”

“Got banged in the head pretty good. The doctors here at the hospital won’t let me leave. Protocol, they say, with my kind of head injury.”

“What hospital?”

“At your George Washington University.”

“Seth and I will be there in twenty minutes,” I said.

“No, no, Jessica, please, no. I look a bit of a mess, and my ego is sufficient that I’d prefer you to see me when I’ve had a bit of time to return to my handsome, dashing self.”

I started to protest, but he insisted.

“Get yourself a good night’s sleep and give me a ring in the morning. Sorry I couldn’t call earlier. The doctors were sewing me up. Talk with you tomorrow?”

“All right,” I said reluctantly. “You’re sure you’re going to be all right?”

“I’ll be tip-top, I assure you. The doctors assure me of that, too. Best to your doctor friend. Tell him I’m in good hands.”

“I will.”

“This is a dangerous city,” Seth said after I’d returned to the table and told him what had happened.

“No more so than most cities,” I said. “Could have happened anywhere.”

“Ayuh, but it happened here. Want me to go over and check on him, make sure the staff is up to snuff?”

“He doesn’t want any visitors,” I said. “Let’s enjoy what’s left of this wonderful dinner and get back to the hotel.”

On the way out, Seth cornered the manager who’d informed me of George’s call and said, “Name’s Dr. Seth Hazlitt, from Cabot Cove, Maine. Got a question for you.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Tried cooking lobster medallions myself a few times, but they always ended up tough. What’s your secret?”

“Chef Richard cooks the medallions in a two-hundred-and-seventy-five-degree oven for approximately twenty-five minutes,” he said. “It mustn’t be too hot or the lobster meat turns rubbery.”

“Much obliged,” Seth said, overtly pleased that he’d learned a trade secret from a master chef.

I looked for the Mercedes when we came out of the hotel but it was nowhere in sight. We took a taxi to the Willard and parted in its opulent lobby. I went to my suite and got ready for bed, my head swirling with all that had happened that evening. I sat up for a few hours scribbling notes of the conclusions to which I’d come over the course of the evening, forcing myself to concentrate and not let my thoughts wander to George and his injuries. By the time I climbed into bed, everything had jelled. Barring any unforeseen events, I felt confident I had the answer to Nikki Farlow’s murder.

And I intended to reveal that answer the next day.

I was up early, long before my wake-up call. (I’m never sure how to set those silly little clock radios in hotels and always leave a wake-up call as insurance.) I’d told Seth when we parted last evening that I intended to have breakfast in my room because I had a number of calls to make, but I asked if he would agree to accompany me to Senator Nebel’s. We set a time to meet.

My first call was to Nebel’s office in the Dirksen Building. Carraway answered.

“You’re there early,” I said.

“I always am,” he said. He lowered his voice: “I called Grusin and Marshall-Miner at home last evening. They’ll be there.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I lied, which I figured was okay. I told them the senator wanted them there to discuss the Sterling Power legislation.”

“I’m glad you filled me in,” I said. “I’ll know what to expect when I call the senator. What about Congressman Barzelouski?”

“He was out all evening, but I left a message on his machine.”