Murder in the Dog Days (Maggie Ryan) (18 page)

Carol Carson handed over a folder of papers. “Here’s the press packet. Exactly what Dale Colby received. Everything we know about it.”

Holly glanced through the papers. CAB reports, interviews, Xeroxes of newspaper articles, brief bios of the victims. She passed it on to Gabe. “Mrs. Carson, could you tell us something about the people who died?”

“Whatever I can.”

“Mr. Moffatt. What was his connection with the congressman?”

“He was an Ohio man. Made his money here in Washington but kept an interest in Ohio politics. Like Mr. Resler. They were going back to Ohio for a fund-raising conference. Always supported us, served on committees.”

“I see. Do you know Moffatt’s son Leon?”

“Not well. I’ve met him, of course. He was something of a disappointment to his father for a while. But they’d reconciled recently.”

“The son was upset about the stories being written.”

“Really?” Carol Carson shrugged. “Maybe it’s just that he wants things settled. Mrs. Resler feels the same way.”

“Did Leon Moffatt talk to you about your investigation?”

“Yes. Said basically he wanted it over with. He asked about our findings, just like the reporters. But this was back in June, and we had only the preliminary results to pass on.”

“I see. Have other people expressed an ongoing interest in this investigation?”

Carol Carson smiled, pulled open a file drawer, and handed Holly a list of names. “These are the people we mail to on this topic. The asterisks indicate relatives of the victims. I thought you might ask so I made you a copy.”

The list was dauntingly long. But the relatives, except for the few with Ohio addresses, were already on her own list. “Thank you, Mrs. Carson. Can you tell me if any of these people are—well, unusually interested in some way? Persistent, or angry, or with odd questions?”

“Not really.” Carol Carson’s brow wrinkled. “Moffatt’s son has been in, as I said. Mrs. Resler has checked in frequently but not antagonistically. She’s also asking us for advice on the foundation she’s establishing in her husband’s memory. Priscilla Lewis was upset because her brother—he was the pilot—had some medals that disappeared, and she wanted us to check with the Air Force to see if it would be possible to get replacements. Ann Kauffmann’s father was extremely distraught—it’s natural, she was still in college, she was—she only worked with us a few weeks, from about Thanksgiving, I think—and of course, her father was, um, upset—” Carol Carson stared down at her own well-groomed hands, both spread tensely on the blotter of her desk, as though pressing away an unwelcome image.

Holly played it gently. “He’d lost his daughter. He might have said something he didn’t really mean.”

Tears hard as diamonds stood in Carol Carson’s eyes. “He said Chappaquiddick. He said she had died in shame. It’s not true! There was nothing shameful, only tragic!”

Gabe’s glance flicked toward Holly, silent congratulations at pulling out this bit. Hanky-panky involving the virile Knox? Holly moved smoothly on. “Did he know it wasn’t true? Or was he upset enough to believe it?”

“Oh—I don’t know. I think it was just the first rush of grief.”

“Did he feel the press was reflecting badly on his daughter?”

Carson pulled herself away from her thoughts, frowned, and then said, “Oh, I see. You want to know if he might have had a grudge against Colby. I’m afraid you’ll have to ask at the newspaper. We corresponded with him only in Ohio, so I don’t know if he even knew Colby’s work.”

“I see.” Holly turned the page. “Tell me something about Peter Church.”

“My predecessor,” said Carol Carson soberly. “A talented man. He’d been with the congressman about ten years.”

“What does the job involve?”

Carol Carson smiled. “Just about everything! Meeting constituents, making up schedules, meeting the press, running the office here and in Ohio—you name it.”

“Advising on votes?”

“Sure. There are lots of other advisors too. His legal advisor, other experts. But I’m the one in touch with the grass roots, to tell him what’ll fly politically.”

“So yours is a position where you could make enemies.”

“I do my best not to. Peter did too, of course. But there are always idealists who think it has to be all or nothing. They don’t understand that there are people just as idealistic on the other side, and the best we can do is compromise.”

“So it’s possible someone might have thought Peter Church had sold out?”

“Yes. I’ve thought about that, obviously. Since I’m in the hot spot now,” Carol Carson admitted. “Ours is a rural district, has its share of good ole boys who admire frontier justice. But blowing up a plane doesn’t seem quite their style. A rifle out the window of a moving pickup truck would be more likely.”

“Yeah.” Holly had to agree with her; the good ole boys were not as promising as some other leads.

“My own feeling is that it’s likely a terrorist organization upset about the bill.”

“Yes, the congressman mentioned that. But no one has claimed responsibility for the bombing.”

“No. But maybe they don’t want publicity, they want to try again.” Obviously Carol Carson had thought this out too. She leaned forward, emphasizing her point with a stubby, neat index finger jabbing at the desk. “So if Dale Colby had found out something incriminating, they’d definitely want him out of the way.”

“You think the congressman is in danger, then?”

“We’re taking precautions, yes.”

“Are there any particular terrorist groups you suspect?”

“Not really.” Carol Carson handed over another paper. “Here’s a list. You probably know most of them. A few are apparently limited to Ohio.”

Holly skimmed the list. Free Kolumbus. Symbionese Liberation Army. Now there was a thought. Patty Hearst had disappeared, reappeared as Tania, disappeared again, and was still at large despite the efforts of parents, cops, the FBI. Maybe the SLA had perfected getting in and out of locked rooms. She handed the list to Gabe and said, “Thanks, Mrs. Carson. Do you know if any of the co-sponsors of the bill have had threats?”

“Not that I know of. That’s why we’re paying special attention to the Ohio groups on our list.”

“I see. Can you think of anything else that might help us now?”

“Not really. But—well, I did get a call from Colby yesterday afternoon.”

“Yesterday afternoon? What time?”

“About two-thirty. But it was strange. Gibberish, almost. Identified himself, and I asked what I could do for him. He said something, sounded like Moffatt. Then something I couldn’t understand and he hung up. I thought maybe he’d dialed the wrong number and really wanted someone else.”

“I see.”

“I wonder if Dale Colby might have somehow been a step ahead of us in his investigation. Maybe that’s why this tragedy occurred.”

“That’s possible.”

“So if you discover anything that might help the congressman, please let us know right away so we can protect him.”

“Of course, Mrs. Carson.” Holly stood with a surreptitious glance at her watch. Almost eleven. She’d better make her calls now, because by the time they got back to Virginia everyone would be at lunch. She asked, “May I use a phone?”

“Of course. Use line five, from Dot’s desk.” She walked around the desk and opened the door for them. “Oh, good, Maggie. You want to come back in? I’ll get your mom’s picture out.”

Holly nodded curtly at Maggie and headed for the receptionist’s phone to make her calls to Latents and the ME. Gabe occupied himself with Dot.

They started for the elevator. “God, that prissy suit of hers is hiding some real bazooms,” Gabe said with relish.

“Yeah, and did you notice the congressman?” Holly faked enthusiasm. “Hung like a stallion.”

Gabe reddened. Amazing how shocked men were to discover that women had eyes too. She let him think it over a moment because they had other things to discuss. Finally he said, “Uh, so what has Latents got?”

“Confusion,” Holly reported glumly. “Two unidentified prints, both in the living room.”

“Well, they may work out.”

“Probably the kids’ friends. Not much progress on the locked room, either. So far all they’ve done is confirm that the crowbar Ryan said she used really was the one used. They haven’t found anything on the windows.”

“Shit. I was betting on them. What about the ME?”

Holly stabbed the elevator button. “Doc said he wasn’t finished.”

“Wouldn’t even give you a guess?”

“Oh, yeah. I pressed him and he got huffy. Said if he had to go to court this afternoon, he’d have to testify that the guy died of a heart attack.”

“You’re kidding!”

“He said it wasn’t a simple concussion. Doc has to do some more work. And the toxicology results aren’t all in but what they’ve got is all negative.”

“Shit. What about time of death?”

“Sometime between noon and nine p.m.”

“We know that already! He won’t pin it down?”

“He was edgy, Gabe. Says there’s been a fuck-up somewhere. Body temperature, rigor and lividity all pointing different directions. So he won’t even guess until he double-checks everything.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. It means no shortcuts for now. Us, we better keep all our options open.”

The elevator doors slid open and they entered the cubicle. As Holly turned around to face the front she saw that someone had boarded behind them. “Hi,” said Maggie soberly, hoisting Sarah and balancing her on her hip. “Turning into a tough case, isn’t it?” Holly rolled her eyes toward heaven.

Holly left Gabe to write up the reports on the Knox and Carson interviews and headed through a fresh thunderstorm for Leon Moffatt’s office. It was not far from the Dulles access interchange, on the less fashionable side of a collection of low office buildings. A shiny maroon-on-buff sign that read Moffatt and Pulaski was stuck onto a gray-painted cinder-block wall next to double glass doors. Inside, the small reception area featured brown carpeting and a dramatically made-up young woman attempting to look like Raquel Welch. She was poking carefully at a typewriter keyboard, trying to keep long fingernails intact.

“I’d like to see Mr. Moffatt, please,” said Holly.

“Oh, okay. What’s it about?” Grateful to be released from her nail-threatening chore, the secretary stood up. Her slinky red blouse was slit most of the way to her belt.

“Police business.” Holly held out her ID. “I’m Detective Schreiner.”

“Oh, my God. The Blankenship thing?”

Blankenship? Holly hadn’t heard anything about Blankenship. But experience had taught her that the best reaction to unexpected information was often silence. She inclined her head but didn’t answer. The young woman knocked on the door at the back of the room and then pushed it open. “Mr. Moffatt, sir. Lady here says she’s police.” She turned back and nodded to Holly, her thick-lashed eyes wide with interest. “He says go right in.”

“Thank you, Miss—um—”

“Rosalie York.” She watched curiously as Holly entered Moffatt’s office.

Leon Moffatt was big, thick-lipped, pink as a boiled ham. He smiled quickly and offered Holly a damp hand. “Well, the police are prettier every day! How are you?”

“I’m Detective Schreiner, Mr. Moffatt. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

He looked out into the reception area, puzzled. “You here alone, Miss Shiner?”

“Yes. I’m in charge of the investigation.”

“Yeah. August, everyone on vacation, right?” He closed the door when Holly said nothing. She’d decided it would be a waste of time to tell him she was competent. Occasionally being viewed as a dumb broad had its advantages, lulling witnesses into saying more than they might to a man. But she drew the line at acting like Raquel Welch. He smiled at Holly again. “A lady detective!”

“I have a few questions for you. About Dale Colby.”

“Yes, poor guy. I’ll be glad to help you if I can.” He motioned for Holly to take the big leather chair near the desk. She sat and found herself sliding back into its depths. It had been sized for football players like Moffatt, not for women. She put her notebook on her knees and looked coldly at Moffatt until he finished examining the fit of her trousers and sat down too. She wondered what he’d think if he knew there was a .38 strapped to her ankle under the flare legs.

Interesting, wasn’t it, that he already knew that Colby was dead. Of course, by now Olivia Kerr and her buddies at the newspaper had probably phoned everyone that Dale Colby had spoken to the whole last six months.

She opened her notebook. “Now, my understanding is that Mr. Colby was interested in the plane crash last January.”

“Yeah, that’s true enough.” He leaned back in his big chair.

“Had he been asking you about it recently?”

“God, honey, what didn’t he ask about? He kept coming back with questions all the time. Don’t know why he did, I could never tell him anything. I mean, I could tell him a little about Dad’s business, but that was it, right? All this other stuff—” His hands gestured argumentatively. “I mean, how was I supposed to know anything about that crash? I wasn’t there!”