Senate Cloakroom Cabal (37 page)

Kelly wouldn't have to call his wife about being late, because she'd already gone back home earlier in the week. He changed into running shorts, shoes, a T-shirt, and a
Nationals
baseball cap that had been given to him by the team on opening day. After an hour going over boring paperwork, he went for a snack before heading off to his rendezvous.

He drove into the parking lot south of the monument memorializing the nation's third president and took a pair of large, black rimmed eyeglasses from the glove compartment. Even in his dank mood, he was moved by the classic beauty of the memorial. The brightly lit Washington Monument's reflection on the still waters of the Tidal Basin pointed directly at him. The water was placid with no paddle boats at night.

He jogged down to the water's edge and along the Tidal Basin, passing the front of the memorial. There were a few people sitting on the steps taking in the view and inside getting an up-close look of Jefferson's majestic statue, reading the many Jeffersonian quotes. Kelly jogged easily along the water toward a copse of trees on the far side. A jogger loped past him and went off the walkway at the trees. Kelly arrived there a moment later.

The jogger was waiting in the deep shadows. “What's so urgent?”

“Fred resigned as chairman.”

“That wimp. I never knew why you wanted him on your team in the first place,” the wiry man spat out.

“Because people like him and because of his outstanding record. Let's not rip up Fred; he's doing enough of that to himself.”

“Guilty conscience? What reason did he give you?”

“Tutox, the German clinic, the public furor, the cosponsored bill, your prescription plan . . . maybe one of his kids didn't get straight A's. Take your pick. I thought you'd be happy . . . the timing is a plus. Frank Harvey'll go in there and kick ass.”

“What's Pembroke's story going to be?”

“His health.” Kelly looked around, but saw no lurkers.

“We've got other problems,” the wiry man said tersely, while doing some stretching. “Your pal Crawford is getting too close to the beauty queen.

Going down to that island fiasco is gonna make them look like a couple of heroes.”

“I don't like them being in tight with Rogers either,” Kelly added. “How come you didn't know about his processing plant and the German hospital?”

“Who says I didn't?” the pharma snapped. “How'd the Marines get involved?”

“Crawford, I assume. He's on Armed Services, has good DOD contacts. Remember Reagan and Grenada? Plus the Carmayan government requested assistance and State got involved.

“That German hospital . . . the mood isn't with us, Stan. The expedient thing is for me to hold off a few days before announcing Fred's stepping down. Maybe we can get the FDA to rethink its decision on Tutoxtamen. We have to quell any panic—”

Horowitz erupted, “That drug cannot see the light of day. Why wait to announce your distraught friend's—?”

“Distraught?”

“Yeah. Maybe he should resign from the Senate.”

“He can't do that. We'd lose a seat.”

“He's our scapegoat. Think, man! Put the focus on him, say you and the party relied on him concerning the drug and that's why you rallied the party to show support of the FDA. We'll cover that by making sure the FDA has sufficient fire power . . . solid reasons why that drug can't come up for reconsideration.”

“Fred and Sally will be going away for a few days.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe he shouldn't come back!” Horowitz growled and jogged away.

Kelly was chilled by the lobbyist's words. He remembered Mort Stroble.

87

W
ith a streak of good weekend weather ahead, we planned on spending it aboard
Scalawag
. Max, normally a Sunday visitor, had asked to come aboard Saturday because on this particular Sunday he was having brunch with his college-aged daughter, which unfortunately included his ex-wife, on one of their infrequent visits to Washington.

As soon as both his feet were on deck, he said, “Reed called me from Miami this morning—they have received no cooperation from the two male civilians taken off the yacht. They maintain they were on a pleasure cruise. From their IDs, we know one's from Chicago, the other from Paterson, New Jersey. They are both in the long-haul trucking business. They claim they are good Americans and don't do business with mercenaries.

“However, the good news is what Reed and a female agent learned from the six party girls. Faced with accessory to murder charges, they all cooperated. They are employed by an escort service in Miami that has ties,” he said very slowly, “to a porno operation in Atlanta . . .”

“George Manchester?” I questioned.

Max smiled his best Cheshire cat grin. “The man with known ties to Washington politicians. Two Atlanta-based agents paid Mr. Manchester a visit at his home last evening. Their ruse was an investigation of two women arrested in Miami on drug charges who admitted to working in Atlanta and Washington. And because Mr. M had sworn to the FBI—after last year's brush with the law—that he would forever be cooperative, they knew he wouldn't mind answering a few questions.”

My adrenaline was exploding.

“That's a wildly interesting coincidence,” Jerry said.

Max nodded. “Manchester quickly proved to be a valuable asset.”

This was astounding. “Horowitz?” I asked hopefully.

“It seems that the pharma lobby utilizes Mr. Manchester's escort service on a regular basis in both Miami and Washington.”

I was freaking out. “Manchester knows Horowitz?”

“It appears they've had a direct dealing or two, but the escort service is handled through surrogates,” Max said in his most deliberate—and for me, agonizing—manner, except his grin was giving him away.

“Do I hear the strains of
It's a Small World
?” Jerry asked. “What else did they pull out of the man from Atlanta?”

Max said Manchester assured the FBI agents he was no longer in that business, but did allow that he knew Mr. Stanley Horowitz professionally. “This ties the women on the yacht to at least the pharmaceutical lobby. Reed said the contract for the women's services was filtered down through several layers. However, we still need another breathing person to fill in the details. The yacht has been searched and found to be clean.”

I found that curious. “If there were no incriminating items like weapons, clothing, or personal stuff belonging to the six men, maybe it was all dumped.”

Max smiled. “I believe the Marines have some SCUBA equipment and, along with Carmayan divers, are searching the harbor bottom as we speak.”

“Okay. I didn't think of it first, but I did think of it,” I said.

“Max, you can't be saying that somebody other than our own Miss Marples comes up with these gems?” Jerry asked, trying hard not to burst into laughter.

I slapped Jerry's shoulder and let out a sardonic laugh. “Ha, ha. I get it. But you'll have to admit—”

“Of course, we do,” Max interrupted, “I was just curious to see if your being off the street-beat had dulled your thinking.”

He and Jerry joined in a guy-type, loud laugh. They loved it when they could tease me. But that's why I feel so lucky . . . having them both in my life. My eyes began to tear, so I jumped up and turned away from them. “Can I get you boys anything?” I said, heading away from them toward the galley.

“I'll take a brew,” Jerry answered.

“Make mine water,” said Max, who preferred to stay sharp on Saturdays in case he was called to duty. I descended the ladder and got a tissue. I washed my face and went to the ice chest.

I was thrilled we had Horowitz pinned to the yacht. Human life was so cheap to him. It's easy to believe he'd want both Rogers men killed. I pulled a beer and a bottle of water out of the ice chest, while wondering if I should call Ro or Michael. Max believed the pharmas had Mort killed and were behind the processing plant attack. Assassination and annihilation were tools in the pharma lobby's trade. I went topside.

“Here you are, gentlemen.”

“Well,” Jerry said, “as you're in a giving mood, when do we eat?”

“Oh, I'm so sorry . . . I forgot to bring my sarong and leis, but maybe I can find a luau CD,” I said, holding up Jerry's can of beer, making as though I was about to shake it. “May I open your beer, sir?”

“No, no . . . that will be fine.” Jerry cowered playfully.

“Consider yourself fortunate I did this much.” I turned to go down below.

“Where you going?”

“Check on Tyler and make my lunch.” Actually, I had decided to call Ro. As I reached the ladder, I had a thought and twirled around. “Perhaps the two incarcerated men were on an entirely different mission and should be let go. Maybe we could learn more from them that way.” I went below and made my call.

“Hello,” Ro answered softly.

“It's Laura.”

“Good morning. Are you on
Scalawag
?”

“We are, with Max Walsh. I have good news.” I filled her in.

“That is great news. Dad mentioned there were some new developments in Carmaya, but wouldn't tell me on the phone. Do you know—?”

“I believe that would be a search of the bottom of the Carmayan harbor for stuff possibly dumped from the party boat, because there was nothing incriminating on board.”

“That stinker, not telling me. Thanks. I'll have some fun with this.”

“If you're not doing anything, how about coming over?”

“I'm visiting some friends later who are far apart from all this. I need the break.”

88

I
sat in my small home-office alcove Monday morning, incorporating the Pembroke tape into the body of my article. I needed it to be as up-to-date as possible when the FBI and MPD made their move on Kelly or Horowitz.

I took a short break when Anna and Tyler returned from their stroll and played with my son while Anna got a snack and drink for him. The reality of the pharmaceutical conspiracy and my moment with my son could not have been starker. My ringing cell phone jolted me from my bliss. I picked it up. It was Max. Could this be it?

“Good morning,” I said cheerily.

“There have been better Mondays,” he said darkly.

An ominous shiver ran through me. “What's happened?”

“Sherman Rogers is dead.”

“Oh no!” He was in a New York City hospital.

Max explained he had been discovered not breathing when the nurse went in to prepare him for breakfast. “There were no evident signs of foul play, according to NYPD's medical examiner, who is probably conducting an autopsy as I speak. Harley Rogers was livid, saying his son had been murdered.”

“Max. The two mercenaries told the FBI that both Rogers were targeted, remember—”

“That's news to me.”

“Didn't Reed tell you?”

“No.”

“Oh no,” I said, kicking myself. “That's my fault. Reed told me.” I felt crappy. It hadn't been urgent, but I always tried to keep Max in the loop as he did me. “The FBI was thinking of protecting both of the Rogers men because—”

“I best call Reed.” The line went dead.

Now I felt doubly awful. I needed to get busy. I called Barton to tell him about Sherman. However, his secretary told me he couldn't be disturbed. I was on edge, and my intensity must have come out when I told her, “I have to talk to him immediately.”

She paused a few seconds. “Just a minute,” she said curtly and put me on hold.

I breathed deeply, hoping to reduce my anxiety level.

Barton came on. “Laura?” He was not happy. “What is so—?”

“Sherman Rogers is dead, possibly murdered,” I said sharply.

“When? Where?”

I repeated what Max had told me, including that the FBI had said both Rogers had been targeted in the attack. “Sherman wasn't on life support, because the nurses would have known when he straight-lined. He was in recovery. Death was not a concern.” I realized I'd not been told all that exactly, but from the pieces, I deduced it.

“What about the old man?”

“He's saying it's murder.”

“Anything on Senator Pembroke?”

That startled me. My head was still wrapped up in Sherman's death.

“Actually, I have been working on that piece this morning.”

“I'll see what we can find out in New York,” he said. “Thank you, Laura.”

“Ah, Barton. I apologize for my rudeness to your secretary. I didn't handle that very well,” I said, putting it as humbly as I could.

“Yes. I'll tell her.” He hung up.

I can do the stupidest things. Maybe I should send her some flowers. Lassiter's used to me, but I know better than— A squeal of joy from Tyler interrupted my thoughts. I found him on the back deck with Anna, playing. Anna looked at me and frowned.

I must have looked over-anxious, judging by her questioning look. “It's about work. A sad thing happened. Everything here . . .
aqui
. . . okay?”

She smiled. “Si . . . yes.”

I went back to my writing. The pharmas must have had a big hurt on the Rogers to kill Sherman. I wondered if Pembroke was in any danger because he'd shown what some might construe as weakness. I called Crawford's office, but he wasn't in. I called his home, and a young, female voice answered. “Hi. I'm Laura Wolfe. Is Senator Crawford home?”

“The real Laura Wolfe?” the little voice squeaked.

“The reporter, yes.”

“My father told us all about you. Wow!” she giggled. “I'm sorry, it's just—”

“Not a problem. Is your father home?”

“Oh sure. He's out in the yard. I'll get him.” The phone thumped down on a table, and I heard a door squeak open and the girl calling out, saying I was on the phone. I guessed she might be one of the ten-year-old twins. The door slapped closed, like a screen door on a spring. The phone was picked up. “He's coming.”