Senate Cloakroom Cabal (19 page)

“I agree.”

“Did she ever call Harley Rogers?” I remembered he was going to suggest she might make that call.

There was silence on his end.

“Michael?”

“Shit,” he said, half under his breath. “I forgot to tell her.”

Actually, that was good, because that told me the senator didn't know what Harley had told her father.

“Hold on a sec, Michael.” I was out on the sidewalk and found the taxi stand. “North Arlington,” I told the dispatcher. He put up three fingers meaning I was third up in the Virginia line.

“Okay, Michael, I'm back. If the senator wants—”

“Your editor called me . . .”

A bolt of adrenaline shot through me.

“. . . to schedule the shoot,” he finished.

Not Lassiter, Chow.

“Lady!” The dispatcher called. “You're next.” He pointed to a cab just pulling up.

“Hold on, Michael, I'm getting into a cab,” which I did. “Clarendon.”

The driver grunted and pulled away from the curb. “Okay, Michael, I'm back.”

“We suggested next Wednesday to your editor.”

“Time?”

“Nine, in our office. Then we'll go from there.”

That sounded fine, as I relaxed in the comfortable leather seat of the cab. “Things getting busy on the Hill?”

“Sort of,” he said offhandedly.

He wasn't being his talkative self. “How'd Tyrell make out?”

“Well, both ways, from what he said.”

I laughed. “The perks of spydom.”

“I guess.”

He was in a funky mood. “Michael, what's wrong?”

He didn't answer, so I waited.

“It's the guy,” he said very quietly. “Tyrell says he's in over his head; they own him.”

“They?”

“The pharmas.”

I hated having to drag it out of him. “Own him?”

“He's in deep. Let me back up. After their respective dates last week, Tyrell waited a day, then called the guy. Tyrell's reason was to see if they could get together, without dates, get to know each other better. The guy agreed, and they had lunch.

“I'll give you the short story. The guy's up to his eyeballs in trouble.

Being close to the leader, he constantly received gifts, trips, cash . . . . He had become a high-roller, Tyrell said. The guy even broke down when telling him. His wife and two-year-old daughter had left him and gone to her parents in Michigan, and they might not come back.”

“She knows about his philandering?”

“I don't know what she knows, except that she did complain about all the gifts he brought home and his spending money that she didn't think they had,” Michael said disgustedly.

“Yeah, the pharmas bought him hook, line, and sinker,” I said softly, in case the driver knew English.

“He's very vulnerable.”

“Can we turn him?” I whispered.

“We'll probably have to threaten him with exposure.”

A pang of concern shot through me.

“We have no other option, Laura. We have an opportunity to get inside the Kelly slash pharma camp,” Michael said strongly.

I didn't like dragging innocents into . . . yet Michael was right. Besides, this was in his backyard. He could go it alone and probably would.

“Our intention . . .”

Our? Did that mean Dalton was in on this?

“. . . is to garner information . . . names, places, that sort of thing. We'll set up a dinner, something that's part of the guy's normal social routine.”

“His goose is cooked regardless of which way he goes,” I suggested.

“I guess. Maybe we can orchestrate a way for him to get another job, be fired, something to keep the wrath of the pharmas from coming down on him. Try and get him off the hook, give him a way to set things straight with his wife.”

Michael is a major conspirator.

“How many scenarios have you developed?”

“Well, I'll talk to Nancy—”

“Oh, they'd make a pair,” I said sarcastically.

“Nancy is a solid citizen. If you saw her work, you'd see what I mean.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, catching his tone. “I didn't—”

“It's my fault for divulging her private—”

“No. That's me. When I know people, I tend to joke around. Let's get back to your plan,” I said, hoping to right the ship.

“Okay,” he said calmly. “I thought you, me, Nancy, and the guy could have dinner. We'd start out with Tyrell, but a prearranged phone call will call him away. Then we'd be two couples—”

It sounded like he had interrupted himself, so I waited.

“Laura, would you do that?”

“Sounds safe enough. I can be a member of your staff, like in New Jersey. You sure about Nancy? They may know each other. She works for Pembroke.”

“Ouch. Maybe using Nancy isn't such a good idea. Besides, I momentarily forgot, she's working on Gordon. How about you, me, and Tyrell having dinner with the guy?”

I'd forgotten about Nancy and Gordon too. “Sure. Maybe have the senator—”

“What?” came his sharp response. “She won't agree . . . I won't let her. That's not her style. You said so yourself.”

“It wouldn't be asking her to go against her principles.”

“I can't allow that,” he said assertively.

I found his objection a little hollow considering what was at stake.

However, I agreed to it being Michael, Tyrell, and me. Then I broached the sensitive issue of wanting to talk with the senator, even though we would be getting together Monday.

He told me he'd check with her and get back to me, adding that I shouldn't worry about the potential mole. “The guy wants a new start.”

We said our goodbyes. I told the driver to stay on the Parkway and exit at Spout Run. I sat back in the seat, eager to talk to Roanne Dalton. My cell phone rang.

42

I
talked with Roanne during my cab ride home. She was enthusiastic to hear about my trip. I made my case about seeing each other in person without telling her I had something for her. She suggested FDR's Memorial in West Potomac Park. We agreed on a time.

Anna and Tyler welcomed me home, and I held and hugged my very excited little boy. Jerry came in at 5:30, and the three of us enjoyed our reunion, albeit a short one. I told Jerry about the note and that I was meeting Roanne at 6:30, a ten-minute jaunt across Memorial Bridge and into West Potomac Park. Jerry was okay with that and said he'd feed Tyler. We'd pack up and go to
Scalawag
after I got back.

The drive was as quick as I had expected. I parked and began walking toward the outdoor Roosevelt Memorial when I saw the senator standing alongside a cab in the drop-off area. I waved, and she waved back.

“Hi,” I said happily. “Thanks for doing this.”

“If you wanted to see me privately, it was the least I could do,” she said lightly. “Why don't we walk through the memorial and down to one of the benches along the Tidal Basin?”

We went through the open gallery passing polished granite walls with quotes from the WWII president. Water cascades fell into catch basins giving life to an otherwise colorless ambiance. “I have heard that it takes an out-of-town person to get a local out to see the sights.”

She smiled. “Ah, you've not been here either?”

“Right.”

“We can walk around, play tourist if you like.”

“I like your first suggestion better,” I said casually.

We found a path through trees to the edge of the water and took a bench facing the gorgeous Jefferson Memorial across a portion of the basin. It seemed majestic, only a few hundred yards away.

“When H.T. was on the Hill, and I was here during cherry blossom time, I would walk along the basin. It's a rare beauty . . . the trees and the setting.”

“I've driven by,” I said sheepishly.

“You have to get out more, girl.”

“I get out . . . just to less engaging places.”

She smiled. The soft breeze off the water reduced the mugginess. “Well, what do you have for me? Was my father a good boy?”

I had obsessed about how I would handle this and decided she should read Rufus's note to me. “Your father was great. He asked me to give you a message in a note he addressed to me. I think you should read the whole thing, even though that was not his intent.”

Her face was expressionless except for her eyes that had narrowed slightly. I took the note out of my bag and handed it to her. “I'm, eh, going to take a short walk.”

Roanne accepted the note, and I walked off in the direction of the memorial. After about fifty yards or so, I stopped and turned. She had already read it. The note was in her lap, and she was dabbing her eyes. Seeing her like that, my eyes teared, and I turned away using a finger to wipe off a tear running down my cheek. I sniffed. I'd forgotten to reload my purse. I turned back and found her walking toward me. I started back to her, and we met. She spoke first.

“When this whole mess is over with, I would like for us to spend some time together. I hardly know you, but right now I feel that you are the best friend I have ever had.”

I was stunned. Only a stride apart, she extended her arms and closed the gap to give me a hug. I returned it in kind.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

She backed out of our hold, sniffled and laughed lightly.

I felt overwhelmed and changed the subject. “Jerry and I need to get you out on
Scalawag
and show you a good time.”

She frowned. “Oh?”

“It's our sailboat, a thirty-five-foot gorgeous sloop in the marina.” I half-turned and pointed. “It's on the other side of the 14th Street Bridge and the Interstate. Jerry was living on it when we met.”

“Oh?”

“When his wife divorced him, he moved aboard. He was a defense attorney with an office near police headquarters. He's now a partner in a different firm doing corporate law.” I told her all that because I didn't want her to think Jerry was a bum.

“And you are there now, with the baby?”

“No. We bought a house in the Clarendon section of Arlington.”

“I've eaten in that area. We're Metrorail neighbors.”

I chuckled and she joined me, while wiping her eyes and blowing her nose.

She held up Rufus's note. “Your suspicions about Rogers were correct. Where do we go from here?”

“I asked Michael earlier if we three could get together Monday. I'll break your father's news about Harley to both of you at—”

“I can tell him.”

“Yes, but that would break a trust between Michael and me. I could have told him, and he would have told you, of course. But I felt you needed to see the letter first, privately.” I hoped she didn't take offense to my plan.

“Of course. Michael did ask me about Monday. I have some time late morning. Then what?”

I mentioned that Michael's friend at Rogers could become more talkative when he heard what we now know.

“I'm going to research General Aviation's airline records of private passenger and cargo planes departing from Newark Airport the past few months.”

We began walking back through the memorial, and I asked if I could give her a lift.

“My cab's waiting,” she said, shaking her head and offered Rufus's note to me.

“Oh no,” I said. “It may have been written to me, but it's yours. I was just the messenger.”

She looked at me softly. “Heaven sent.”

43

I
stayed home Monday morning and tried to work on the Style piece, but I couldn't concentrate. Tutoxtamen and Rufus's note were demanding too much attention in my brain.

For a diversion, I refilled my coffee and went out onto the deck. I pushed my mind to think about the blissful weekend Jerry, Tyler, and I had enjoyed sailing down the Potomac to St. Mary's, Maryland. We anchored in its inlet and stayed on the boat the entire time. We discussed my trip to the McAllisters, my impressions of Rufus, his note, and Roanne's reaction to me after she read it.

Roanne's family relationships led us to examining our blended families, especially my relationship with my parents. Jerry and I had tried to visit them shortly after our marriage, but it had never been the right time for my father. Then I received the handwritten note from my mother. After that, we graduated to email, and the frequency of our correspondence increased, culminating in my visit to them last September, about six weeks before Tyler was born.

Jerry's time with his sons Scot, 17, a rising senior, and Colin, 15, had slacked off last summer and fall. Our Christmas party was the first time I'd seen his boys in over a year. Although Jerry hadn't been making his weekly trips out to Maryland, he did talk to them regularly. He said the visits he did make were around a game or event that involved his sons. Occasionally, he'd take them to lunch or dinner. All very artificial. He was only a visitor. They hadn't stayed overnight on
Scalawag
since the summer before last. We returned to our marina Sunday evening.

My cell phone's ring brought me back to reality. It was Michael. Our meeting was on for 11:00.

I took Metro and emerged from the Union Station stop and ended up walking behind an excited group of tourists heading for the Capitol. They were enthralled at seeing the dome through the trees. It was an interesting contrast to how I had recently been feeling about the place.

I went in the C Street entrance of Dirksen. Senator Dalton's third floor office was halfway down the corridor. A young woman at the front desk greeted me.

“Good morning, Ms. Wolfe. I'll tell Mr. Horne you are here.”

Michael appeared, thanked the receptionist, and led me to his office. He glanced at the buttons on his phone. “Oh, she's off now.” He pressed one. “Senator, Laura Wolfe is here . . . right.” He hung up. “She's ready.” We went in. It was obvious Michael had no knowledge of my Friday evening meeting with his senator.