Homicide in the House Page 7

  No doubt about it. Maeve had been set up. The criminal was a crafty one. He or she had capitalized on Maeve’s altercation with Drysdale, seeing her as the perfect suspect. The perp had figured out how to get Drysdale and Maeve in the same location. After he or she murdered Jack, Maeve would come across the scene and suspicion would fall on her. Using the Speaker’s gavel was a nice touch, especially since Maeve had served as presiding officer the night before during the House of Representatives debate.

  I glanced at my email inbox. Judy Talent hadn’t replied. I had no connection whatsoever to the widower Jordan Macintyre or Gareth Pressler from the Sergeant at Arms office. That left me with one option: Doug’s former student. A speedy survey of the House employee directory online turned up a Melinda Gomez. Bingo. I dialed her extension and prayed she’d pick up.

  “House press gallery, Assistant Superintendent Gomez speaking.”

  The formality of her announcement caught me off guard. I stuttered for a second and then words flew out of my mouth in a rush. “I’m Kit Marshall and my boyfriend Doug Hollingsworth suggested I call you. He was your professor at Georgetown and thought you might be able to help.”

  The line was silent. “This is a House extension, right? Do you work for Congress?”

  My opening gambit hadn’t included that important information. If I planned to reprise my sleuthing, I’d better get a grip. “Yes, I’m sorry. Let me start over. I work for Congresswoman Maeve Dixon from North Carolina. Doug, I mean Professor Hollingsworth, suggested I call you to talk about Jack Drysdale.” I always forgot to use Doug’s academic title when speaking with his undergraduate minions.

  There was another pause. The Drysdale request had likely thrown her for a loop. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “We’re not supposed to say much to reporters about the murder.”

  “I understand, but I don’t want to give information to the press. I need to gather information about Jack so I can figure out who killed him.”

  “Now I know who you are. I was interning in the press gallery last year when you solved that stabbing in the Senate. There was a rumor at Georgetown that Professor Hollingsworth was somehow connected to the investigation, but no one knew how.”

  Never a fan of notoriety, Doug had tried to bury that connection as deep as possible. “That’s me. This time, I need a little assistance coming up with a list of suspects. You see a lot from your perch. Maybe you can help?”

  She chuckled. “I do see a lot, it’s true.” Melinda was referring to the location of the press gallery, which overlooked the House floor.

  “I bet you do. What do you say?” I glanced at my watch. Melinda hadn’t been working in the House very long. Most young staffers were recent college grads motivated by the free food and drinks provided at the many receptions hosted by lobbyists and trade organizations every day on the Hill. The time for lunch had come and gone, but maybe Melinda hadn’t eaten yet or would succumb to a tempting offer.

  It was worth a shot. “Can I buy you a snack at the Creamery?” By far the best eating establishment in the House, the Creamery served coffee and ice cream to members and staff with cravings for caffeine, sugar, or both.

  “I really shouldn’t leave, given everything that’s happened today and the continuing interest in the shutdown.” She paused. “But I’m pretty hungry. I suppose a few minutes won’t hurt.”

  The offer of free food had resonated. Melinda was a woman after my own heart. I’d have to thank Doug tonight for making the connection.

  “Terrific. I’ll see you there in ten minutes.”

  Should I tell Maeve or Dan where I was headed? The doors to both of their private offices were shut. I decided against it. If they needed to reach me, they could call my iPhone. The Creamery was located next to the main House cafeteria in the adjacent Longworth Building. I descended to the basement of Cannon and crossed through the underground level of the rotunda, which displayed a huge plaster model of the Capitol commissioned by the powerful Speaker Joe Cannon in 1903. Despite his autocratic rule, the extension of the Capitol envisioned by Cannon and reflected in the sculptor’s model hadn’t been completed until 1962.

  With Congress, some things never change. It takes forever to make a difference around here.

  The looming Capitol model was a constant reminder that congressional achievements were measured not in days, months, or even years, but decades.

  After sliding into a seat at the Creamery, I realized I had no way of recognizing Melinda. Steady streams of House staffers paraded through the eatery at every moment, scarfing up the coffee and ice cream treats. A few moments later, a young woman in her early twenties entered. She appeared to be Hispanic and wore stylish dark-rimmed glasses that screamed “smart, yet fashionable.” She looked tentatively around the establishment. This had to be Melinda Gomez, or at least the odds were good. Given Dan’s mistake earlier today, I’d better check for myself. I got up and walked toward her, extending my hand. With a questioning rise in my voice, I said, “Melinda?” At the same time, I stole a hard glance at the official House identification badge she wore around her neck. It was hard to see the entire name on the tag, but I could definitely make out a capital “M” followed by a last name starting with a “G.” Pay dirt.

  She returned my question with a shy smile. “Are you Professor Hollingsworth’s girlfriend?”

  I cringed slightly at her description of me. The feminist in me screamed, “No, I’m Kit Marshall, House staffer extraordinaire!”

  I stifled my insecurity, but Melinda must have noticed me wince because she added, “I’m sorry, I just forgot your name from our phone call.”

  Her explanation erased my tense reaction to her initial greeting. “That’s okay. Yes, I’m Kit Marshall. It’s nice to meet you. Would you like some ice cream?”

  Melinda laughed and responded enthusiastically. “Actually, I would love ice cream.”

  We placed our orders and sat down. I hadn’t eaten lunch, so ice cream didn’t constitute a terrible indulgence. Rationalizing was a dieter’s bête noire, but right now a good lead on Jack’s murder was a bigger priority than a trim waist. Maybe Melinda had missed lunch, too. She licked at her ice cream cone as though we were battling ninety-five-degree heat in the middle of summer.

  She didn’t have much time to spend with me. I set my cup of chocolate chip aside so I could begin my friendly interrogation. “Is there chatter in the press gallery about who killed Jack?”

  Melinda stopped inhaling her cone for a moment to utter one word. “Sure.”

  Obviously, I needed to lead more with my questions. Even though Melinda was a newbie press staffer, she had apparently learned the cardinal rule of D.C. media relations: never volunteer additional information.

  Flattery often worked. “The police are the formal investigators, but we know the press really drives these stories. What’s the chatter on the likely suspects?”

  Melinda had just stuffed the last piece of cone into her mouth. She put her finger up to indicate she had to finish chewing before answering. After a big swallow, she wiped her mouth with a napkin. She’d clearly enjoyed the ice cream. Now would she return the favor?

  “It’s a little early for speculating, but everyone in the press gallery is chattering about Hill Rat.”

  Hill Rat was an anonymous blogger who wrote scathing posts about Congress. Nothing was off limits for Hill Rat. He or she wrote about members of Congress, staffers, Capitol Hill rumors, political intrigue, internecine fighting, romantic gossip, and policy deals. Hill Rat never had anything good to say about Congress or the people who worked there. The blog, though written by an obvious narcissist, drew heavy online traffic from the Beltway crowd. Denizens of Capitol Hill both feared and desired a mention in Hill Rat’s reports. A mention from Hill Rat was almost always unfavorable, but it also meant you mattered. Only the main players appeared in Hill Rat’s blog, even though the acerbic observations never portrayed our city’s most prominent citizens in a flattering light. Lending to
Hill Rat’s fame was his or her clandestine identity. Journalists joked the identity of Hill Rat remained the best secret in D.C. since Watergate’s Deep Throat.

  Although I’d read Rat’s most infamous entries, I wasn’t a devotee. The writing was witty but the condescending tone rubbed me the wrong way. Washington had its share of snobby, self-indulgent blockheads who deserved Hill Rat’s drubbings. Alongside the numbskulls, however, were hardworking bleeding-heart staffers who arrived at work each day with the goal of making the country a better place to live. Sometimes Washingtonians didn’t fit neatly in either of those categories. Hill Rat either ignored or failed to appreciate the shades of gray motivating daily decision-making in our nation’s capital city.

  “Do you mean reporters consider Hill Rat a bona fide suspect?”

  Melinda smiled. “That’s a good question. Hill Rat focused on Jack Drysdale in several posts a few months back. He or she even wrote about his spouse Jordan’s failed business venture.” That explained how Meg knew about this tidbit. She was a dedicated Hill Rat reader.

  Contemplating Melinda’s response, I rubbed my chin. “But why would Hill Rat kill Jack? It seemed like he enjoyed writing about him. I’d think bloggers would want their subjects alive and kicking so they could keep writing salacious stories.”

  Melinda pushed her chair back, indicating our conversation was nearing the end. “That’s true, but Jack wasn’t one of Hill Rat’s typical victims. After the blog about Jordan, Jack vowed to get even.”

  We both stood up and started walking to the Creamery’s exit. “How so?”

  Melinda hung her purse on her shoulder and turned toward the hallway. “Jack promised reporters that he was going to discover Hill Rat’s true identity.”

  I raced to catch up with Melinda before she left. “You think Hill Rat might have killed Jack before he could reveal his name? Or her name?”

  Melinda stopped walking and turned to face me. “Jack said he’d expose Hill Rat, even if it was the last thing he did.”

  Chapter Nine

  After parting ways with Melinda, I strolled at a leisurely pace back to the Cannon Building. The ice cream had proven a valuable investment. Hill Rat’s anonymity allowed him or her to script scintillating observations about D.C. power players without repercussions. Furthermore, since Hill Rat’s identity was a mystery, no one knew when to shut up. Hill Rat could be any astute observer with access to the Capitol Hill crowd. But Hill Rat’s cachet would be destroyed if he or she could no longer operate as an anonymous ghost. Jack had threatened exposure, and surely Hill Rat knew that Drysdale always made good on his threats.

  I returned to the office, which was as quiet as when I left. A hasty check of the relevant media outlets confirmed what I already guessed. Maeve Dixon hadn’t been named as an official suspect, and her involvement in Drysdale’s murder hadn’t been revealed. There was little hope we could keep her name out of the press much longer. Even if Maeve could avoid an official interrogation, the police would have to eventually disclose that she’d discovered the body. It was half past four. Sighing, I hauled myself to Dan’s office. I couldn’t assume Dan understood our relatively peaceful office existence subsisted on borrowed time.

  Dan’s door was ajar. I knocked lightly and heard him say, “Kit, is that you?”

  I took his question as an invitation to enter. Dan was sitting at his computer, apparently at work. At least he hadn’t reverted to an emergency meditation session involving self-inflicted acupuncture.

  “Where did you go? You haven’t been at your desk.”

  I sat down in the chair opposite him. “You told me to investigate, so that’s what I’ve been doing.”

  His eyes lit up. “Did you figure out who killed Jack Drysdale?” Dan leaned forward, eager for my response.

  “No,” I said slowly. Dan must not have read the Hardy Boys growing up. Or perhaps he watched too much CSI and expected murders to be solved in sixty minutes or less.

  Dan’s face fell. “Oh. How long do you think it’s going to take?”

  “I’m going to be honest with you, Dan. I have no idea. I’ve got a couple suspects identified but it’s not going to be easy. I’m not exactly friends with the people in Jack’s political and social circles.”

  Dan lowered his voice. “You’d better keep digging. Maeve’s in there,” he pointed toward her office, “with her legal counsel.”

  Maeve hadn’t wasted any time. “Do you know the specifics of their conversation?”

  “I think he’s trying to outline her options.”

  Options? That sounded ominous. “What do you mean?”

  “I wasn’t invited to listen. But I did linger outside her office for a minute or two,” Dan admitted sheepishly.

  “You eavesdropped. It’s hardly a crime in light of our current situation. What did you hear?”

  “I couldn’t make out everything, but I did hear the word ‘resignation’ several times.”

  I swallowed hard. “As in her resignation from Congress?”

  “What else could it be? Like I said, she told me the lawyer was going to cover every alternative.”

  This situation was headed from bad to worse. Even if Maeve wasn’t arrested, she might want to avoid a media maelstrom concerning her involvement in Drysdale’s murder. Sidestepping the whole mess could include ditching her political career. Meg’s wisdom about working for a freshman member of Congress rang loud and clear in my brain. She’d said something akin to “opportunity of a lifetime” since I’d help “shape her political trajectory.” Unless Jack’s real killer was exposed, Maeve’s congressional career was headed in the notorious rather than noteworthy direction.

  I glanced at my iPhone and noticed a new email message. I clicked on the mail icon. Judy Talent from the Majority Leader’s office had responded to my message. Dan must have noticed my surprised reaction. “What is it? Has the news hit the press?”

  “Calm down. That’s not it. I requested a meeting with Judy Talent and she just replied to my email.”

  Dan’s voice squeaked like an adolescent’s. “Why did you do that? I told you solving this murder and clearing Maeve was your number one priority.”

  Dan’s annoying persistence had pushed my patience to the limit. “I had an ulterior motive, Dan.”

  He looked perplexed, as if I had announced the landing of aliens on the Cannon Building’s roof. Some people needed every move spelled out for them. “I used the excuse to discuss the shutdown so I could find out if she knows anything about Jack’s murder.”

  “Wow! That’s really clever of you,” Dan said with enthusiasm.

  Not really. “I’d better get cracking then. Is there anything else you’d like me to do before heading home tonight?”

  Dan shook his head. “I’ll wait to talk to Maeve, but I don’t think there’s anything else we can do. Let’s just hope the police don’t mention her involvement.”

  As far as that front went, the sands of the hourglass had almost run out. No need to worry Dan. Why soil the reality of the blissfully ignorant?

  I returned to my desk and replied to Judy’s email. She’d suggested the possibility of lunch. That would be ideal, since I’d likely get more out of Judy during a meal than a hurried office meeting. But Judy probably didn’t have a lot of time for eating these days. An idea popped into my head and I started typing Judy, how about lunch at We The Pizza at noon?

  We The Pizza was a popular Capitol Hill restaurant situated only three blocks from the Cannon Building and the Capitol. Owned by celebrity Top Chef star Spike Mendelsohn, the pizzeria offered one of the best “quick” options for lunch on the Hill. With the shutdown, the typical long lunch line would be nonexistent. We could order, grab a seat, and eat within thirty minutes.

  I was ready to shut down my computer for the night when another email popped up. Judy had answered, so I clicked on her reply. See you there. Get ready to talk shutdown solutions.

  Sure, we could do that. But we were also going to talk a litt
le murder, too. I clicked off my terminal and grabbed my purse. It was almost impossible to think about the case while stewing inside the office. I needed to clear my head and plan my next move.

  I hustled out of the office and made my way down the empty hallway toward the only Cannon Building door that remained open for egress. As I prepared to leave, I spotted a short, mousy-haired man in a Brooks Brothers suit gathering his laptop briefcase, Wall Street Journal, and smartphone from the conveyor belt that scanned all personal items brought into the congressional complex. His head was turned away as he focused on retrieving his various possessions. Even though I couldn’t see his face clearly, I knew who it was.

  “Trevor? Is that you?”

  Startled, he raised his head and peered at me from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Yep, that was Trevor. I’d recognize that stare in my sleep.

  “Kit Marshall. What a delight.”

  Trevor and I had been colleagues in the Senate for several years. We had never been friends, even though our cubicles had been right next to each other. Trevor wasn’t the most pleasant person in the world, but when Senator Langsford was murdered, he’d supported my attempt to solve the crime. Congeniality and a basic degree of human empathy eluded Trevor. Yet his intelligence and quick thinking had proven invaluable as Meg and I sorted through the suspects last summer.

  Judging by his professional appearance and expensive attire, Trevor had done well for himself. He’d accepted a position as a lobbyist for a big military contractor after the governor named Senator Langsford’s successor. “Are you still working for Carter Power?”

  Trevor straightened his tie and smoothed his suit jacket. “Yes, of course. I heard you had secured employment with the newly elected Maeve Dixon?”

  “That’s right. I’m her LD these days.” LD was Hill lingo for “legislative director.”