Capitol Murder Page 12

  Dana went upstairs. The master bedroom and its bathroom did not look as if they had been used. Neither did any of the guest rooms. Dana decided she had seen enough. She took pictures of every part of the house. Then she locked the door behind her and returned to the Rover. On the way down to the highway, Dana thought about what she had seen. She decided that either United States Senator Jack Carson had a compulsive cleaning disorder or he had not been in the cabin lately.

  During her drive from the cabin to Isolation Creek, the one-street town she’d driven through, Dana caught a weather report on the radio and learned that the pass had been hit by heavy snows. Dana filled her tank at the garage on the outskirts of town and asked the attendant to help her put on chains for the trip back to Portland. While they worked, Dana turned the conversation to Senator Carson. The attendant knew the senator from his previous visits to the cabin but said he hadn’t seen him recently.

  Dana drove into town and parked in front of the grocery store. She asked the proprietor questions about Carson while she paid for the candy bars that would fortify her during the return trip to Portland. He hadn’t seen Senator Carson since the summer, and neither had any other shopkeeper to whom she talked. There was a café with Internet access at the far end of town. While she waited for her cheeseburger, fries, and black coffee to arrive, Dana set up her laptop and e-mailed the photos she’d taken at the cabin to Exposed. Then she called Patrick Gorman.

  “Did you get the photos?” Dana asked.

  “I did.”

  “I’m in a café in Isolation Creek, the nearest town to the cabin. Most of the people I talked to know the senator. He shops in town when he’s at the cabin. No one has seen him in months. I’d bet every penny you have that no one has been in that cabin for a while.”

  “Where do you think he was?” Gorman asked.

  “Beats me, but it wasn’t here. What do you want me to do?”

  Gorman was quiet for a moment. “Send me your report, and I’ll have one of my intrepid reporters write the story.”

  “Do you want me to fly back to D.C.?”

  “Not yet. If the senator were in Oregon, he’d have left a trail. Check into a hotel in Portland and do some sleuthing. See what you can turn up.”

  “Will do.”

  The waitress carried Dana’s food to her table, and Dana rang off. She typed her report between bites, then e-mailed it. By the time she finished, the sun had begun its descent, but the snow had stopped. Dana paid the check, slipped on her gloves, and trudged toward her Range Rover. When she had the motor going and the heater cranked up, she headed west.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Dana was exhausted after the tiring drive through the storm-plagued mountains, and she slept late the next morning. After a big breakfast, she headed back to the Portland airport in a driving rain to try to find out if Senator Carson had flown in or out on a private or commercial flight when he claimed he had been in Oregon. After striking out, when she inquired at the commercial carriers, she drove over to the airfield for private planes, where the manager told Dana that information about arrivals and departures was confidential.

  Dana left the office, discouraged by her lack of progress. As she headed for her car, a heavyset, bearded man in mechanic’s overalls walked toward her. As he passed, he turned slightly and spoke to her.

  “Coffee People on the terminal concourse, twenty minutes.”

  Dana didn’t turn her head, and she knew better than to ask him to explain himself. Instead, she parked at the terminal, got a cup of black coffee at Coffee People and found a table in the middle of the food court. Ten minutes after she sat down, she saw the mechanic scanning the crowd. He spotted Dana and walked to her table, looking around nervously the whole way.

  “A friend of mine at United told me you’re asking around about Senator Carson,” he said as soon as he was seated across from Dana.

  “That’s right. My name’s Dana Cutler, and you are . . . ?”

  “That’s not important. You’re with Exposed, right? Not some legit paper like the New York Times?”

  Dana’s initial reaction to the insult was to tense, but there was really no easy way to defend the legitimacy of a paper whose most recent headline was I GAVE BIRTH TO SADDAM HUSSEIN’S LOVE CHILD, so she just nodded.

  “Good, because I read that the Times don’t pay for information.”

  “What kind of information are we talking about?”

  “You want to know if Senator Carson was in Oregon when that lady was killed in his town house. I can answer your question for a hundred bucks.”

  “I’ll give you fifty.”

  “My price is nonnegotiable, lady. One hundred dollars, or you can keep guessing.”

  Dana didn’t want to waste time arguing, so she laid five twenties on the table and covered them with her hand. It was Pat Gorman’s money, anyway.

  “Was Senator Jack Carson in Oregon on the Sunday Jessica Koshani was killed?” she asked.

  “I saw him get off his private jet Sunday afternoon.”

  “How do you know it was Carson?”

  “He flies commercial when he’s looking for votes, but I’ve worked on his plane enough to know what he looks like.”

  “And you definitely saw him?”

  “Yeah, but just a snatch. What attracted my attention was the hoodie. He was wearing nice slacks, but he was also wearing a gray sweatshirt with a hood.”

  “Do you remember anything else?”

  “There was a black guy with him, and a town car was waiting on the tarmac. The black guy hustled him inside. It drove off right away.”

  “If he was wearing a hood, how did you see him?”

  “The hood fell back when he was walking down the steps. I was with the refueling crew, and I was near enough to look him in the eye. And that’s what I know.”

  “Do you have any idea where the car went?”

  “Nope.”

  “What time did the plane land?”

  “That I can tell you. It touched down a little after five P.M.”

  “Can you describe the black man who helped Carson out of the plane?”

  The man thought for a second. Then he nodded.

  “He had a shaved head, and he sort of looked like a football player. Not a lineman, a cornerback.”

  Dana couldn’t think of anything more to ask, so she slid the money across the table. The mechanic palmed the bills and slipped them into his pocket.

  “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you,” he said. Then he looked around the food court and left. While he walked away, Dana debated whether to believe his story and decided that he was probably telling the truth. Jack Carson had been in Oregon, but not at his cabin. So where had he been?

  Dana drove from the airport to the senator’s Portland office, then to his campaign headquarters. None of the staff in either place admitted seeing Carson during the period he claimed he was in Oregon.

  An old friend from Gorman’s college days covered politics for the Oregonian. Dana treated him to dinner and learned a lot about Gorman’s college carousing but nothing about the senator that she could use for her story. Frustrated, she returned to her hotel, watched an in-room movie, and went to sleep.

  The next morning, Dana’s cell phone rang just as she was getting ready to take a shower.

  “What’s up, Pat?” Dana asked.

  “Turn on CNN.”

  As Dana switched on the TV, Gorman told her that Exposed had put out a special edition with a headline that read WHERE WAS SENATOR CARSON HIDING? with a subhead that read NO PROOF SENATOR WAS IN CABIN and a story based on her investigation. When she found CNN, she saw Jack Carson standing behind a podium with his wife by his side. Neither was smiling.

  “I have always believed in the adage that honesty is the best policy, but I stand here today to tell you that I was not honest with my wife, my constituents, or the American people when I stood here a few days ago and said that I had been at my mountain cabin in Oregon during the
days I was missing.”

  “Your story flushed him out,” Gorman said. “Good work.”

  On the screen, Carson’s eyes dropped. When they returned to the camera, he looked tormented.

  “I was in Oregon, but I am ashamed to say that what I did there dishonored my wife and our marriage.”

  Carson took a deep breath. “None of this is Martha’s fault. I take full responsibility. Martha has been a wonderful wife and a full partner in my political life, and there is no excuse for what I did.”

  The senator looked down again and paused before resuming.

  “Over the years, the American people have heard the sordid tale of one politician after another who has soiled his marriage with an unseemly affair. I am thoroughly ashamed to say that I have become a tired cliché. Some months ago, I spent one night with a woman. I have no excuses to make. The fault is mine alone, and I regretted my betrayal of my marriage vows immediately after I committed this unpardonable sin. I also made it a point to stay away from the innocent partner in my terrible mistake after that single night.

  “The woman in question assumed that there was more to it than I did, and I can’t blame her. She called me repeatedly. I did not answer her calls. The day before I disappeared, she left a message with Lucas Sharp, my chief of staff, saying that she would go to the press if I continued to ignore her. Mr. Sharp was not aware that I had strayed, and he confronted me. We decided that the best way to end the confusion was for me to fly to Oregon and talk to this woman. And that is what I did.

  “The two of us had a heart-to-heart. I explained that I loved my wife and regretted what I had done. She was very understanding. When I returned to Washington, I confessed my infidelity to Martha. She has forgiven me. I would not have blamed her if she didn’t, but our marriage has always been strong, and I truly believe we will weather this storm. Thank you.”

  “Who is the woman?” a reporter shouted as the senator turned to leave. Carson turned back to the microphone.

  “In the past, the women who have been named in these situations have been smeared and held up to ridicule. This is my fault and I have promised this woman that I would not reveal her identity. I stand by that promise. The relationship lasted one night, and it was over by the next day. I see no reason other than prurient interest for the press to drag her through the mud. Thank you again.”

  The senator left the podium, and the talking heads started to dissect him like hyenas tearing at fallen prey. Dana switched off the set.

  “The plot thickens,” Gorman said.

  “It’s an old and tired plot that’s been done to death, Pat. If you tried to sell the story to a book publisher, no self-respecting editor would buy it.”

  “You forget that I have no self-respect, Miss Cutler. If I did, I’d have sold Exposed years ago.”

  Dana sighed. “What do you want me to do, as if I can’t guess?”

  “I want you to get me an interview with Carson’s paramour.”

  Dana went back to the senator’s Portland office and his campaign headquarters, but no one would talk to her. Next she called up the reporter from the Oregonian. He said he didn’t know any more than she did. He was also honest enough to admit that he wasn’t going to share any information he dug up if there was any risk that Dana might scoop him.

  After a thoroughly depressing day, Dana returned to her hotel and ordered room service. She had just tipped the waiter when her room phone rang. Dana was intrigued. She’d given everyone she talked to her cell phone number, and that was the number Gorman would call.

  “Yes?” she answered.

  “Dana Cutler?” the caller asked. Dana didn’t recognize the voice, and it sounded as though the caller was disguising it.

  “Speaking.”

  “Dorothy Crispin.”

  “What?”

  “The girl the senator screwed. She’s a law student, and she has an apartment at 1276 Southwest Spruce Terrace.”

  “How do you . . . ?” Dana started, but the line was dead.

  Dana hung up the phone and sat back in her chair. She’d just gotten a real break, if Dorothy Crispin was Carson’s lover, but who had given her the information, and why?

  Dana checked her watch. It was eight thirty, not too late. She pulled on her trainers, checked her guns to make sure they were loaded, and left her hotel room.

  Dorothy Crispin lived in John’s Landing, a section of the city near the Willamette River where town houses and apartments filled in the gaps between older homes. Spruce Terrace wound its way from Corbett Avenue up a hill until it dead-ended in a cluster of garden apartments. The entrance to Crispin’s apartment was at the end of a short alley. Dana rang her bell and waited. She could see lights through a side window, and she rang again when no one answered. This time she heard footsteps, and a timid voice asked her to identify herself.

  “Dana Cutler, Miss Crispin. I’d like to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “We both know the answer to that. It was only a matter of time before someone figured out that you’re Senator Carson’s mystery woman. Fortunately for you, I’m not out to humiliate you. I just want to talk, and I promise to present your story in a dignified manner.”

  “Please, I don’t want to discuss Senator Carson.”

  “You’re not going to have a choice when someone else digs up your name. The next time someone knocks on your door, they’ll have a cameraman and a lighting crew, and they won’t be anywhere near as nice I intend to be. Talking to me will give you a chance to shape the way this story plays.”

  Dana gave Crispin time to think. A minute later, locks snapped, and the door opened. Dana found herself facing a brunette with shoulder-length hair, bright blue eyes, and a turned-up nose who managed to look cute even though she wasn’t wearing makeup and was dressed in a University of Oregon sweatshirt, sweat socks, and a pair of plain gray sweatpants. Dana stepped inside. Crispin checked outside for more intruders, then shut the door.

  The living room had a picture window with a panoramic view of the river and the lights of downtown Portland. It was furnished with tasteful, inexpensive furniture. Framed reproductions of famous Impressionist paintings hung on the walls. The only clutter was caused by thick textbooks that were stacked on a glass-top coffee table next to an open laptop.

  “What year?” Dana asked as she pointed at the books.

  “My second. Look, is there any way you can give me a break? I won’t be able to go to class if this comes out. And I can kiss any chance of getting a decent job good-bye.”

  “What did you think would happen if the senator divorced his wife for you?” Dana asked, choosing to make her tone kind instead of cruel.

  Crispin looked down at the hardwood floor. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Look, Dorothy, I’m not here to ruin you. You and Carson both made a mistake. That’s the way he’s playing it, and he’s painted you as the victim. He’s a lot older than you. He’s a rich and powerful man. Everyone is going to see you as the wronged party. Tell me that’s an accurate picture of the way this happened, and I’ll make sure that’s the first impression everyone has.”

  Crispin looked conflicted. “Who did you say you’re with?”

  Dana handed her a business card.

  “Oh, shit. Exposed is one of those supermarket rags.”

  Dana laughed. “You hit the nail right on the head. But we’ve also won a Pulitzer and been nominated for a second for some pretty serious journalism. We used to be a joke, but we’re starting to be taken seriously.”

  Crispin ran a hand across her forehead. She looked like a martyr on the way to her crucifixion. Then she sighed.

  “Let’s get this over with.” She pointed at the sofa. “Do you want some coffee or tea?”

  Dana smiled. “Thanks. Coffee would be great. If you feel like a stiff shot of whiskey I promise your beverage of choice won’t make it into the story.”

  Crispin smiled ruefully. “Tempting, but I’m going to do this sober.”
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  “What do you want to know?” Crispin asked when she returned with two cups of coffee.

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened between you and the senator?”

  “I feel so stupid. I met him at a campaign event, and we talked for a while. He seemed interested in what I had to say about legislation for funding Portland’s light rail. When he found out I was a law student, he hinted at a possible internship. Before he moved on, he gave me his card and told me to call. And I did. I mean, a job in D.C. It sounded so exciting, and I haven’t traveled a lot.”

  “What happened?”

  “He said he was going to be in Portland in two weeks. He told me that he had very little free time and suggested that we get together for a late dinner.”

  “Weren’t you suspicious?”

  “No, he made it sound like a job interview.”

  “But it wasn’t?”

  “No, no, it was at first. We met at Jake’s. He had a booth in the back. It was a place where we couldn’t be seen while we were eating. Over dinner he was a perfect gentleman, but he did feed me drinks.”

  Crispin blushed. “I should have seen what was coming when he started telling me that I was a breath of fresh air and hinted at a job after I graduated. Then he said he was enjoying our conversation so much that we should continue our talk in his hotel room.”

  “Carson lives in Portland. There’s no reason for him to stay in a hotel.”

  “I didn’t know where he lived. I was also pretty naive. And maybe I wanted something to happen. My grades are decent, but I’m not near the top of my class. A job in the Senate would open a lot of doors.”

  “So you went into this with open eyes?”

  “Half open.” Crispin shrugged.

  “What happened next?”

  Crispin blushed. “We . . . we slept together. When we were done, Jack said all the right things, and I went home.”