Deadly Politics Read Online Free Page A

conversation—or a conversion—short.
    Then Mike weighed in. “Molly, may I remind you of your promise made only minutes ago?” He folded his arms across his chest. “When I suggested job-hunting down I-95, traffic and all, your reply was, ‘I’ll do whatever it takes.’”
    Damn . I had said that, hadn’t I? Trapped by my own words. I hated it when that happened. I looked around at the triumphant grins surrounding me and threw in the towel.
    _____
    The closet was stuffy and hot. He was sweating beneath his Gore-tex jacket and pants. His cotton tee shirt clung to his skin.
    C’mon, old man. Get outta the john and go to bed.
    He pulled back the edge of his leather glove and checked his watch. 11:32. Later than anticipated. Where had the old fart been tonight?
    Running water sounded and a toilet flushed. Then a cough, deep and congested, the rattle of long-ago smoking still audible. The bathroom light flicked off.
    At last. He peered through the slanted louvers of the closet door, watching the elderly man in pajamas walk toward his king-sized bed. The flickering light of the television was the only illumination in the room, throwing odd shadows across the walls.
    The elderly man threw back the quilted covers and climbed into bed, then pulled the comforter to his waist. A tired sigh escaped as he settled back onto the pillows.
    That’s it. Relax, watch the news, close your eyes, and go to sleep.
    He checked his watch again and deliberately counted ten minutes go by. Time enough . He pushed the slightly ajar closet door open and stepped into the darkened bedroom. Slowly approaching the bed, he paused and watched the old man’s breathing. Slow and even. He drew to the edge of the bed and reached across.
    Suddenly the old man opened his eyes and blinked up in surprise. “Who … who the hell are you?”
    â€œNo one you’d know, Senator,” he said in a quiet voice. Then lithe as a cat, he sprang upon the bed, straddling the surprised old man. He had the bed pillow over the senator’s face before the old man could call out to the sleeping housekeeper below.
    The senator struggled frantically, his arms flailing, his whole body writhing beneath his attacker. But his fingers slid down the slick jacket, unable to grab hold. Just as his cries were muffled. Smothered beneath fifteen hundred thread count Egyptian cotton. Within a short time, the old man’s struggles ceased.
    He lifted the pillow and checked for a pulse. There was none. An already weakened heart had helped finish the job. He climbed off the bed and returned the pillow beneath the senator’s head, then straightened the bedcovers.
    There shouldn’t be any questions. Not with the old man’s bad heart. Everyone will assume he died in his sleep. Odds were good that whatever D.C. cop showed up to investigate wouldn’t even work homicide.
    He paused at the bedroom doorway and glanced back once, checking the room again. The old man looked positively peaceful. Then he slipped down the stairs, pausing only to enter the security code before he quietly left through the front door. The same way he came in.

Two
    â€œI’m going to gamble and double-park for a few minutes,” Karen said as she switched off the ignition of her Honda sedan and opened the door.
    I exited the passenger side and surveyed the narrow residential street in front of Senator Russell’s Georgetown home. “The parking looks as bad as I remember.”
    â€œPretty much. Fines are steeper, too,” Karen agreed as we crossed the sidewalk leading to the senator’s impressive white brick mansion, which rose behind tall brick walls bordering the property.
    I followed behind Karen, nervously smoothing my black suit pants and jacket, arranging the collar of my white silk blouse. I’d decided to go with the sober, serious interview suit. Suitable for serious accounting positions or funeral directors. This