Murder on Capitol Hill Read Free

unregistered lobbyist—“unregistered whore” was actually what he’d said. Clarence had strong opinions.
    “Hello, Jason,” she now said. “You look… well.”
    Eyebrows arched. “Actually I haven’t been feeling all that well, Lydia. I suspect I’m terminal.”
    “I’m very sorry to hear that,” she said with a straight face. Jason extended his hand to Foster-Sims, who seemed to examine it before shaking. “Let’s
go
,” he said to Lydia.
    She nodded. “Well, see you soon, Veronica, and my best to Cale.”
    “I’ll tell him if I ever see him. Being married to a United States senator is no bed of roses, or petuniasfor that matter… By the way, Lydia, you will be at Cale’s testimonial, won’t you?”
    “Of course.”
    “You, too, Clarence?”
    “I wouldn’t miss it.” Unless he could figure out an excuse, which he doubted.
    Lydia and Clarence went to a bar in the Hotel Madison where they ordered brandy—Hennessy for him, Rémy Martin for her. The bar was virtually empty as they settled into a corner booth, sipped from their snifters.
    Lydia broke the brief silence. “I felt sorry for Veronica tonight, Clarence.”
    “Why?”
    “Oh, I don’t know. I like her very much, always have. She’s been through so much, in spite of her money and marriage and success. I always sense a kind of sadness in her.”
    “I guess… but I find it hard to get too worked up about it.”
    She forgave him that. Beneath his gruff cynical hide was a warm, caring man with a will of iron, but a limited tolerance for fools and pompous asses, of which Washington had more than its share. He was also frighteningly no-nonsense about himself.
    Four years earlier he had decided that he’d wasted his life since the age of four playing the piano. He made up his mind never again to lift the lid of his Steinway, and had obviously stuck to it, no matter how drunk he might have been when making the pledge. But he’d been an inspired teacher, and many of his pupils had gone on to impressive careers. He’dsimply decided that he didn’t have concert talent, and teaching others who had it was the best he could do. She respected, admired him, and maybe was a little in love with him. She wasn’t sure…
    A man at the bar openly admired her, which she told herself was standard operating procedure for most men at bars, especially after too many drinks. Still, she didn’t dismiss it. Lydia had just turned forty. She’d been married once, but that was when she was twenty-one. It had lasted two years. She’d met her husband in music school, where he was a promising string player.
    Actually, she rather liked the way she looked, realizing that she’d been blessed with good genes that provided a tall, supple, full female body that she kept in condition through a regular exercise regime—nothing fanatical, just consistent.
    Lydia and Clarence shared a Scottish heritage. Her bloodline went back to Inverness, his to the more southerly Edinburgh. No one ever doubted that he was a Scot, with his fair skin. She, on the other hand, was surprisingly dark, and was taken for Jewish or Italian at times. Her hair was a thick, black mane, and there was a duskiness to her complexion that came from the French ancestry in her family.
    She took another sip of her brandy. “Know what I’d like to do, Clarence? Hear some jazz.” She’d developed an interest in jazz years ago and had become an avid record collector. She’d tried to convince Veronica Caldwell that jazz was America’s only true art form and that it deserved time in the art center’s performing schedule, but Veronica was a slow convert.“Come on, Monty Alexander is playing at Blues Alley.”
    And so they went to the jazz club in Georgetown and took in a full set before he delivered her to the nearby brownstone she’d purchased four years earlier.
    “Coming in?” she asked.
    “Well, my back is acting up and—”
    “Oh shut up and get in here.”
    “Ah, modern woman.” And