Murder at Union Station

THREE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Like most professional bartenders, Bob McIntyre was adept at doing and hearing many things at once-mixing drinks while taking in conversation at his small bar, and listening to the latest news from CNN that played on a plasma screen TV behind the bar. He mixed martinis, stirred not shaken, heard the CNN anchor report on news breaking in the Middle East, and listened to the arguments in progress between members of the Capitol View Restaurant’s luncheon club, where congressional staffers and mid-level executives paid fifty dollars a month for the privilege of having lunch at the restaurant, on the roof level of the Hyatt Regency Hotel on Capitol Hill.

McIntyre placed two frosted, stemmed glasses containing gin and vermouth on the bar in front of Geoff Lowe and a portly man named Rex, who managed a branch of the Riggs Bank. They were discussing President Parmele’s recent speech in which he opened the door to the possibility of raising taxes to bring a ballooning deficit under control.

“Can you believe it?” Lowe snarled, sipping his drink. “Can you friggin’ believe it? He wants to raise taxes so there’s more money for the government to spend on Democrat giveaway programs.”

The bank manager laughed heartily. “Raisin’ taxes when you’re runnin’ for a second term is pretty damn dumb, even for a politician.”

“At least he didn’t come up with ‘read my lips’ BS,” a Parmele defender said from the end of the bar. “At least he’s honest.”

Rex turned to McIntyre, who was pouring red wine into a glass. “What do you think, Bobby?” he asked the veteran barman.

“Well, balancing the budget’s a good thing,” McIntyre replied. “Wish I could balance my own. On the other hand, nobody wants to pay more taxes.”

Smooth. He was good at seeing both sides-or at least sounding as though he did. What he thought privately about Washington ’s major and sometimes seemingly only topic of conversation was another matter, reserved for discussion with regulars later at night who wouldn’t comment on his views with the size of their tips. At lunch, there were certain members whose beliefs were so set in stone that a mild challenge, even when their opinions were based upon shaky facts, was akin to spitting in their drinks. Lowe was one of those, his strident viewpoints mirroring those of his graying, crusty, outspoken boss, Karl Widmer, the senior senator from Alaska.

McIntyre glanced at Ellen Kelly, who’d turned from the conversation to speak with a woman, a House staffer from Mississippi, about a less volatile but no less provocative topic-the sexual scandal du jour.

How could a nice, pretty, polite young woman like Ellen put up with Lowe’s bellicosity? McIntyre wondered. Did he yap away about politics in bed? Probably.

“Another martooni, Geoff?” McIntyre asked, noting the empty glass.

“No can do, Bobby,” Lowe said. “Can’t afford to nod off during one of the old man’s speeches this afternoon.” He laughed. “At least not before he does.” His moment of levity was fleeting; he returned to his condemnation of the sitting president and dragged a reluctant Ellen Kelly back into the conversation. McIntyre smiled to himself as he watched the young woman with the curly red hair, the large green eyes, and a splatter of freckles across her nose and upper cheeks enter into the discussions, which by now included others at the bar and one or two nearby tables. It was impossible to know whose political views prevailed on any given day, although the anti-Parmele Republicans tended to talk louder and use more vitriolic language than their Democratic counterparts. If noise levels dictated a winner, Geoff Lowe and his supporters usually carried the day.

Lowe and Kelly brought plates from the buffet to the bar and ate there. McIntyre continued to mix drinks for those at the bar and to fill orders brought by the waitress, Mei, who was as adroit as McIntyre at sidestepping attempts to engage. The lavishly appointed room offered a stunning view of the domed Capitol, but not much of what was new in politics, where not much was ever new. His practiced ears picked up on what his wards were saying, particularly Lowe, who pontificated on why Parmele would fail in his bid for a second term. “I’m telling you,” he told a Democratic staffer from the Hill who’d joined the knot of people at the bar, “Parmele’s got plenty of skeletons in his closet, and Widmer knows what they are and where they are.” To Ellen: “Am I right, Ellen?”

She nodded and finished the Maryland crab cake she’d carried from the buffet.

Ellen Kelly had been working for Senator Widmer for less than a year; Lowe had been with the Alaska pol for seven. While she basically shared Lowe’s right-wing views of politics, she would never be, could never be, as strident as he and their boss, Senator Widmer, were in defense of them. Although she’d majored in political science at Georgetown University, for her, politics had never reached the level of passion. She’d sought a job on Capitol Hill following graduation and was recommended to Geoff Lowe by a mutual friend. He hired her almost immediately following a cursory interview, partially because her educational record at Georgetown was solid, more because he loved her looks. Their relationship commenced during her second month on the job. It wasn’t as though she’d fallen for him, at least not in the classic way. Physically he wasn’t her type, nor was he particularly attentive or loving, although he was capable of performing thoughtful acts from time to time-flowers without an occasion to prompt them, a surprise dinner out, an endearing comment now and then. The attraction was, she eventually decided when allowing retrospective thoughts to intrude upon her busy days and nights, Geoff’s dynamism, and the clout he possessed by virtue of his boss’s powerful position in the Senate. It wasn’t a forever relationship, she knew. It simply had come about and would run its course.

Lowe’s cell phone rang. It wasn’t always easy to know whose cell phone was ringing, for so many went off throughout lunch. Lowe had programmed his ring to play “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” which created a unique signature tone. Unless, of course, someone else did the same.

“Yeah?” Lowe turned away from the group and placed a finger in the ear opposite the one against which the small phone was pressed. Ellen watched as he squinted, as though that would help him hear better. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Rich.”

He snapped the phone shut and gave Ellen a thumbs-up. “Got to go,” he announced to the others at the bar, standing and motioning for Ellen to join him. She looked at him quizzically. “No sweat,” he said as they walked to the door. “Everything’s on track.”