the shoulder holster beneath my jacket. “You're not planning to—”
“No, no. Not to worry. Just after information.”
“Huh. I suppose I should've known better than to get my hopes up. You know how much it costs us to heat this place?”
“What kind of work do you do, Mr. Paitley?”
“I'm a lobbyist for a human rights group here in Washington.”
“Bill, you okay down there?” Another man's voice carried down the hall from the upstairs.
“Fine. Everything's fine,” Bill hollered back.
That explained the two cars in the driveway and the second set of men's boots.
“Just what kind of information are you after, Mr. Pavlicek?”
I set the blue bottle down on a coffee table coaster in front of me. “Are you familiar with Torrin Drummond?”
“The congressman? Why, yes, of course. I heard something on the news about him this morning, in fact. Isn't one of his daughters missing or something?”
“That's right.”
“Are you working for the congressman? You could've just told me that in your E-mail.”
“No. Let's just say I represent other members of the family.”
He raised an eyebrow, then gave a shrug. “What is it you want from me?”
“Cartwright Drummond is the daughter who is missing. These were found in her suitcase when she got back from Japan.” I reached inside my jacket pocket, pulled out copies of the two old newspaper articles, and handed them across to him.
He scanned both of them quickly. “These are from the Post. About my parents’ accident.”
I nodded. “Doesn't sound much like an accident to me.”
He sighed. “I know. That's what the Metro police thought at first too, but after several months of investigation they concluded that the garbage truck must have been some wildcatter from out of town. Probably alcohol-related. Hit-and-run.”
“Even if that's true, it's still manslaughter. Wouldn't you like to find out who's responsible for your parents’ deaths?”
“Of course I would.”
“Why would Cartwright Drummond be carrying these articles around in her suitcase?”
“I have no idea.” He scratched his beard again. “Wait a minute—I just thought of something. Hang on a sec.”
He disappeared around a corner, and I heard him climbing the stairs to the second floor. I took another sip of my water.
A couple of minutes later he was back, carrying an old photo album. “I was right,” he said. “I thought I remembered seeing this a long time ago.”
He held the album open for me to look for myself. There on one of the pages was a color photo of an elderly couple standing arm in arm with a smiling, much younger Tor Drummond. They were under a large outdoor tent, obviously at some sort of event. Paitley took the album back and pulled the photo out of its sleeve.
“You know when that photo was taken?”
“There's a date on one of the other pictures on the same page, maybe from the same roll. It says August 1982,” he said.
“1982. The same year your parents died.”
He nodded.
“It was also the year of Drummond's first congressional campaign.”
“If you say so.”
“What did your parents have to do with Tor Drummond?”
“I don't know. Maybe they contributed money or something?”
“Can I keep the photo?”
He thought about it. “I'll tell you what. I've got a scanner on the computer in the kitchen. I'll just print you out a copy.”
“Okay.”
He disappeared again. On one of the bookshelves I noticed a small picture of him with his parents. This room, the entire house, had an old feeling about it, as if they were caught in some sort of time warp.
“Here you go.” He came back into the room carrying the copy, a laser-printed facsimile almost as good as the original.
“Thank you very much,” I said.
“Do you think my parents’ association with Drummond might've had something to do with their accident?”
“I don't know,” I said. “Maybe it did. Either way, it certainly looks like someone may have wanted Cartwright
“No, no. Not to worry. Just after information.”
“Huh. I suppose I should've known better than to get my hopes up. You know how much it costs us to heat this place?”
“What kind of work do you do, Mr. Paitley?”
“I'm a lobbyist for a human rights group here in Washington.”
“Bill, you okay down there?” Another man's voice carried down the hall from the upstairs.
“Fine. Everything's fine,” Bill hollered back.
That explained the two cars in the driveway and the second set of men's boots.
“Just what kind of information are you after, Mr. Pavlicek?”
I set the blue bottle down on a coffee table coaster in front of me. “Are you familiar with Torrin Drummond?”
“The congressman? Why, yes, of course. I heard something on the news about him this morning, in fact. Isn't one of his daughters missing or something?”
“That's right.”
“Are you working for the congressman? You could've just told me that in your E-mail.”
“No. Let's just say I represent other members of the family.”
He raised an eyebrow, then gave a shrug. “What is it you want from me?”
“Cartwright Drummond is the daughter who is missing. These were found in her suitcase when she got back from Japan.” I reached inside my jacket pocket, pulled out copies of the two old newspaper articles, and handed them across to him.
He scanned both of them quickly. “These are from the Post. About my parents’ accident.”
I nodded. “Doesn't sound much like an accident to me.”
He sighed. “I know. That's what the Metro police thought at first too, but after several months of investigation they concluded that the garbage truck must have been some wildcatter from out of town. Probably alcohol-related. Hit-and-run.”
“Even if that's true, it's still manslaughter. Wouldn't you like to find out who's responsible for your parents’ deaths?”
“Of course I would.”
“Why would Cartwright Drummond be carrying these articles around in her suitcase?”
“I have no idea.” He scratched his beard again. “Wait a minute—I just thought of something. Hang on a sec.”
He disappeared around a corner, and I heard him climbing the stairs to the second floor. I took another sip of my water.
A couple of minutes later he was back, carrying an old photo album. “I was right,” he said. “I thought I remembered seeing this a long time ago.”
He held the album open for me to look for myself. There on one of the pages was a color photo of an elderly couple standing arm in arm with a smiling, much younger Tor Drummond. They were under a large outdoor tent, obviously at some sort of event. Paitley took the album back and pulled the photo out of its sleeve.
“You know when that photo was taken?”
“There's a date on one of the other pictures on the same page, maybe from the same roll. It says August 1982,” he said.
“1982. The same year your parents died.”
He nodded.
“It was also the year of Drummond's first congressional campaign.”
“If you say so.”
“What did your parents have to do with Tor Drummond?”
“I don't know. Maybe they contributed money or something?”
“Can I keep the photo?”
He thought about it. “I'll tell you what. I've got a scanner on the computer in the kitchen. I'll just print you out a copy.”
“Okay.”
He disappeared again. On one of the bookshelves I noticed a small picture of him with his parents. This room, the entire house, had an old feeling about it, as if they were caught in some sort of time warp.
“Here you go.” He came back into the room carrying the copy, a laser-printed facsimile almost as good as the original.
“Thank you very much,” I said.
“Do you think my parents’ association with Drummond might've had something to do with their accident?”
“I don't know,” I said. “Maybe it did. Either way, it certainly looks like someone may have wanted Cartwright
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