Philip Margolin - Capitol murder

Brad frowned. After the Farrington affair and his adventures at the Supreme Court, he wanted nothing to do with “delicate situations.”

“The Senate Select Committee on Intelligence is meeting on Monday. Jessica Koshani, a constituent, has been subpoenaed to testify. She’s flying in tonight on a private jet. I want you to pick her up at Dulles. Don’t go to the main terminal. Private planes land at their own area. Park in front and go to the waiting room. She’ll meet you there. Then you’ll take her to a house I own in Georgetown.” Carson gave Brad the address and tossed a key to him. “I’ve rented a car for you. It’s in the parking lot.”

Carson tossed Brad another key and told him where to find the car.

“Miss Koshani will be landing a little after seven. Get her settled in, then drive her to the hearing on Monday morning. We convene at nine thirty, so you’ll get her around eight thirty. Take her in the back way so no one sees her. After the hearing, you’ll drive her to the airport. Think you can handle that?”

“Sure.”

“Good.”

Carson looked down at the immigration bill, and it was clear that their business was complete.

T hrough the window in the waiting room, Brad watched the Learjet carrying Jessica Koshani taxi to a stop. Moments later, steps were lowered to the tarmac, and an elegantly dressed woman walked down them. Brad was madly in love with Ginny, but that didn’t mean he didn’t notice attractive women. Even though she was dressed simply in black pants and a light tan jacket over a white silk man-tailored shirt, and her only jewelry was a pearl necklace and two gold rings, this woman would have stood out in a room full of fashion models.

“Miss Koshani?” Brad asked, trying not to stare. The woman nodded. Brad knew Koshani had just flown to D.C. from Oregon, but she showed none of the fatigue most cross-country travelers manifested.

“I’m Brad Miller. The senator sent me.”

“Those are my bags,” she said dismissively, pointing to two large suitcases that a flight attendant had carried from the plane.

Brad hefted the bags and carried them to a black Mercedes. He opened the back door for Koshani and waited until she was settled before putting the bags in the trunk. When he got behind the wheel, he couldn’t help taking a quick peek at his passenger in the rearview mirror. Koshani was stunning. Brad felt a little guilty about getting sexually aroused, and he reminded himself that he was married to a fantastic woman. Then he remembered President Jimmy Carter’s interview in Playboy, in which he said that God forgave men for committing adultery in their hearts, and he smiled. If a little unacted-upon lust was good enough for a president, it was good enough for him.

“You are on the senator’s staff?” Koshani asked, shortly after they connected with the highway.

“Yes.”

“What do you do for him?”

“I’ve got a law degree, so most of my work has to do with analyzing bills from a legal perspective.”

“You know I am testifying before the Intelligence Committee?”

“I’m driving you on Monday.”

“What do you think the senators will ask me?”

Brad was surprised that Koshani would pump him for information. All he knew about the inquiry was what he’d learned when Koshani’s name had come up, and he wasn’t going to divulge what he’d heard.

“I don’t have any idea,” he said. “The senator is pretty tight-lipped about security matters.”

Koshani asked a few more questions. When it became obvious that she would learn nothing from Brad, she stopped, and they rode the rest of the way in silence.

The city of Georgetown was founded in 1751 and was a major port and commercial center in colonial times. It was assimilated into the District of Columbia in 1871 and was Washington’s fashion and cultural center until the capital grew and new Victorian homes and Gilded Age mansions were built closer to the centers of government. The area went into a steady decline until members of the Roosevelt administration moved there in the 1930s, and it became one of Washington’s most fashionable residential areas again after Georgetown resident John F. Kennedy became the thirty-fifth president of the United States.

Many of the homes in Georgetown’s tree-lined residential area are two-hundred-year-old row houses with beautiful gardens. The three-story house where Jessica Koshani was staying stood back from the street on a small tree-shaded lot. Brad had gotten a quick look around when he brought Koshani’s bags in from the car. The downstairs living room was furnished with elegant French Provincial furniture. The theme continued upstairs. There was a grandfather clock in the second-floor hallway and a four-poster bed in the bedroom where he had left Koshani’s valises. Brad thought the house was pretty classy.

There hadn’t been any lights on when Brad dropped off Koshani on Friday night, and there were no lights that he could see Monday morning. As he walked up the path to the front door, it dawned on him that he had been to the senator’s home in Virginia for a staff picnic shortly after he started. The house had been built at the turn of the twentieth century on several acres of farmland and was within reasonable commuting distance of the Capitol. Brad wondered why the senator also owned a second house in town. Of course, Senator Carson was rich, and he might have bought it as an investment or for out-of-town guests or just because he wanted to.

Brad rang the doorbell and waited. After a reasonable amount of time, he rang the bell again. When there was still no answer, he started to worry. Senator Carson had given him the phone number for the house in case he had to talk to Koshani for some reason, and Brad had programmed it into his cell phone. He let the number ring ten times before cutting the connection.

What to do? Brad hesitated, then grabbed the doorknob and twisted. The door opened an inch. Brad was surprised, and he held the door so that the only view of the interior was through a narrow slit. He dreaded the idea of entering the house uninvited and bumping into Koshani. How embarrassing would that be? But it was getting late.

“Miss Koshani, it’s Brad Miller, your driver,” he shouted.

When there was no response, Brad shouted a little louder before opening the door the whole way and stepping into the vestibule. He was about to call Koshani’s name again when he saw someone sitting in the middle of the living room. The curtains were drawn, and there was very little light, so he had to squint into the shadows that cloaked the room. He still couldn’t make out much.

“Miss Koshani?”

There was no answer and no movement. Brad’s heart beat faster. There was a sickening smell in the air and Brad was certain he knew what was causing it. He wanted to run out of the house, but he held his breath to keep from inhaling and forced himself to inch forward. Jessica Koshani was tied to a high-backed chair. She was naked, she was covered in blood, and there was a gag in her mouth. Hideous things had been done to her.

Brad knew he shouldn’t enter a crime scene, and he started to back out of the house when a thought stopped him. Brad leaned forward and squinted at the dead woman. What he saw made his stomach roll. He definitely wanted to run now, but he needed to know if he was right. Brad forced himself to approach Koshani’s corpse. She had been horribly mutilated. What terrified Brad was the fact that he had seen photographs of other women who had been defiled in a similar manner.

There was one more thing Brad had to see before he could leave. Koshani’s arms were secured behind her back. He circled the body, stepping around and over pools of blood that covered sections of the rug. When he was behind Koshani, Brad forced himself to look at her hands. Clarence Little had hacked off a pinkie from each of his victims to keep as a souvenir. Jessica Koshani’s right hand had only four fingers.