Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [75]
“I know.”
“Do you also know why he hasn’t returned Joe’s calls?”
“Ms. Blackburn, Craig is out of the country and probably will be for some time.”
“He told me he had a story for Joe, something to do with the murder of a man from the Canadian embassy.”
“Jeremy Wilcox.”
“That’s right. You knew him?”
“Yes, quite well.”
Roseann hesitated, thought for a moment, then asked, “Do you know the story Craig Thomas was going to tell Joe?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll call him and have him come here.”
“No, not here, Ms. Blackburn. Could I meet him someplace private and quiet, where we can really talk?”
“How about my apartment? We have a dog but—”
“I get along quite well with dogs.”
“Will you stay until I finish the next set? It’s my last. Forty-five minutes.”
“Of course. ‘You Must Believe in Spring’?”
“My first song.”
Roseann took a detour to a pay phone outside the ladies’ room.
“I’ll be right over,” Joe said.
“No, Joe, she doesn’t want to meet here. I’m bringing her back to the apartment.”
“You sure she won’t take off?”
“Not likely, Joe. She really wants to talk with you. She drinks white wine. Why don’t you buy some before we get there.”
“What are we having, a party? You want caviar and pâté, too?”
“Absolutely. We never have caviar. Be there in an hour.”
Chapter 27
That Same Night
Washington, DC
“Jessica, it’s Annabel.”
“Hi.”
“Interrupting anything important?”
“Just getting my gear ready for the trip.”
“What trip?”
“Canada. This weekend. My bird-watching group. The annual trek into the wilds in search of Lanius excubitor, among others.”
“I always wondered what happened to them,” Annabel said, unable to stifle a giggle.
“Better known as the northern shrike,” Jessica said, not offended. “People confuse it with a mockingbird but it has a facial mask, and a heavy, hooked bill. We’re only going for three days.”
“Feel like some dinner? Mac and I decided to abandon the kitchen and eat out. Join us?”
“Love to, Annie, but too much to do. Between work and getting ready for the trip, I don’t seem to have time to breathe, let alone have a leisurely dinner with friends. Rain check when I get back?”
“Sure. Has your gentleman friend returned yet?”
“No, and just as well. He views me and my bird-watching friends as a little kooky.” There was silence on the other end. “Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Think we’re kooky?”
“Of course not. I get as excited over a Teotihuacán urn as you do over a… what was that loggerhead bird you mentioned? Sounds like the official bird of Congress.”
“Lanius excubitor. A northern shrike.”
“Right. A northern shrike.”
“Teoti—?”
“Teotihuacán. A Mexican culture. Some wonderful pre-Columbian art was created by them. I’ll let you go. Have a great trip, Jess, see lots of rare birds.”
“Thanks. It’ll be good to get away from the insanity around here.”
Annabel hung up and turned on the TV news. The downing of the three commuter aircraft continued to dominate, although other world events had forced the networks and all-news cable channels to find time to cover them, too. With official information about the investigation virtually nonexistent, speculation was the basis for newscast after newscast, and news-oriented talk shows. And the Internet had spawned hundreds of web sites and chat rooms in which the wildest rumors and theories made the rounds, some ending up as fodder for the fact-starved mainstream press. Without anything solid to report, the media and repetition and speculation fueled the national paranoia, and a growing sense that the White House, CIA, Pentagon, FBI, Justice Department, and every other agency charged with bringing the terrorists to justice weren’t up to the task. One report claimed that Secretary of State Rock was in Russia laying the groundwork for a declaration of war against the former Soviet Union, according to “reliable sources.” Other “reliable sources” pointed the finger at Iraq, Iran, Pakistan, China, or domestic hate groups such as Aryan Nations, the Silent Brotherhood—the list went on and on.
“We’ve learned on good authority that…” Annabel turned