Read Online Poisoned Politics by Maggie Sefton - Free Book Online

6:20. At precisely 6:33, Samantha appeared at the front door, pausing to key in her code, and entered. “And there I am,” she said in a soft voice. She stopped advancing the video. “And I don’t leave. The next people to appear at the door are the Fairfax County Police.” She released the tail-less mouse and sank back in her desk chair.
    I stared at the lingering video screen shot showing Samantha’s empty front porch. “You’ll take this video to your lawyer this morning, I trust.”
    â€œOh, yes. I left a message on his personal voice mail telling him that I’d drop by with the video.” She reached for the mouse again and began to reverse the video. “I’ll make sure to show him the exact same sections we’ve looked at and see what his reaction is.”
    I watched the images go backwards. “Plus, he can show the delivery man to the police. That way, you stay out of it.”
    â€œMy thoughts exactly.”
    I reached for my forgotten cup of coffee. Half-full and stone-cold now. I took a sip anyway. Glancing toward the screen, I noticed a quick image flash by. It looked like a man. “Wait a minute.” I pointed to the screen. “I just saw another guy on your porch. Go forward again.”
    â€œProbably some delivery man. They come by regularly,” she said as the images moved forward, more slowly this time.
    â€œStop right there at 4:15. Let it play,” I said and pointed at the screen again as the image of a man appeared, walking up to Samantha’s front door. There was something in his hand. “See, he’s carrying something. It looks like a mailing envelope. Same color.”
    Samantha peered at the screen. “Yeah, it does.”
    The man looked around the front porch, looked behind him, then glanced above the front door. He paused long enough to stare right into Samantha’s surveillance camera.
    â€œThat’s a young guy,” I said. “And he’s not wearing a uniform, just street clothes. He doesn’t look like a delivery man.”
    Samantha’s eyes narrowed. “No, he doesn’t.”
    The young guy leaned over and placed the mailing envelope beside the front door, then glanced around again before he walked away—out of camera range.
    I’d also noticed something else. “He didn’t ring the doorbell, Samantha, and he didn’t knock. Are you sure you didn’t ask someone to drop something off at your house?”
    â€œNo, I didn’t. But I know who did. Dammit! ”
    Her sudden anger took me by surprise. “Who?”
    â€œQuentin! That guy has to be the one who supplied Quent with his pills. He said he used some young staffer who worked at the Congressional Research Service. His uncle’s an internist and filled the prescriptions. Quent said the guy delivered them to his house, and Quent paid him in cash.”
    â€œ What! I cannot believe Wilson would take such a risk. That was definitely not smart.”
    â€œI know, I know.” She shook her head. “I told Quent the same thing, but he insisted he needed the pills.”
    â€œWouldn’t his doctor supply him with sleeping pills?”
    Samantha released a long sigh. “It was more than that. Quentin also took Vicodin occasionally, and his doctor would only prescribe a little of that.”
    I closed my eyes. I had heard this story before. Too many times. Opiate-based painkillers. Blessed relief from pain for some. A dangerous path for others.
    â€œOh, God … how often did he take them?”
    â€œHe’d use Vicodin sometimes when he was really having problems sleeping. Certainly not all the time. At least not when he was with me. He kept the pills in his briefcase, so who knows?” She stared at the screen sadly. “He told me he tried to be careful.”
    I watched as Samantha reversed the video once more. Checking my watch, I computed how long it would take me to get