Murder in Foggy Bottom by Margaret Truman

case in the early stages of such an investigation, unsubstantiated rumors are floated, and unsupported conclusions are reached before the facts are brought to light. Every lead, no matter how seemingly insignificant, will be examined, and every avenue of investigation, involving every appropriate investigatory agency, will be pursued.
    “Thank you.”
    Reporters hurled a barrage of questions as the director stepped away from the mikes. His place was taken by a public affairs spokesman: “Please understand that because the investigation is in such an early stage, it would be inappropriate to attempt to answer your questions at this time.”
    One especially loud reporter shouted, “Why is the FBI holding this press conference and not the NTSB?”
    The Bureau spokesman stopped, turned, seemed about to reply, then left the platform, trailed by a cacophony of other questions.
    Jessica snapped off the set. The answer was obvious: It must have already been established that criminal acts were involved in the plane crashes. That put the Bureau squarely in charge.
    She went to the living room, stretched out on the couch, and closed her eyes. The ringing phone woke her.
    “Hello?”
    “Jessica? I was getting worried about you.”
    “Why?”
    “I left a message. When you didn’t call I—”
    “Mea culpa. I got your message and forgot to call back. I was watching the FBI press conference.”
    “So was I. I’ve been in meetings about it.”
    “I don’t wonder. What’s new?”
    “Nothing you haven’t heard on TV. Look, I’m heading out of town in a few days, not sure how long I’ll be away. How about dinner tonight?”
    “I’m on call, but there’s always my trusty beeper, provided the restaurant hasn’t banned them along with cell phones.”
    “In DC? Nah. Primi Piatti? Seven?”
    “Sounds good. Where are you going?”
    “I’ll fill you in at dinner. Seen any new birds lately?”
    “I’ll save that for dinner, too.”
    Celia Watson sat sobbing on a couch in the living room of the home she’d shared for more than thirty years with her husband, Wally—she preferred to call him Walter and always had—and their two daughters and a son. The call informing her that her husband had, in fact, been among the fatalities on the plane that crashed outside Westchester County airport had come only five minutes ago. It perhaps shouldn’t have been such a shock for her. She knew he was scheduled to catch that particular flight because he’d called from the airport. But there was always that chance, wasn’t there, that something had caused him to miss the flight? She’d heard stories like that before.
    But while there had been time to accept the likelihood that he’d gone down with the plane, hearing it officially was very different. She cried into her twenty-year-old son’s shoulder, saying over and over, “Why, why, why?”
    Joe Potamos had been called by his editor on his cell phone once the names of passengers on the downed Dash 8 had been released and told to get to the Watson home for a statement. He sat in his car for a long time in front of the nicely maintained middle-class house on a pretty street in northern Virginia. He considered calling Gardello back at the
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and telling him he wasn’t about to ask any widow how she felt about her husband burning up in a plane crash. But that would have been impetuous; one of the things his anger management counselor kept repeating was that Potamos had to gain control of his hasty nature.
    He looked in his rearview mirror and saw a remote truck from a TV station pull up, which prompted him to get out of the car, go up the walkway bordered by pansies and impatiens and marigolds, pause at the door, then knock. A young man answered.
    “Look,” Potamos said, “I’m really sorry to intrude on you and the family in this moment of intense grief and pain, but I’m Joe Potamos from the
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and I was wondering whether you or Mrs. Watson would like to make a