Free Murder in Foggy Bottom by Margaret Truman Page B

missiles.”
    “About this weekend, Cindy, I’ll have to play it by ear.”
    “Because of the missiles?”
    “Yeah, because of the missiles. We’re on twenty-four-hour call.”
    “You’ve
got
to make it, Jess. Perfect weather. It’s rained the past two weekends. Horace called me last night. He was out at the Maryland shore yesterday and says he saw a least bittern.”
    “Really? That’s an unusual sighting, almost as unusual as the piping plover.”
    “I won’t take no for an answer about the weekend, Jess. Everyone’s going to be there.”
    “I’ll try, Cindy. Have to run. Other calls to return.”
    Jessica leaned back in her office chair and allowed her gaze to play over the wall above the desk. It was covered with color pictures of birds she’d photographed on ornithologic trips over the years. An inveterate bird-watcher and, in recent years, photographer, she had been searching for rare species since she was a teen growing up with her parents and two brothers in New Hampshire. Hers was, as her mother often said, a “bird-friendly home”—a half-dozen feeders hung from nearby trees, and an especially large one was suspended right outside the kitchen window. Jessica watched the comings and goings of dozens of varieties of birds the way other teens watched television, fascinated with their habits and mannerisms, their alertness, their distinctive songs and sounds, and the frantic flapping of wings when vying for perch space.
    In springtime, the birdhouses her father built became homes for new families of birds—wrens and finches and English sparrows. Once, a nesting pair of Baltimore orioles, who’d ventured farther north than Jessica’s well-worn bird book said was normal, arrived and built their drooping nest in a large elm in the backyard. Jessica spent hours watching them create their home and feed their young, carefully noting everything through powerful binoculars bought for her as a birthday present.
    She’d carried her love of birds into her adult life, finding time at college to spend days in the fields and woods, binoculars and camera ever-present around her neck, her bird book (a new one given to her as a high school graduation gift) in the large pocket of a safari jacket she always wore when enjoying her hobby. There was a time when she considered pursuing a career in biology or ornithology, but a parallel fascination with geography, history, and current events tipped the scale in favor of an undergraduate degree in history, a master’s in diplomacy, and a serious stab at a Ph.D. in international relations; she was a thesis away from being granted it.
    These days, working and living in Washington, DC, her most treasured personal time was spent out of the city searching for birds she’d not spotted before and that would be checked off in her book (another new one as a college graduation present). And there were trips to other parts of the country with a national bird-watching group to which she belonged.
    The unpleasant realization that she would not be out with her friends that weekend caused her to frown as she went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of grapefruit juice and turned on a small TV set on the counter. It was tuned to CNN; the FBI press conference had just begun. The agency’s director, a former judge who didn’t look old enough to head the nation’s preeminent law enforcement agency, was introduced and stepped to the cluster of microphones. He spoke bluntly and without emotion.
    “This morning, three civilian airliners crashed in three different parts of the country. It is an unprecedented event in the history of domestic commercial aviation. The crashes occurred in New York, California, and Idaho. A full and thorough investigation by all involved agencies is under way to determine the causes of these crashes. The Federal Bureau of Investigation is working closely with officials from the National Transportation Safety Board in this effort.
    “As is generally the