He died beneath the Statue of Freedom, clutching a 9-mm pistol in his hand. But as dawn rose, the politician would die again--in a hail of rumor and character assassination. Now one man suspects the shattering truth: that the congressman's suicide was a carefully planned murder. In the heart of the free world, a furious struggle begins: to reclaim a man's innocence, expose a woman's lie, and stop a chilling conspiracy of murder that reaches halfway around the world. . . . Congressman Paul Latham is about to be named secretary of state but dies beneath the Statue of Freedom before he can accept the honor. When his body is found, a 9-mm pistol clutched in his hand (is it suicide or murder?), rumors begin to fly, targeting Latham as no better than Warren Brazier's lackey and threatening the credibility of the administration's foreign policy. Brazier, a wealthy industrialist and potent political force (à la Ross Perot), is conducting questionable business with the Russian government (à la George Soros's evil twin), and nothing will stop him in his quest to snap up formerly state-owned industries at bargain prices--certainly not a trivial consideration such as trade legislation pending in the House Foreign Relations Committee. When Mac Smith is asked to bring his legal expertise to a research mission in Moscow, he finds himself attempting to clear Latham's name--and getting closer and closer to some very dangerous individuals. Margaret Truman is operating according to established parameters in Murder in the House , but fans will appreciate the relative skill with which she weaves together the themes of disturbing relationships on two continents: hard-line Communists with the Russian mafia on one hand, and politics with American big business on the other. Readers may want to check out other entries in the Capital Crimes series--try Murder on Embassy Row , Murder at the National Gallery , or Murder in the CIA . --Kelly Flynn "This is the 13th in her Capital Crime series, and it's as rich as the others in behind-the-scenes Washington detail". -- People The never-ending fascination with our nation's capital has made Margaret Truman's novels bestsellers everywhere, including in my territory in Southern California. She always is in the top 15 on the lists. And I'm looking forward to selling her new mass market paperback, MURDER IN THE WATERGATE, which we publish next summer. --Nanci Andersen, Ballantine Sales He died beneath the Statue of Freedom, clutching a 9-mm pistol in his hand. But as dawn rose, the politician would die again--in a hail of rumor and character assassination. Now one man suspects the shattering truth: that the congressman's suicide was a carefully planned murder. In the heart of the free world, a furious struggle begins: to reclaim a man's innocence, expose a woman's lie, and stop a chilling conspiracy of murder that reaches halfway around the world. . . . He died beneath the Statue of Freedom, clutching a 9-mm pistol in his hand. But as dawn rose, the politician would die again -- in a hail of rumor and character assassination. Now one man suspects the shattering truth: that the congressman's suicide was a carefully planned murder. In the heart of the free world, a furious struggle begins: to reclaim a man's innocence, expose a woman's lie, and stop a chilling conspiracy of murder that reaches halfway around the world.... Margaret Truman has won faithful readers with her works of biography and fiction, particularly her ongoing series of Capital Crimes mysteries. Her novels let us into the corridors of power and privilege, poverty and pageantry in the nation's capital. She lives in Manhattan with her husband, Clifton Daniel, distinguished journalist, author, and editor. They have four sons and two grandchildren. 1   MOSCOW—EARLY SEPTEMBER   It was a sour morning.   Yvgeny Fodorov, naked, looked through his crusted apartment window to the British Embassy across Ulitsa Solyanka, near where Moscow’s infamous Khitrov meat market had once festered.   He tasted bile; his eyes, open only a few minutes, itched. His fingers went to them, rubbing. A headache pounded at his temples, causing him to place his fingertips against them as though it would help.   A trim young woman dressed in a navy suit and red high heels entered the embassy. He’d seen her before, an employee, certainly British. She showed her pass to the guard and disappeared inside.   The kettle whistled from the pullman kitchen at the other end of the long, narrow room that had been his home for six months. He made tea, sliced two pieces from a loaf of black bread bought the day before at his local khleb, one of a chain of recently privatized bread stores, and made a sandwich of tongue and tomato.   After slipping into a pair of stained white gym shorts and eating his sandwich, he returned to the window, teacup in hand. The sun was rising like a hot orange; the city’s pollution, now visible in daylight, blanketed ev