Monument to Murder (15 page)

CHAPTER   21

Israel’s prime minister and his wife were entertained that night in the State Dining Room by the president, the first lady, and a select group of one hundred invitees. Jeanine Jamison had approached the evening without enthusiasm. She found most state dinners unbearably dull: all the pomp and circumstance with which to contend; the briefing by State on the visiting head of state and his wife to ensure that certain topics would be raised, and avoided; the forced gaiety—the pomposity of it all. She’d taken an instant dislike to the prime minister’s wife, a ravishingly beautiful brunette with an exquisite figure and lively, wide brown eyes. Jeanine never did like it when a female guest was more attractive, especially another first lady. She preferred dumpy ones or those with out-of-proportion facial features and bad teeth.

But feeling competitive with the prime minister’s wife wasn’t the primary reason that her thoughts wandered away from the here and now—to the stabbing in the parking lot at Augie’s twenty years ago, and its resolution as worked out by Mitzi Cardell’s father and his PR man, Jack Felker, in Skidaway Island State Park.

She’d forgotten about it, had managed to store that nasty recollection away in one of the many compartments that she was capable of creating, especially for unpleasant memories. But Mitzi’s lunchtime visit had been unsettling. The whole mess was now back, front and center, thanks to her childhood friend.

She wondered what her husband’s reaction would be if she confided in him after all these years of secrecy. She looked at him as he laughed at something the PM had said and decided that sharing that sordid episode from her life wasn’t worth risking his wrath. He was a man who detested anything that stood in the way of his goals; having a first lady who’d killed a man and avoided prison by a friend’s father paying off a drug-ravaged black hooker wouldn’t be taken kindly. There was a side of him, however, that might applaud how the parking lot situation had been handled. Fletcher Jamison believed that there were few problems that couldn’t be solved with sufficient money and power. There had been plenty of rumors during his ride to political power about payoffs to bury unflattering episodes from his past both as an attorney and then as governor of Georgia, and Jeanine had personal knowledge of two of them, including one that involved her.

They had occurred during his one and only term as governor.

•  •  •

The romance between the governor and Jeanine had its origins while he was still married to his first wife, Claire. Jeanine had landed a job as his liaison with the state legislature, a position that brought them into close and daily contact. She’d been in that office only a month when he made it plain that he found her attractive and was interested in seeing her socially. His marriage, it was said, was rocky, held together only for the sake of political propriety, which he confirmed to Jeanine the first time they slept together, a week after the start of their flirtation.

Their trysts were catch-as-catch-can, a stolen hour in a hotel room, sex on the floor of his office after all other staff had gone home for the night, and once at her apartment, the riskiest of all their assignations.

Jamison had been linked to several extramarital affairs, none of which had ever been proved to the extent that local media dared to base stories on the allegations. Jeanine knew one of the women, a blonde nightclub hostess with multiple tattoos. The blonde had gotten pregnant and didn’t want his baby, or
any
baby. Jamison arranged for her to visit a doctor in Atlanta who had a thriving business on the side doing abortions for the mistresses of well-connected men. Jamison paid the doctor and gave the blonde a generous going-away present in cash. Jeanine had heard about the cash settlement and asked Jamison about it during one of their hurried sexual romps. He denied it, of course. But a few weeks later, a departing disgruntled employee took Jeanine out for drinks, consumed too much, and confessed that he was the one who’d delivered the cash to the blonde, and to the doctor. That knowledge didn’t elevate Jamison’s character quotient in Jeanine’s estimation, but by that time she’d set her eyes on replacing the current Mrs. Jamison and becoming first lady of Georgia. The governor’s past indiscretions were stored in another of her mental compartments.

Following the sexual encounter at her apartment, she was approached by a local political reporter who’d been staking out that apartment since rumors of her affair with the governor had made it to the newsroom. The reporter told Jeanine of the story he was developing about Jamison’s extramarital sex life, with Jeanine Montgomery as exhibit A.

She vehemently denied the allegation to the smug reporter, wondering as she did so what he’d do with the knowledge that only that afternoon she’d learned that she was pregnant with Jamison’s child.

Knowing she was pregnant did not unduly upset her. She decided that it could be the catalyst to force Jamison to make a decision about their relationship, something she’d been looking for since their affair had commenced. He’d promised to end his marriage to marry her, but as far as she could see, he hadn’t taken any steps in that direction.

That night, in tangled, sweaty sheets after lovemaking in a hotel, she decided it was time to draw a line in the sand. She told him that she was carrying his child, told him of the reporter’s visit, and revealed that she knew about the blonde hostess and how he had arranged and paid for her pregnancy to be aborted. She ended by saying, “I want to be your wife, Fletch.”

She expected an angry reaction. Instead, he said, “And I want to be your husband, Jeanine. Claire and I have agreed that a divorce would be best for everyone involved—for her, for me, and for the kids. We’ve stayed together because I wasn’t sure how being divorced would affect a run for the presidency. There’s only been one divorced president, Ronald Reagan, and it sure as hell didn’t hurt his chances for the White House. Claire and I will be announcing our decision at a press conference at the end of the week, irreconcilable differences, an amiable parting of the ways after a long and honorable marriage. We’ll stand side by side along with our oldest son, Michael, a good family with the sort of values that have been lacking in American culture for far too long now.”

He paused, and she concealed her incredulous smile.

“After a decent amount of time has passed, we’ll announce our engagement.”

She hugged him tightly, which aroused him.

“What about the baby I’m carrying?” she asked.

“I don’t want another child, Jeanine,” he said. “I’ve researched it. George and Martha Washington didn’t have children, although she had two before being widowed. Jackson and his wife never had kids. Harding and his wife—what was her name?; oh, right, Florence—Florence Harding had a son from her previous marriage that ended in divorce. Polk was sterile and Buchanan was a confirmed bachelor. My two kids from my marriage to Claire will do just fine. But another child? No. That won’t work.”

“Meaning?”

“You’ll have an abortion—and we’ll be a hell of a lot more careful from now on. Roll over.”

It had worked exactly the way he’d choreographed it. Claire and their son stood proudly at his side as he announced to the public that he and his wife were parting, “But not as enemies, as is too often the case with divorcing couples these days,” he intoned. “We’ve loved and honored each other for many years but now it’s time for us to go our separate ways. Claire, as you know, has been extremely active in a variety of causes, each contributing to a better America. She will continue to serve the public good in these capacities—with my unbridled support, I might add. And I will continue to lead the great state of Georgia in new directions that will ensure a better life for all its citizens. I pledge to you that I will do everything in my power to bring back to Georgia the level of civility and morality that its people deserve.”

Claire Jamison beamed. Their son pumped a fist into the air.

“Only Fletcher Jamison would dare to speak of getting a divorce and morality in the same speech,” a veteran political reporter commented to a colleague.

“And nobody cares,” was his colleague’s reply. “I need a drink.”

•  •  •

Jeanine and Fletcher Jamison bid good night to their distinguished visitors from Israel and retired to their private quarters.

“She’s charming,” he commented as he undressed.

“She’s all show,” was Jeanine’s response.

“Oh?”

“A quarter inch deep. You were taken with her flashy beauty.”

“She is a beautiful woman.”

“According to some definitions,” Jeanine said as she changed from her evening dress to a designer lavender jumpsuit and slippers.

“Where are you going?” her husband asked.

“Down to my office. I have some personal e-mails to catch up on.”

“Do it in the morning,” he said during a yawn.

“I want to do it now.”

She kissed him on the cheek and padded downstairs, where her chief of staff, Lance Millius, sat hunched over a computer. He looked up at her entrance.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “It’s late.”

“I suppose I could ask the same of you,” he said lightly, not wanting to appear confrontational.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“How’d the dinner go?”

“All right. Crushingly boring, but all right. Did you find out anything about the man I mentioned to you, Robert Brixton?”

He rolled his chair back and turned to face her. “Yes, I did.”

“I’m listening,” she said as she perched on the edge of a replica eighteenth-century desk. She’d replaced all the desks in her suite of offices with replicas of antiques shortly after moving in.

“I had a search run on Mr. Robert Brixton—work history, e-mails, phone records, credit cards, banking info, tax records—the works.” He consulted a sheet of paper. “Let’s see,” he said. “Robert Brixton. Age fifty. Born in Brooklyn, attended City College of New York, graduated with a degree in business administration. Tried to join the NYPD but wasn’t hired. Came to Washington, D.C., and became a cop here. Lasted four years. Married a Marylee Greene from Maryland, had two kids. Divorced. Quit the force here and went to Savannah, where he joined that city’s police department. Retired in 2006, went into the private detective business. Runs his own one-man agency. Owes some back taxes but nothing major. Occasional traffic ticket. Had a reputation with the Savannah PD as a bit of a loose cannon. Tends to be a loner, has been identified as seeing a woman named Florence Combes, Jewish, also from New York. Here’s a couple of photos of him.”

“I’m impressed,” Jeanine said.

“With what?”

“How much you’ve come up with in such a short amount of time.”

“Just took a phone call.” He handed her the paper.

“Did whoever you called want to know why you were looking for information on him?”

Millius shook his head. “Never came up.” Now he cocked his head. “Why your interest in this guy anyway?”

“No special reason.”

She glanced at the wall clock. Eleven fifteen. Not too late to call Mitzi, who was a known night owl.

“Thanks, Lance, for getting me the info. Leaving soon?”

“No. I’m still working out details of your Savannah trip next week.”

“I could do without that trip,” she said. “Go on home and get some sleep.”

“Later,” he said.

He obviously intended to stay. “I’ll be in my office,” she said.

“Okay.”

She closed the door behind her and sat at her replica nineteenth-century desk, which contained only a telephone and a blank white legal pad with a pen carefully aligned with the pad’s blue lines. She hesitated to make the call with Millius in the next office but decided she could do it quietly.

“Mitzi? It’s Jeanine,” she said in a low voice. “Catch you at a bad time?”

“No. My guests just left. A painfully dull evening. The new head of the TSA is a pompous ass if I’ve ever met one.”

“Sorry. Mitzi, I think we should get together again soon about this—this Savannah project. You know I’m going there next week.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve come up with some information about the—about the man we discussed at lunch.”

“Oh. Something bad?”

“No, no, but we should talk. Can you come here to the White House tomorrow at four?”

“Four? That’s a problem. I have a meeting with the caterers for the Washington Opera party I’m hosting.”

“Postpone it, Mitzi!” Jeanine said sharply.

“I—of course I will. Can you tell me about this information you’ve come up with?”

“Not on the phone. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The first lady went to the outer office, where Millius continued to work on the computer.

“I think I’ll get some sleep,” she said.

“Good idea,” he said without looking up.

He waited a few minutes after she’d left before checking her phone to see what number she’d called. Mitzi Cardell! Of all the people Lance Millius disliked—and the numbers were sizable—Mitzi Cardell was at the top of the list.

He packed up to leave. Before he did so, he consulted a directory of political operatives in Georgia, especially in the Savannah area. Because the president and first lady were from Georgia and the president had once been governor of that state, the network of political friends there was extensive. After jotting down a few names from the directory, he added that note to other materials he was carrying home.