Monument to Murder (23 page)

CHAPTER   34

Fletcher Jamison, president of the United States, blustered into the White House, followed by a gaggle of attentive aides. He’d just returned from giving a speech in support of his agenda to rescind regulations on financial institutions that had been imposed by the preceding administration. It had gone over well with the handpicked crowd, and the warm reception they gave him was a welcome tonic after what had otherwise been a bad day. Congress had balked at his most recent budgetary proposals, and the latest polls showed his popularity heading for the tank. A small group of vocal, sign-carrying opponents had made their feelings known outside the auditorium.

“Jerks!” Jamison had muttered once back in the limo and headed for the airport where Air Force One awaited him.

“They’re meaningless,” an aide said. “All mouth, no substance.”

“You’d think they’d get a life,” the president said.

“They like to protest,” the aide said. “They latch on to any reason to carry their stupid signs and chant slogans.”

“What the hell do they want from me?” Jamison snarled as the limo and security vehicles neared the airport. “The media takes these polls and twists them to suit their agenda.”

“Exactly,” another aide enthusiastically agreed.

Jamison had grabbed a fast nap on the flight back to D.C., although it hadn’t done anything to improve his disposition. His aides knew to stay clear when he was in one of his moods, and they did so until he was back in the White House, had received a quick briefing on the day’s headlines from his political adviser, and headed for the first family’s private quarters, where his personal assistant stood at attention, ready to accept Jamison’s discarded clothing and to fetch him anything he might want. As usual, it was a glass of his favorite Tennessee mash whiskey with a splash of water, and popcorn.

Jeanine waited for him in her bedroom. She’d rehearsed what she would say and how she would say it, choosing her words carefully, dismissing the incident in the parking lot as a frivolous teenage evening gone awry, making light of it while at the same time letting him know of her concern for what it might mean should the story end up in the media. She chose a deep pink cashmere sweater to wear, a favorite of her husband’s, and form-fitting black slacks. Her musings took many directions, including the possibility that offering sex might mitigate his reaction to bad news. It had worked before.

I should have told him about it when we first started going together,
she thought. He had plenty of skeletons in his closet, too. But she hadn’t mentioned it for fear of losing him, of crushing her chance to become the first lady of Georgia. That she’d end up in the White House was beyond any dreams she had conjured, and when he announced that he was running for the presidency it seemed too late to spring a complication like murder on him.

She tried to imagine all the negative fallout that might occur if the story broke, and none of it was pretty. His political opponents would jump on it and turn it into a media circus, night after night of coverage on what had become a 24/7 news cycle, talking heads analyzing its meaning to death, pundits making cruel remarks, the late-night comedy shows, Jon Stewart, and
Saturday Night Live
having a field day.

“Maybe the president should dispatch his wife to kill off his opponents,” the comics would quip.

“The president means it when he says he wants to
slash
the budget.”

“If the president pulls a John Edwards on his wife he’d better watch his back—in bed!”

“Jeanine Jamison, our own Lizzie Borden.”

Those visions made her cringe in the chair as she awaited his arrival.

He’d changed into his nightclothes in his private dressing quarters before entering the bedroom. She sprang to her feet, crossed the room, and kissed him. He noticed what she was wearing and asked why.

“Oh, I just thought I’d try and look pretty for you.”

“Well, you do.”

His assistant arrived with the whiskey and popcorn. “Would you like something, ma’am?” he asked.

“Yes, I would, a glass of Chablis please.” The assistant left and she asked the president how his day had gone.

“The speech went fine. The rest of the day makes me wish I’d stayed governor of Georgia.”

“That bad, huh?”

“The goddamn polls. They mean nothing, but the media lives and dies by them.”

Her wine was delivered and they sat across a small table from each other in front of the draped window. She raised her glass. “To good days ahead,” she said with a wide smile.

“I’ll drink to that,” he said, touching the rim of his glass to hers.

“Fletch, there’s something we have to talk about.”

“Oh? Sounds heavy.”

“I suppose it is. No, it really isn’t. You see—”

“You having an affair?”

She guffawed and spit out some of her wine. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He shrugged and drank.

“Fletch, something happened many years ago in Savannah that I’ve kept to myself all these years.”

Nothing from him.

“You see, when I was a teenager—a silly teenager, I admit—I went to a local hangout with Mitzi when my folks were away for the weekend. It was a dive called Augie’s. Lots of kids from the other side of the tracks hung out there and I suppose it represented danger to us, an adventure, you know, tasting something forbidden.”

He seemed disinterested, simply grunted and tasted his drink again and took a handful of popcorn from the sterling silver bowl.

“Something happened there, Fletch, that—well, it was something bad.”

“I know, you tried marijuana. Shame on you.”

“It was more than that,” she said. “There was also a young black girl there. Her name was Louise Watkins.”

“So?”

“So, we got into a conversation with her, at least Mitzi did. I was talking to a young guy who invited me outside. I’d seen him before and—”

“So it wasn’t your first time there.”

“No, it wasn’t. Anyway, I went outside with him and—”

“Spare me the details, Jeanine.”

“He tried to rape me, Fletch.”

That got his full attention. He put down his glass and leaned toward her. “He
tried
to rape you? Did he? Rape you?”

“No. I—I—he had a knife and threatened to use it unless I got in the car with him.”

“Bastard!”

“Yes, he was a bastard, Fletch. I—”

“What happened?”

“He tried to use the knife and I fought him and the knife got turned around and it went into
him
.”

“He—?”

“He died.”

“He was killed?”

“Yes.”

“Then what happened?”

“Here’s where it gets complicated, Fletch. I mentioned the black girl, Louise Watkins. She’d come out of the club with Mitzi, saw what happened, and helped us get away.”

“Get away?”

A tear formed in Jeanine’s right eye. “We ran. This girl threw the knife in a river or stream and we went home like nothing ever happened.”

“You were never connected with it?”

“That’s right.”

He stood, parted the drapes, and looked out over the lighted lawn and shrubs. “I’m shocked, of course,” he said without looking at her, “but it turned out all right.” He leaned over her. “There’s nothing else, Jeanine? That was the end of it? What did the police do, chalk it up as another unsolved homicide?”

She avoided his eyes and said, “Not exactly.”

“I hate ‘not exactly.’ Be specific. What then? They accused someone else of the crime?”

“Yes.”

“That person did time for it?”

“Yes.”

“Tough on that unfortunate person but—”

“The black girl was convicted of it.”

“How—?”

“She was a screwed-up girl, Fletch, a drug dealer and prostitute. She didn’t go to prison for long, just four years.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“She tried to blackmail us.”

“What?”

“She tried to blackmail me and Mitzi. She wanted a thousand dollars to keep her mouth shut.”

“You paid her?”

“No. Mitzi’s father did, ten thousand dollars.”

“Ward Cardell paid her ten thousand bucks? You said she wanted a thousand.”

“Just to keep quiet. Mr. Cardell paid her more money to confess that she did it and to accept the prison term.”

His laugh reflected amazement rather than joy. “And she bought it?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have any contact with her after she came out of prison?”

“No. She was murdered days after she got out. Someone shot her on the street. They said it was one of those drive-by shootings, probably drug dealers.”

Jamison pressed a button that summoned his personal aide. “Another drink,” he said.

“Ma’am?” the aide asked Jeanine.

“What? Yes. Another wine.”

Jamison took his seat across from her again. He stared her down, causing Jeanine to avert his gaze. “Okay,” he said, “let’s pick up where we left off. From what you’re saying, this whole sordid affair happened long ago, past history, so why bring it up to me now?”

“Because it’s surfaced again, Fletch.”

“How?”

She told him about Brixton, and about the newspaper reporter who’d called Mitzi. “And there’s a D.C. lawyer involved, too, somebody named Mackensie Smith.”

“I’ve met him. You say this Brixton is involved in the case? How so?”

She explained that he was representing Louise Watkins’s family, which was all that she knew. She awaited his reaction, ready to brace against an angry tirade. With his second drink in his hand, he said in measured tones, “This obviously has the potential to turn into a major flap, Jeanine, the sort of bombshell this town thrives on. Do you have any idea of what the ramifications are?”

“I’ve been running them through my mind all night, Fletch. I know I should have told you this years ago but—”

“Let’s not play the should-have, would-have game, Jeanine. It’s too late for that. This private detective has to be stopped. I assume he’s the one feeding information to the reporter.”

“It looks that way.”

“How much has Mitzi confided in her father?”

“I know she’s spoken with him a few times. I encouraged her to.”

“Ward Cardell has been a friend throughout my career, a loyal supporter. I can call him.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t.”

“I’ll think about it. You’ve made quite a mess of things.”

“I certainly didn’t mean to, Fletch. It was all so long ago and I was young and—”

“This guy Brixton is the problem. He has to be shut down before he goes any further.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. Just keep your mouth shut. I’ll take care of it.”

She tried to entice him into bed but he balked. “I have some thinking to do,” he said and left the room.

CHAPTER   35

Jeanine Jamison had waited up almost two hours for her husband to return and finally dozed off well past midnight. When she awoke that morning after a restless, nightmare-laden sleep, he was gone.

She’d stumbled to her dressing table and observed herself in the Hollywood-style mirror. She didn’t like what she saw. Bags under her eyes were exaggerated and dark; her eyes lacked the sort of gleam associated with being alive.

She showered, and dressed for the day with the help of a female aide, trying all the while to sound her usual self, upbeat and positive. It wasn’t easy, with what she’d gone through the night before. The president’s reaction had been surprisingly benign, although she was certain that he seethed inside. He didn’t need this complication to add to what he faced each day from a cantankerous Congress and a constituency on the verge of abandoning him and his agenda. She wanted desperately to do something to resolve the mess she’d led him into but had no idea what that might be.

Mitzi’s involvement hadn’t struck Jeanine as a problem while leveling with the president. But in the gray light of early morning it loomed large. Her friend was known to be flighty and easily sent off-balance; her husband often joked that his wife tripped over bobby pins and paper clips. Was she likely to lose control and blurt something out to the wrong person? Could she be depended upon to keep their confidence and not do something rash? Jeanine couldn’t be sure, and she dwelled on this while breakfasting in the private dining room.

What would Fletch do now that he knew? When he’d left the bedroom he said he had some thinking to do. What did that mean? What
could
he do? Would he confide in close aides and garner their opinions? She hoped he wouldn’t. It was embarrassing enough to have gotten into such a mess without the people with whom she interacted on a daily basis knowing that she’d stabbed someone to death, and had gone along with the scheme to cast the blame on another.

Louise Watkins!

That scene twenty years ago at Augie’s was as clear in Jeanine’s mind as the evening it happened. Shortly after the incident she would think of Louise sitting in a prison cell and suffer oppressive guilt. But those moments eventually passed, as unpleasant ones often do, and it was rare that she found herself immersed in such introspection. Of course, when Louise emerged from prison and was gunned down, the guilt had resurfaced. But that, too, had passed with time.…

Until now!

Damn this private detective named Brixton. How dare he threaten to drag something from the past into the present and hurt others in the process? Her mind was like a fast-moving slide show of emotions—anger, then a return to feelings of guilt, oppressive remorse, back to anger, and on to wishing it had never happened. But it
had
happened. And it was happening all over again.

It was now possible, more likely probable, that the world would know what had gone down that steamy summer night in Savannah.

Who currently knew?

The detective, Brixton.

The reporter, Sayers.

The lawyer, Mackensie Smith.

Her friend, Mitzi Cardell.

Mitzi’s father, Ward Cardell.

The president of the United States.

Were there others?

She had to assume that there were.

Of course there were.

She was deep into these upsetting thoughts as she went downstairs to her office, where her staff awaited. Missing was Lance Millius. She asked about him.

“He called in, Mrs. Jamison. He has some personal business and will be here after lunch.”

Millius’s absence wasn’t upsetting. She was aware that he worked impossibly long hours and was entitled to as much time off as he needed.

Other members of her staff conferred with her about projects for which they were responsible, and she forced herself to concentrate on what they said, banishing those other nasty thoughts to their own compartment. But they rushed back to the forefront the minute there was a lull in the conversation and she wondered how she would get through the day.

•  •  •

Millius had been up and out of his Bethesda apartment early that morning. He’d received a call at six from President Jamison’s chief of staff, Chet Lounsbury, who said that the president wanted to meet with him privately; he was to tell no one, including the first lady.

“What’s it about?” Millius asked.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Lounsbury replied, sounding annoyed.

•  •  •

The relationship between Millius and Lousbury was tenuous at best. It wasn’t lost on Lounsbury that despite being chief of staff to the president of the United States, his counterpart in the first lady’s office maintained a closer, strangely special relationship with the president. It went back to Jamison’s tenure as governor of Georgia, when Millius was his right-hand man in more ways than one. Rumors abounded about the role the young man played in the governor’s inner sanctum. Some said that Millius was the cleanup man for Jamison’s indiscretions. There were even those who claimed that there were dead bodies in Jamison’s past and that Millius had had a hand in arranging for certain individuals to be “neutralized.” It was all juicy political gossip-mongering, of course, and no one had ever developed evidence to support the rumors.

When Millius was named the first lady’s chief of staff, it had set off another round of rumors and speculation. Some considered it a demotion for Millius, and he was asked that question a few times by reporters. His boilerplate response served to cut off further inquiries, although skepticism remained: “The president feels that the first lady will play a vitally important role in his administration and wants me to help her achieve her goals. I consider working directly with her to be a welcome challenge as well as an opportunity to help shape the president’s ambitious agenda for the American people.”

Millius’s boilerplate statement was dutifully reported, while the reporters covering him laughed among themselves. No one pressed Lance Millius for a more cogent comment. From the day Fletcher Jamison took office it was understood by the press corps that Lance Millius had the president’s ear. Offend him and you offended the president of the United States. Goodbye press pass. Goodbye access. Goodbye career.

•  •  •

“Where?” Millius asked Lounsbury.

“The Treaty Room, nine thirty sharp.”

The line went dead.

Millius looked down at the silent receiver in his hand and smiled. He had little use for Lounsbury and enjoyed those moments when his West Wing counterpart was unhappy.

After showering and dressing, he retrieved his new silver Lexus from his apartment building’s garage and drove to the White House, where he parked in his reserved spot. He passed through security and chose a route to the second floor of the West Wing that circumvented the first lady’s suite of offices in the East Wing.

One of Jamison’s personal aides who’d been awaiting Millius’s arrival went to summon the president. While waiting, Millius went to a large overmantel mirror on the west wall and checked his appearance in it. Satisfied, he sat in a chair on the visitor’s side of the Treaty Table on which President McKinley had signed the peace treaty with Spain in 1898, which ended the Spanish-American War. The room had been the private office of a succession of first ladies until Rosalynn Carter moved in and preferred that her office be on the first floor in the East Wing, closer to the center of government and political activity, closer to her husband.

He was studying the ornate Victorian chandelier above him when Jamison entered, closing the door behind him. Millius stood but Jamison waved him back down and took his chair on the opposite side of the table.

“There’s a messy situation looming that I want cleaned up before it happens,” Jamison said.

Millius nodded.

“It involves the first lady, but I don’t want your participation in it known to her.”

“All right, Mr. President.”

“It’s a long, convoluted story, Lance. I’ll try to be as brief as possible. You don’t need to know all the details. It involves a man named Robert Brixton. He’s a—”

“Sorry to interrupt, sir, but there’s something you should know.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m aware of this man, Brixton. The first lady asked me to run a background check on him.”

Jamison’s expression mirrored his surprise. “When did she do that?”

“A number of days ago. I had the check run and provided it to her.”

“Did she tell you why she wanted it done?”

“No, sir, and I didn’t ask. I mention this only to let you know that I already know something about him.”

“I suppose she forgot to mention it to me. It doesn’t matter. It gives you a head start. You have the results?”

Millius hesitated. He’d made a photocopy of the dossier on Brixton and taken it with him. He said, “I have access to it, sir. What do you want me to do?”

Jamison didn’t hesitate. “I want this Brixton shut up.”

“Could you be more specific, sir?”

“Do I have to be?”

Millius’s silence confirmed to the president that further specific instructions weren’t necessary.

“I’ll only say this, Lance. If Brixton is allowed to continue delving into the first lady’s life—into my life by extension—it could have a terrible impact on my administration.”

“I’ll have to be away from the office for a while, Mr. President. Will you speak with Mrs. Jamison and—?”

“There’s no need for that. I don’t see this dragging out for very long. She’s off to Savannah. She’ll be there for a few days. Get this thing done before she comes back.”

Jamison stood and looked as though he had something else to say. Millius waited. The president came around the Treaty Table, slapped Millius on his shoulder, and was gone.

•  •  •

The first lady’s chief of staff followed the route he’d used when he’d arrived to avoid Jeanine’s offices, got in his car, and drove away from the White House grounds. He crossed the Potomac over the Key Bridge, pulled off the road, opened the trunk, and removed the Brixton file he’d claimed to have taken home with him. He got back into the Lexus, pulled a cell phone from the glove compartment, chose a stored number, and pushed the speed-dial button.

“Hello.”

“It’s Lance.”

“How are you?”

“I’m fine. I have a message for you.”

“Good.”

“Can we meet?”

“I think so. When?”

“Now.”

“Where are you?”

“In Virginia, right off the Key Bridge.”

“The Island in a half hour. The parking lot.”

Millius ended the call.

Millius next called the Hotel Rouge.

“Mr. Brixton please. He’s a registered guest.”

The desk clerk rang the room. “I’m sorry but Mr. Brixton doesn’t seem to be in at the moment.”

Good,
he thought.
He’s still registered there.

He waited a few minutes before driving away and heading for the Theodore Roosevelt Island and Memorial, a ninety-one-acre marshland and wildlife sanctuary in the Potomac between the Key and Theodore Roosevelt Bridges, a fitting tribute to the ecologically minded twenty-sixth president of the United States. He entered the island from the northbound lanes of the George Washington Parkway, pulled into the parking lot, and walked to the eighteen-foot tall bronze statue of Roosevelt, where the man he was meeting stood. They shook hands and strolled casually to an area void of tourists.

“What do you have?” asked the man, who was dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, and tie.

Millius handed him the envelope containing the Brixton report. The man tucked it under his arm and they continued their walk, stopping again in a grove of trees.

“This is from the top?” the man asked.

“Yes. It has to be done quickly.”

The man smiled. “I believe they call it ‘stat’ in emergency rooms.”

“I suppose.”

“The reason?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Where?”

“Here in Washington. He’s staying at the Hotel Rouge, on Sixteenth. There are photos of him in the envelope.”

“I’m not sure how fast they can act.”

“Whatever it takes. The funds are there.”

“Sounds important.”

“It is. Anything else you need from me?”

“Not at the moment. If there is I’ll contact you.”

“Good. You leave first. I’ll follow later.”

Millius watched him saunter away and breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t been sure that he could put it into motion that quickly. In past cases it had involved a lot of strategic planning that meant days, sometimes weeks of delays.
Business must be slow,
he thought as he returned to the Roosevelt statue and read from the four granite tablets surrounding it, each containing Roosevelt’s thoughts on nature and the state.
Roosevelt would be proud,
he thought as he walked away.
He was a man who appreciated action.