Murder in the White House (Capital Crimes Book 1) (9 page)

“I’m career civil service. Whatever happens, I’ll go back where I was. Whatever happens, I’ll never get up to where you are. I’ll go back to Justice. Whatever happens, I’ll pick up where I left off… He’s thrown you to the wolves, you know.”

“Webster?”

“Sure. The President’s bright young man, likely son-in-law. If things don’t work out and he has to sacrifice someone, he’ll sacrifice you—with great reluctance and crocodile tears. The bright young man who held his daughter’s hand on television… the public will figure he’s really suffered, the ladies in plastic curlers will weep real tears.”

“Your cynicism isn’t very attractive.”

“Neither is his—”

The waiter asked if they wanted another round of drinks, and Ron nodded, grateful for the interruption.

And then—“Sorry to be so tardy,” said Christopher McLeod brightly, bustling up to their table. “Taxis. Traffic. You know. Well! Will you introduce me?”

“This is Jill Keller, Chris, Jill’s a Justice Department lawyer assigned to the Blaine investigation. Jill, Christopher McLeod, a career diplomat who does something or other at the U.K. Embassy. Lies for his country, I suspect. Isn’t that the definition?”

“I wish it were,” said McLeod gaily. “That would make it all so simple.” He smiled at the waiter. “Whisky,” he said. “Ah, same as they’re having.”

McLeod was a slight, bespectacled, graying young man whose appearance was older than his age. He was, as Ron knew, only thirty-six, but he looked over fifty if not older—florid, wispy, lined. He wore a gray suit, white shirt, bow tie. He had served in Washington for eight years, and Ron had met him before the Webster Administration came to power—by applying to the Embassy for the quick resolution of a client’s problem in the days when he was practicing law.

“I saw your name in the morning papers,” McLeod said to Jill. “Let me think… how did it say?‘… an exceptionally capable lady lawyer…’ Right? Journalists! Sickening fellows.”

“I’ve been called worse,” said Jill.

“I’m afraid I have as well,” said McLeod.

“We’re one drink ahead of you.”

“I shall catch up. Well! All must be in an uproar at the White House. And you, picked to put it all to rights! I was amazed when I saw your name.”

“So was I.”

“The two of you. Detectives. I am afraid this dinner is part of the official inquiry. Am I right? What could I know about the murder of Lansard Blaine?”

“Let’s don’t spoil a nice dinner,” said Ron. “Let’s talk about Blaine first and get it out of the way.”

“Ah, well… I assume you have questions.”

Ron nodded. “This is just a line of inquiry, there’s no accusation in it.”

McLeod smiled. He smiled a lot.

“The North American sales manager for Great Britain-Hawley-Burnsby Motors, Limited is a Jeremy Johnson. You know him?”

“Yes, I’ve met him. Actually I know
of
him.”

“Tell me.”

McLeod shrugged, raised his eyebrows. “Not
my
sort of chap, if you know what I mean. Hail-fellow-well-met. A drinking man. Raconteur. Devotee of the table—the gaming table, that is. Something of a… ladies man, if you’ll forgive me. Also a boor, if I may say so.”

“Officially,” Ron said, “he’s in this country as North American sales manager for a British company. What does he really do?”

“Oh, I think he represents his company,” said McLeod. “Hawley-Burnsby ships a few cars into the States, you know.”

“So he’s just a car salesman?”

“Well… may I ask why you ask?”

“Give me a couple more questions before I tell you?”

McLeod shrugged, looked up and nodded at the waiter who served his drink. “Ah,” he said after he had sipped. “Glenlivet. Good whisky. As to your questions, I may invoke diplomatic immunity, but go right ahead.”

“Do you have any reason to think Johnson may be involved in any sort of criminal activity?”

McLeod raised his eyebrows. “In London he consorts with the gambling crowd. What that signifies, I don’t really know. He gambles here. Whether it simply means he’s fond of gambling, or in some way is involved in nefarious schemes of theirs, I have no way of knowing. I should be surprised if he’s involved in anything illicit in any large way, though. He’s too much the drinker, the talker. I doubt they’d trust him.”

“I ask because his name appears often on the Secretary of State’s telephone log. Also, Blaine made long-distance calls to Johnson at his home in Alexandria, Virginia. I’d like to know why.”

“I can suggest a reason why Johnson would call Blaine,” McLeod said, “but I can’t imagine why Blaine would call Johnson.”

“Why?”

“Well, as you know, the President just returned from Paris, where he and the President of France and the Prime Minister initialed the protocols for the multilateral trade agreement. The new trade arrangements, as you also know, abandon—philosophically, at least—the old liberal idea of free trade and take the world backward a long step toward mercantilism. That’s my judgment, at least—that it’s a step backward. My government, of course, does not agree and has entered enthusiastically into the Webster talks. At any rate the multilateral agreements, when they go into effect, will recognize the right of each participating nation to erect protective barriers around specified protected industries. In the case of the United States, one of the protected industries will be the automobile industry. I need hardly tell you what that will do to Great Britain-Hawley-Burnsby Motors, Limited. In effect it will shut them out of the American market. Jeremy Johnson is by no means the only representative of a foreign industry lobbying to defeat the multilateral trade agreements. Indeed, there’s a gaggle of your chaps in London trying to persuade Her Majesty’s Government to abandon the talks and the rush to the treaty. Johnson’s an embarrassment to us. He entertains senators. He lobbies shamelessly. I’m not aware that he had conversations
with the Secretary of State, but I’m not surprised that he had.”

“As you suggested,” said Jill, “that would explain his calls to Blaine, but not Blaine’s calls to him.”

“I suppose the circumstances do suggest an explanation,” said McLeod, “but I’ll not be the one to give it…”

“I can’t help but wonder,” McLeod said after two whiskies and they’d ordered their dinner, “if there weren’t a bit of disagreement between President Webster and Secretary Blaine over the multilateral trade agreements. Blaine was, after all, a student of international relations. His writings suggest, I think, the traditional liberal’s commitment to free trade. Webster’s policy has shocked a lot of old liberal consciences, and I wonder if Blaine’s might not have been among them. I notice, too, that Webster negotiated the trade agreements himself, along with close aides, not through the Secretary of State—not, indeed, through the State Department. There were rumors of Blaine’s pending resignation. I wonder—”

“So do we,” Ron interrupted, “but right now we’re focused on his death, and I can’t believe any kind of policy difference with the President had anything to do with that—”

“Oh, of course not,” McLeod said hastily. “Please don’t take my little digression to suggest anything sinister.”

“The Webster Administration’s commitment to protection for the automobile industry is not sinister at all,” Jill said. “It’s perfectly rational, perfectly cynical. Robert Webster made his personal fortune in the automobile
industry, and he’s going to help his friends in that industry any way he can.”

“Carburetters, as I recall,” said McLeod. “‘Carburetors,’ I believe you call them.”

“And fuel-injection systems,” said Ron. “Half the cars in the country run on Webster fuel systems of one kind or another.”

“Yes, a hard-headed industrialist, your President. It’s hard to imagine how an academic fellow like Blaine could have gotten along with him.”

“It’s hard to imagine how a Prime Minister like Harwood gets along with the Queen,” remarked Jill dryly.

“Ah. Very good,” said McLeod. “Very good.”

Ron shoved his empty whisky glass across the thick white tablecloth toward McLeod. “There’s a lot of money at stake in those trade agreements. Fortunes are going to be lost—and made. How many dollars do you suppose it’s worth to certain people to have barriers put up against the importing of British, German and Japanese cars?”

“Yes, of course,” said McLeod. “And perhaps somewhere in that tangle you might discover your motive for the murder of Secretary Blaine.”

“If he was opposed to the agreements,” said Jill, “he was subtle about it—”

“Subtle, yes,” said Ron, “but it was known he wasn’t enthusiastic. Privately, in conversations with the President, he may have been fighting hard against the agreements. Someone may have known that. Someone in a position to profit from the adoption and ratification of the agreements would have had a damn powerful motive to get rid of Blaine.”

“Whole multinational industries are going to live and die by what’s agreed to, or isn’t. Nations have gone to war for less than’s at stake for many of them in these agreements. One man’s murder would be, in their view, a good piece of business if it got them what they wanted….”

***

Seven months before, in Chicago, a man named Hooper had fired a shot at the President from the roof of a hotel. His motive had been almost lost in the rush to judge him insane and inconsequential.

Ron had been with the President that morning. The President had asked him to make the early-morning trip from Washington so they could use the hours on the plane to review the draft of a speech the President wanted to make about law reform and expediting criminal procedures. The President had given a talk at a breakfast meeting at the Merchandise Mart in support of the multilateral trade agreements. He had a short meeting scheduled in mid-morning with a group trying to raise funds to pay off the debt of the Illinois campaign committee. When they left the Merchandise Mart in the limousine, rain was falling on snow and ice. The mayor was in the car and wanted to talk, but the President was distracted by the sight of Chicagoans struggling against the weather and the conversation was fragmented and strained. The car slid twice, once until its front wheels came to a stop against a curb.

“You must have the worst weather in the United States,” the President said to the mayor just as the car pulled to a stop in front of the building where the campaign-fund group was waiting. Sensing that the comment had an abrasive sound, he added, “Maybe we can
get the Congress to vote you two extra months of sunshine.”

The President and the mayor stepped out on the sidewalk. A Secret Service man was handing the President a coat, and Ron was just emerging from the car, when the shot was fired. The President was in almost no danger. The bullet struck the building behind him, four feet above his head; and the Secret Service man grabbed him instantly and wrestled him to the icy sidewalk in the shelter of the door and fender of the big car. Another man grabbed the mayor and threw him back into the car, knocking Ron to the floor.

Ron had not heard the shot. He had not seen the bullet whack against the stone facade of the building, chipping out a hole the size of an egg. On the floor under the mayor he could see nothing, but he heard furious bursts of automatic-weapons fire. He thought the presidential limousine was under attack by a heavily armed group. He was properly scared.

Actually, the automatic weapons were fired by the Secret Service. The man who had fired at the President had remained standing on the roof of the hotel across the street, eight stories up. The Secret Service had spotted him, aiming his pistol at the limousine, and they had cut him down before he could fire a second shot.

Before Ron and the mayor could disentangle themselves and get up, the Secret Service men shoved the President into the backseat with them and slammed the door. The car lurched forward, and the motorcade sped away in a howl of sirens. They returned to the airport, and the President boarded Air Force One.

The “incident” was over.

At the airport the President asked Ron to return to
the city with the Mayor of Chicago and the Secret Service contingent that would remain for the initial investigation. Ron would have no part in the investigation, but the President wanted a personal representative to stay in Chicago for at least twenty-four hours to see how the follow-up was handled and to report personally and confidentially.

Ron stayed. He saw what they did. He reported to the President.

He was even obliged to view the ghastly remains of Donald Hooper. He was present when they searched his luggage: everything personal of his that was in Chicago. He was present when a Secret Service agent telephoned the man’s wife and told her her husband had attempted to assassinate the President and had been killed. He watched and listened for the required twenty-four hours, then hurried back to Washington.

Hooper, they said, was mentally deranged. He had fired at the President with a .357 magnum revolver, a weapon with which he had no experience and which was unsuited at best for a long-range shot. He had acted on an impulse apparently formed no more than forty-eight hours in advance and had traveled to Chicago from Wichita with the newly purchased pistol in his luggage. He had talked of suicide in recent weeks, it was reported from Wichita. He must have been, everyone concluded, insane.

Ron thought otherwise. Hooper was employed by a Wichita corporation that manufactured a line of 35 mm single-lens reflex cameras under the name Digiflex: a high-quality, high-price line, matching excellent optics with sophisticated electronics. The line was new, but it had begun to compete successfully in many markets with the Japanese lines that had long dominated the
high-price camera market. Hooper was a high-school graduate who had educated himself to be a skilled technician for Digiflex. Under the multilateral trade agreements proposed, this kind of camera was assigned to the Japanese. Japanese cameras were to have tariff concessions—in return for, among other things, similar concessions for American-built cars. Digiflex faced economic disaster. Hooper faced unemployment.

Hooper was a prospective victim of the multilateral trade agreements. The jobs of tens of thousands of other Americans might be made more secure by the agreements, and the overall prosperity of the country might be improved; but for this American and his company the proposed agreements would be a disaster.