Murder in the White House

by Margaret Truman

  “Tell me about it. How would you describe the relationship? A love affair?”

  Judy Pringle frowned. “I would… like to call it that,” she said in a voice close to breaking. She shook her head. “It wasn’t that, I guess. Not really.”

  “A sexual relationship?”

  She nodded.

  Ron sighed. He did not want to cause pain for this young woman but he felt he had too little time for subtlety. “Why you, Judy?”

  She lowered her eyes. “Because I was willing, I suppose. I mean… with him! He was so great, the things he did… he was making world peace. I… I would have done about anything for him. And I did, too—just about…”

  “Did he take you to Le Lion d’Or?”

  She nodded.

  Ron glanced around the shabby room. “Do you know anything about his death?” he asked casually.

  She shook her head. “No, nothing. I swear it.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  She drew in a long breath. “I was with him Sunday afternoon.”

  “Where?”

  “In his apartment, at the Watergate.”

  “How long?”

  She sighed. “All afternoon. We had champagne and caviar and pâté. That’s the way it was with him. No… quickies. He was a wonderful lover, I’ve never known anyone like him—”

  “Did he talk to you? Confide in you?”

  She nodded—but without conviction. “He didn’t talk about his official life, his work for the government. He talked about his ex-wife and about his personal life… I was surprised at how much he told me.”

  “Such as?”

  “About his… preferences. About his experiences. Unless he was a liar—and I don’t believe he was—he’d certainly been, well, around. Which isn’t surprising, considering who he was and where he traveled.”

  “Could he back his words with performance?” Ron asked bluntly.

  “Yes.” Her voice was very low.

  “Did he say anything about resigning?”

  She shook her head. “As Secretary of State? No. It was the biggest thing in his life, what he’d always wanted. He was proud of being Secretary of State. He was a proud man, a great man.”

  “Did he spend much money?”

  “On me? Expensive dinners. Wine… one bottle, forty years old, a hundred dollars! Checks at the Bagatelle… He gave me some lovely… lingerie—”

  She paused abruptly. “Oh my God… that stuff… it’s all in a drawer in his apartment…”

  The State Department, Office of the Secretary of State, Thursday, June 14, 11:30 AM

  “It was Dr. Blaine’s. It does not belong to the government,” said Mary Burdine. She was Blaine’s secretary, the only person Ron Fairbanks had ever heard call Blaine by his academic title. She was talking about a Louise Nevelson wood sculpture mounted on the office wall.

  “Do you have any idea what he paid for it?” Ron asked.

  “No, sir.”

  It seemed inappropriate to sit behind Blaine’s desk. Ron sat on the couch. Jill Keller sat beside him. They faced Mary Burdine, who sat in a chair—a woman in her fifties, gray, sitting stiffly erect, conveying, maybe unintentionally, an air of building hostility. She had ordered coffee brought in, and all three of them had cups in their hands.

  He had already covered all the inevitable questions… No, she had never heard the Secretary of State threatened; no, he had not seemed nervous or worried the day of his death; no, he had not told her he was considering resigning. She knew nothing that suggested any reason at all for his death.

  “All I’m turning up so far,” said Ron, “is one young woman after another who seems to have had a love affair with him. What do you know about his personal life?”

  “Mr. Fairbanks,” said the woman primly, “I was Dr. Blaine’s secretary. I made it a point not to know anything about his personal life.”

  “But if a Judith Pringle called, you put the call through.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And if a Marya Kalisch called, you put the call through.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he told me to,” she said crisply.

  “Well, who did you think they were?”

  “That was none of my business.”

  “Unfortunately, Mrs. Burdine, it’s become my business. What about the others?”

  She stared for a moment at the carpet, shook her head. “I can give you a list,” she said quietly.

  “About how many names will be on it?”

  She looked up. “Five or six.”

  “All current?”

  “No, sir. Consecutive.”

  Mary Burdine had allowed herself a small smile, and Ron returned it and hoped the meeting would now be less a confrontation. “Do you know who they are?” he asked. “I mean, the two I’ve mentioned are career women with the government. Are they all?”

  Mary Burdine sipped her coffee. “Mr. Fairbanks,” she said, “when I first had occasion to see that Dr. Blaine was having, shall we say, an intimate relationship with a young woman, I was most sympathetic. He was, after all, a divorced man, and the girl, the first one I noticed, was a nice girl who worked at the French embassy… she was an American but she worked at the French embassy. He had what I suppose you might say was a pretty intense relationship with her… I thought he might even marry her. He sent her flowers. He took her to South Carolina with him one weekend on a holiday. Then I discovered he had another one, and after a while he dropped the first. It was, well, a pattern. He was discreet about it, though, and they didn’t make scenes when he dropped them—or if they did they didn’t do it publicly. I… never quite understood this side of him…”

  Jill Keller spoke. “It’s my impression he was not very secretive about it. He took them to Le Lion d’Or, for example. They went to his apartment.”

  “But it was a small element of his life, after all,” Mary Burdine said. “Let’s not forget that. He was Secretary of State. He had relatively little time for a personal life of any kind. The newspapers talk about his taking girls to Le Lion d’Or for dinner. How many times could he have done it? How many evenings was he actually free to have dinner there? The stories exaggerate, I assure you…”

  The White House News Office, The West Wing, Thursday, June 14, 1:00 PM

  Sitting at a red and black NEXIS terminal, Ron touched the keys and called up newspaper stories from all over the United States. They appeared on a television screen, and he frowned as he read. “Look at this,” he said to Jill Keller. “New York…”

  People who live in the Watergate apartment complex in Washington probably wish history would keep its distance. The name of their home became a synonym for political chicanery in 1973 and 1974. Now it seems likely to become a synonym for erotic fun and games—even for harem-keeping—by high-ranked public officials.

  The death of Secretary of State Lansard P. Blaine has blown the cover he maintained over his personal life, and we learn now, after his untimely and tragic death, that the Secretary of State all but sustained a harem in his Watergate apartment. Indeed, on the very night he died, a young woman spent the night in his apartment—to which he never returned. It was only in the cold gray hours of dawn that she gave up her wait—or maybe she woke up—and left the Secretary’s luxury apartment.

  She was, it seems, one of many, including professionals, though the Secretary’s tastes were said to be catholic.

  A White House source insists that President Webster had no knowledge of his Secretary of State’s personal life. It has become known, however, that—except for the enhanced opportunities afforded him by his high public office—Secretary Blaine was continuing a lifestyle established many years ago.

  Ron touched a key, and a newspaper story from Chicago began to appear on the screen…

  Among the persons being questioned by investigators working on the Blaine murder are a number of young women said to have been intimately involved in the personal life of th
e late Secretary of State. A White House source has confirmed that at least two young women have been identified as having had keys to the Secretary’s Watergate apartment. It is understood that there are others.

  One theory is that Secretary of State Blaine was not murdered for any reason involving his official duties, but as the consequence of some emotional conflict arising out of his complex personal life.

  “Look here,” said Ron. “The wire story…”

  The investigation into the death of Secretary of State Lansard Blaine has been complicated by revelations that he was intimately involved with a number of young women in Washington, some of whom at least stayed overnight in his Watergate apartment. Although investigators have not revealed the identities of any of the women involved, it is understood that at least one is a civil service career worker employed at the State Department and one is rumored to be a sometime prostitute.

  Lunch for Ron, for Jill Keller, and for Gabe Haddad—fruit salad, sandwiches, Cokes—was brought to Ron’s office. His jacket tossed over a chair, Ron in his shirtsleeves leaned back in his reclining chair and propped his feet on the corner of his desk. “I’m assuming none of us has talked to reporters,” he said. “None of us are ‘White House source.’ So who the hell is?”

  “You’ll never find out,” said Gabe Haddad. “No President ever did, and I don’t think you’re any more likely to.”

  “Well, it’s clear someone’s talking,” Ron insisted. “And whoever it is,” he said, picking up a ham salad sandwich, “could be our killer—”

  “Oh, come on now, Sherlock Holmes,” Jill protested.

  “Well, it’s not so farfetched, really… Blaine didn’t become a sexual acrobat last week or last month. He was at it from the time he came to Washington, and, as they say, probably before. And he wasn’t too secretive about it. Still, the media apparently never found out, though it’s the kind of thing they thrive on. Then suddenly, within hours after he’s dead, they all know it. I doubt that his Watergate neighbors called the papers and blew the whistle. The women involved didn’t call. Someone here did. Someone leaked it, made a point of leaking it. Why? To divert attention from whatever, whomever—”

  “A smokescreen,” Jill said.

  Ron nodded. “To confuse, to obscure, blur the lines.”

  Gabe Hadded shrugged. “So all we have to do is third-degree a reporter until he tells us who fed him the story. Right?”

  Ron nodded again. “All we have to do is make a reporter reveal his confidential source.”

  “And after we’re black and blue and covered with lumps,” said Jill, “we’ll have nothing more than a suggestion that supports your theory and no hard evidence. All we can do is just refuse to take the bait, to be distracted.”

  “Right. If I’m right,” Ron said, “Blaine probably wasn’t killed by a jealous lover or a woman scorned, as they say. It was someone who would like us to think he was…”

  “But is our killer that naive?” Gabe asked. “I mean, to think he could throw us off this way?”

  “Probably not,” Ron said. “But it’s worth something to him to make a confusion.”

  Gabe Haddad shook his head solemnly. “Too bad, I was looking forward to interviewing Blaine’s girl-friends.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Ron. “We’ll interview them… every one of them. My theory could be all wet. And besides, the ladies had big ears, and it seems the Secretary was less than discreet in filling them. It seems he left secret diplomacy at the office.”

  3

  The Special Investigation Office, The West Wing, Thursday, June 14, 2:45 PM

  “We’ll fly to Detroit,” said Lynne. She was telling Ron that she and her parents would go back to Michigan the next day to attend the funeral of Lansard Blaine. “Then out to Ann Arbor. We’ll be back here early in the evening, as I understand it.”

  “I’m not going, of course,” said Ron.

  “Well… my father told me to tell you to come with us if you want to. I… I’d appreciate it if you came.”

  “I’d like to, Lynne, I’d like to be with you, you know that…”

  She wore no makeup, her eyes were swollen, and she spoke in a subdued, almost trembling voice. Was it possible that she had been one of Blaine’s young women too…? He put the notion aside, but it was there—to be, he realized, followed up if necessary. The shock she felt at the sudden death of Blaine would, of course, be deepened if she’d been intimate with him… He looked at her… she was not like Marya Kalisch or Judy Pringle. She was a damn sight prettier, and younger. The whole world was still open to her, she was receptive and fresh and—

  “Do you have any idea who killed him?” she asked, breaking into his thoughts.

  “Afraid not. It looks like a long by-the-numbers investigation.”

  “I’m sorry it’s fallen in your lap,” she said.

  He shrugged. “It’s not exactly my kind of thing.”

  “My father has complete confidence in you—”

  “I appreciate that… and try to relax, Lynne. You look a little beat yourself. Just leave it to supersleuth.”

  He said it with a straight face, and then they both allowed themselves a smile and a moment’s letdown from the tension.

  ***

  “This is not finished, you understand.” The FBI man Walter Locke scowled over a list in his hand, marking out typographical errors with a Cross pencil. “There’s still a lot of work yet to be done—”

  “I understand that,” Ron said. “And I appreciate your coming up with what you have as quickly as you have.”

  “We’ve got his home telephone bills from the Watergate apartment, our copies of the telephone logs and appointment books from his State Department office. We used the past four months as a preliminary basis. Later we’ll have to go back more months, but using the past four months we have a list of two hundred eighteen names. Of those we can positively identify all but twenty-seven. They’re all people he obviously had business with.”

  “Do you include Judy Pringle and Marya Kalisch in the twenty-seven or the hundred ninety-one?” Gabe Haddad asked.

  “We include them in the twenty-seven,” he said. “We know who they are, but their business with the Secretary of State is not apparent.”

  “What in the world do you mean by ‘positive identification’ then?” Gabe asked.

  “We mean we know who the person is and why, probably, he talked to the Secretary of State. Among the twenty-seven are some people we know but we don’t know—aren’t certain—why they had telephone conversations with the Secretary of State. For example, here’s the name Diego Lopez-Ortiz. He’s the ambassador from Costa Rica. It seems apparent that he would have business with the Secretary of State and reason to receive a call from him. We’ve listed him among the hundred ninety-one. On the other hand, on April 24 he received a call from Barbara Lund, and later that day he returned her call. Barbara Lund is a dancer at a place called The Blue Lagoon, which is where he called her. We know who she is, but we’re not certain why he called her. Oh, sure, I know, with all the stories going around now we think we know why he called her, but we could be wrong. Diplomacy works in strange ways, I hear. Anyway, that’s why she’s in the twenty-seven.”

  “Do the names suggest anything?” Jill Keller asked.

  “We might be curious about the number of times some of the names occur,” said Locke. “For example, during the four months before his death the Secretary of State made or received fourteen calls from an Inoguchi Osanaga. Osanaga is the accredited correspondent for the Honshu Shinbum. We know who he is, but why did the Secretary talk to him so often?”

  “Are there any names you can’t identify at all?” asked Gabe.

  “Several. Of course we’ve only begun to look. We identified the ones we know so far simply by checking the telephone book and other available references. But there’s one that’s especially interesting—a man named Philippe Grand called Blaine repeatedly over the past four months. Blaine always returned
his calls. No one knows who he is.”

  “Have you asked Mary Burdine, Blaine’s secretary?” Ron put in.

  “Yes. She doesn’t know who Grand is.”

  “Does she know who Osanaga is?”

  Locke nodded. “But she doesn’t know why Blaine received calls from him and made calls to him.”

  “What about the home phone?” Jill asked.

  “He didn’t keep a home telephone log, of course,” said Locke. “We have the long-distance bill and are working on that with the telephone company. There’s a name that appears on the State Department logs and also on the apartment telephone bill we have no explanation for either. We’ve identified the man—Jeremy Johnson is United States sales manager for Great Britain-Hawley-Burnsby Motors, Limited. Blaine called him at his home in Virginia, from the Watergate apartment, half a dozen times in the last four months. Besides that, his name is on the logs as having called Blaine or having received calls from Blaine at his Washington office some eighteen times during the same period. The FBI has a dossier on Johnson. I’ve ordered a copy be delivered here. It’s on its way.”

  “Why do you have a dossier on Jeremy Johnson?” asked Gabe Haddad.

  “I’d rather you read the file yourself. I don’t want to draw conclusions, but it’s hard to understand why the Secretary of State would have so many contacts with a man who came to our attention as a possible money launderer.”

  “Clarify that,” Ron said.

  “Let the file do it. It speaks for itself.”

  ***

  “I’m worried about something we haven’t even talked about,” Ron said to Jill Keller and Gabe Haddad when they were again alone in his office.

  He was sitting behind his desk, Coke can within reach, in shirtsleeves, feet on the corner of his desk. Jill had settled into a corner of his couch, had kicked off her shoes, and sat now with her legs stretched out on the couch. Only Gabe had not shed his jacket as yet, and he sat in the chair facing Ron, frowning over a page of handwritten notes.

  Ron went on… “He spent a lot of money, have you noticed? He lived at the Watergate—which isn’t cheap. He ate at Le Bagatelle and places like it—all not cheap. He bought art. (You remember the Louise Nevelson in his office is his, not Uncle Sam’s.) I expect we’ll find more expensive things in the apartment. He wore expensive clothes. He gave Judy Pringle and Marya Kalisch expensive gifts—as we’ll probably find he did for others. The Secretary of State earns eighty thousand dollars a year. A professor of history is paid considerably less. Where did all the money come from?”