Margaret Truman's Internship in Murder

by Margaret Truman

  “Sounds to me like a Hail Mary approach from Gannon,” Brixton said. “Who’s doing the interview?”

  “Donna Lewis.”

  “They’re bringing in the heavy artillery,” Brixton commented. “She’s good.”

  Donna Lewis was a beautiful, vivacious young African-American CNN reporter whose interviewing technique had been on display recently while questioning controversial lawmakers. Nichols has lobbied for someone else, but the CNN brass insisted on using Lewis.

  “She has a pleasant persona but asks tough questions. Should be interesting.”

  “That’s for sure. I’d better get home and play nurse to my patient,” Brixton said. “She has a craving for pizza for dinner.”

  “Love from Annabel and me,” Mac said. “And you take care, Robert. Annabel and I are on alert after that threatening phone call she received at the gallery, and you know there’s a guy with a ponytail on your case.”

  * * *

  As Brixton left the office and headed for a pizza parlor near the apartment, Hal Gannon was huddled in a hotel suite with his attorney, Richard Nichols; his chief of staff, Roseann Simmons; two other members of his congressional staff; his campaign manager from Tampa, Joe Selesky; and a woman, Candy Tresh, whose PR firm had been hired to prep the congressman on how to handle himself during the CNN interview. She’d prepared a list of questions that she thought Donna Lewis might throw at him, and played the role of the inquisitor while Gannon struggled with the answers. It was not going well.

  “I don’t like this, Dick,” Gannon said to his attorney during a break.

  “You can’t avoid it, Hal,” Nichols said. He turned to Selesky. “Am I right, Joe?”

  Selesky’s mood was even gruffer than usual. Polls in the Tampa area showed that Gannon’s lead in the race had eroded by a startling amount. The prevailing attitude on the part of voters was that Gannon was being evasive and uncooperative with the authorities; many who were questioned wondered whether he knew why Laura Bennett had disappeared and might even know something about why she was killed, and by whom. Selesky had urged Nichols to arrange for the CNN interview and to hire the PR woman, and he’d made a last-minute trip to D.C. to oversee it.

  “We don’t know what she’ll ask,” Gannon protested. “You know the media, it wants the juiciest stuff. She’ll ask whether Laura and I ever had an affair.”

  “Simple,” Selesky said. “You just say that you aren’t about to sully the reputation of this lovely young woman who blah, blah, blah. Talk about her wonderful family, how she came here to D.C. to begin her career in public service, and how some insane person snuffed out her life at such a young age. Come on, Hal, get with it. Your goddamn career, not only in the House but beyond that, is at stake. The Bennett family has been injured by the loss of their beloved daughter, but you’ve been injured, too. You hear me, Hal? You’ve been injured, too! Play the injured man. Talk about Charlene and the kids, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I would have preferred that Congressman Gannon have his wife at his side during the interview,” Candy Tresh said.

  “Yeah, well, that didn’t work out,” Selesky growled.

  Gannon had called Charlene and tried to convince her to come to Washington to participate in the interview, but she’d adamantly refused.

  The PR woman said to Gannon, “Look, Congressman, it doesn’t matter what Ms. Lewis asks. You have to know what it is you want to say and twist the question around to allow you to make your points. Let’s assume that she’ll ask whether you ever had an affair with Ms. Bennett. Mr. Selesky is right. You launch right in to what a wonderful family the Bennetts are, how you treasure your friendship with them, and you’ll be damned if you’ll soil Laura’s name by violating her privacy and yours, not in those words necessarily but along those lines. Let’s start again.”

  And so it went for three hours, the participants fortified with trays of food and bottles of liquor from room service as they went through the mock interview that would become a reality the following day.

  Gannon had been convinced to stay in the suite overnight to shield him from media that might be waiting at his apartment building. The others left, with the exception of Roseann Simmons, who tidied up the living room in anticipation of the meal carts being removed.

  “Level with me,” Gannon said. “How bad did it go?”

  Simmons had been standing at the window looking out over the city. She turned and said, “It went very well, Hal, very well. You just have to believe in yourself and do what Candy Tresh said, know what you want to say and say it regardless of what Lewis asks.”

  “I just wonder if I’m coming off too defensive,” he said.

  “That’s exactly the point,” Roseann said, joining him on the couch. “Don’t be defensive. Dismiss those who want to taint you for political reasons. Attack them for their motives. Mourn the death of Laura Bennett and Cody. Condemn those who are behind their deaths. Play up the polygraph test you passed. There’s so much positive for you to be proud of, Hal.”

  “I’m disappointed in Charlene,” he said. “Having her with me would go a long way to convincing whoever’s watching the interview that what people are saying about me is wrong.”

  “I’m disappointed in her, too, Hal,” Roseann said, “but you can’t let it throw you. You must keep one thing uppermost in mind during the interview, and that’s the fact that this country needs you. This will pass, Hal. The voters will chalk it up to what it really is, a witch hunt by those who would bring you down. There is such a wonderful future awaiting you. All you have to do is keep your eye on that future and don’t let anything or anyone stand in your way of achieving it.”

  Gannon went to hug her as she left, but she pulled away and kissed him on the cheek. “Everything will work out fine, Hal,” she said. “Trust me.”

  The mock interview had been exhausting, and Gannon flopped on the bed still wearing his clothes. How could this be happening to me? he mused as he lay there, eyes wide open, lights from outside casting playful shards of brightness on the ceiling.

  He knew the answer, of course. He’d succumbed to what had always been a weakness, a driving need to conquer women and to prove his manhood, if only to himself. He felt terribly fragile at that moment.

  But then Roseann’s inspiring words kicked in.

  He got up, went to the living room, and poured himself a drink from one of the bottles on the room service cart. She was right. He had great things ahead of him and would not allow this detour to take him permanently off the road to his destiny. The CNN interview would set things straight, and he could put this nasty episode behind him. After he’d been vindicated, Charlene would come around to see again that she’d married someone with drive and ambition, a man for whom thousands of voters had cast their votes of confidence, and for whom millions more would one day do the same.

  * * *

  Following the run-through, Joe Selesky stopped by his hotel to pick up some papers before taking a taxi to a Georgetown town house where a half dozen men awaited his arrival. One of them, Arturo Casson, an African-American member of Tampa’s City Council, had flown to D.C. earlier in the day. A tall, imposing man, Casson’s mother had been Cuban, his father an African from Angola. They’d fled to Florida from Cuba after Castro’s takeover and had settled in the Tampa area. Arturo excelled in school and graduated from the University of Southern Florida with top honors, and then went on to obtain his law degree from the University of Miami. His law practice thrived, and he became active in Democratic politics, running for the City Council and winning handily in District Four. He chaired the council’s Barrio Latino Commission, charged with preserving the architectural character of Ybor City and its rich history. Married with two children, Arturo occupied a position of leadership in Florida’s Fourteenth Congressional District, represented by Harold Gannon in the U.S. House of Representatives.

  “How does it look?” a man at the late-night meeting asked Selesky.

  “Not good,” Gannon’s cam
paign manager replied. “Gannon has this interview with CNN tomorrow and hopes he can sway enough people to put his reelection back on track. You want my professional judgment? I don’t think the interview, or anything else he does, will accomplish a damn thing. I think Hal Gannon is dead meat.”

  “But he’s not about to drop out of the race, is he?” Casson asked.

  “Not without a push from me and the rest of you, and it’s a push we have to make. Democrats have held this House seat for a long time, and I’ll be damned if I’ll see it go to a Republican.”

  All attention went to Casson as he shifted in his chair and rested his chin on his fist, a man deep in thought.

  “If Joe is right,” someone said, “we have to act fast to replace him on the ballot. What about it, Arturo? We need a commitment from you if Gannon is persuaded to drop out of the race.”

  “I’ve always liked Hal Gannon,” Casson said in a deep baritone. “A very pleasant fellow.”

  “And a world-class screwup,” Selesky said. “If you take his place and run, Arturo, you have a damn good chance of winning.”

  “That’s nice to know,” Casson said, “but Hal is still the candidate.”

  “But maybe not for long,” Selesky said. “Let’s cut to the chase. If Gannon resigns his seat in Congress, are you willing to run?”

  The large Afro-Cuban, dressed immaculately in a blue suit, white shirt, and tie, pursed his lips. “Yes,” he said. “I am willing to run.”

  CHAPTER

  38

  The scheduled airing of Gannon’s CNN interview with Donna Lewis was the topic of conversation across Washington the following day.

  The interview itself took place in the same suite in which the mock run-through had been held. Gannon’s attorney, Richard Nichols, had laid down strict rules as to who could be present. Ms. Lewis was accompanied by a producer, the director, and the all-news channel’s technical crew, whose members had to pledge that they would not talk about it until it had been aired that evening. Gannon’s entourage consisted of Roseann Simmons, another member of Gannon’s staff who’d taken the place of the murdered Cody Watson, Nichols, and Candy Tresh, the PR consultant. Included in the CNN crew was a makeup artist, who made Gannon look good for the camera, taking the sheen off his skin and working with his hair to tame errant strands. Two armchairs had been positioned facing each other, and Cody Watson’s replacement acted as the congressman’s stand-in while the lighting director made adjustments.

  Gannon’s makeup had been applied in the bedroom. He emerged into the living room and huddled with Roseanne and Candy Tresh in a corner.

  “How do I look?” he asked.

  “As handsome as ever,” Roseann said.

  “You look relaxed, Congressman,” Tresh said. “I’m glad to see that.”

  “I feel pretty good,” Gannon said. He looked across the room, where Lewis was going over notes on a clipboard with the producer. Gannon and Lewis had been introduced earlier before they went their separate ways to get ready. “I feel comfortable with her doing the interview,” he said. “She has a nice way about her.”

  “But she’s a pro,” Simmons said. “Don’t get suckered in and become complacent. Just keep remembering those points you need to make no matter what she asks.”

  “Yes, Boss,” Gannon said, smiling and tossing her a salute.

  “We set to go?” the producer asked in a loud voice.

  Gannon and Lewis settled in their respective chairs, the soundman positioned their microphones, the two cameras rolled, and the interview with Hal Gannon was under way.

  * * *

  That same morning, Brixton stayed home with Flo as she recuperated from the hit-and-run that almost took both their lives. She’d slept soundly, helped by painkillers that she’d been prescribed and reluctantly agreed to take. Brixton, however, tossed and turned all night, unable to shut down his overactive brain. Crossing Wisconsin Avenue in the rain that night, and coming close to being killed, kept running over and over in his mind like a video loop. He’d come close to death more than once during his career as a cop in D.C. and in Savannah, Georgia, and working as a private investigator in the nation’s capital had spawned other near misses at the hands those hell-bent on snuffing out his life.

  But this time it had involved the love of his life, Flo Combes, who’d almost died for no reason other than that she was with him. Wrong time, wrong place, wrong company.

  “Today’s the day that Gannon is being interviewed by CNN,” Flo said as they sat at their small kitchen table, her braced leg propped on a pillow on a chair. “It’s supposed to air tonight.”

  “I hope he falls on his face,” said Brixton. “I can’t imagine it’ll do him any good. “He’ll have to lie through his teeth, and people pick up on when somebody’s lying.”

  “And maybe people won’t care,” Flo said. “I remember when the mayor of Boston was reelected while he was in jail. And lots of people in Toronto loved that buffoon of a mayor no matter what he did.”

  “Go figure. If you’re feeling okay, I’ll get to the office. There’s cold cuts, bread, and some chicken salad in the fridge.”

  “I’m coming with you,” she said.

  “No you’re not. The doctor said—”

  “The doctor said to stay off my leg as much as possible. Sitting at a desk in the office doesn’t violate that instruction. Hand me my crutch. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He watched her hobble to the bathroom and had to smile. There was no sense in trying to argue her out of her decision. He’d learned early in his relationship with Flo Combes that once she made up her mind about something, there was no dissuading her. An hour later he was helping her from the car and steadying her as they walked into the office.

  Mac Smith was in conference with a client. When it broke up, he came to Brixton’s small suite. He was surprised to see Flo there. “Can’t keep a good woman down, huh?” he said.

  “I have to keep Robert on the straight and narrow,” she said.

  “Lots of luck with that,” Mac said as he joined Brixton in his office.

  “Hear anything from Borgeldt?” Brixton asked.

  “Yes, I did. Nothing came up in their database, but he took our suggestion and has dispatched a couple of detectives to area hotels armed with copies of the photographs. Maybe that’ll turn up something.”

  “I hope so. As long as this guy is out there, Mac, I have to look over my shoulder, and that’s no way to live. He almost killed Flo, too, and it was probably the same guy who delivered that threatening message to Annabel. I feel like one of those cartoon characters who goes through life with a cloud over his head.”

  “We’ll get him, Robert. He’ll make a mistake, take a wrong turn, and he’ll pay for it.”

  Smith left. Brixton appreciated his vote of confidence and was certain he was right.

  “The Ponytail Killer,” as Brixton had named him, had already made one mistake, attempting to run over Brixton and Flo. Until that moment, the only reason Brixton was convinced that Mr. Ponytail had killed Laura Bennett and Cody Watson was that he’d been in situations in which both victims were present, hardly the sort of evidence that would make a prosecutor’s heart trip with enthusiasm.

  But the incident on Wisconsin Avenue was tangible. Thanks to an eyewitness, Brixton knew that the driver of the car had sported the telltale ponytail. That was enough for Brixton, and he’d not wavered in his conviction that this was the killer. At the same time, he felt helpless. If Zeke Borgeldt and his detectives didn’t find the guy, there was nothing he could do but look over his shoulder and hope that he was quicker on the draw than Mr. Ponytail.

  * * *

  Detectives Jack Morey and Jason Ewing had been assigned by Borgeldt to canvass hotels to see if anyone remembered the man in the photos. It was the sort of assignment that both veterans tried to avoid. It meant getting in and out of the car countless times and hoping—hoping—that someone at the check-in desk would remember the man. By noon they had vi
sited eleven hotels. Borgeldt, assuming that the subject of the search would not be the type to spend big money at fancy places, had instructed them to focus on lesser hotel chains. He’d also suggested that they begin their search at hotels close to Reagan National Airport, on the theory that if he was from out of town he would opt to stay within close proximity to a way to leave quickly.

  The detectives decided to try one more hotel before taking a lunch break. They entered the lobby and waited until a line at the counter had dissipated to approach a young uniformed woman with a huge smile. Morey displayed his ID and placed the two photos on the counter. “Has this man recently been a guest here at the hotel?” Ewing asked.

  She looked closely at the pictures. “He doesn’t look familiar to me,” she said, “but let me get my associates. They’re off duty for lunch. Be right back.”

  A man and woman emerged from a room behind the desk. Morey explained their visit and showed them the photos.

  “I remember this man,” the male clerk said.

  “When was he here?” Ewing asked.

  “I’m not sure, maybe last night, the night before that.”

  “Remember his name?”

  “No. What I remember was what I was thinking when I checked him in. I thought the ponytail was a little—well, a little silly I suppose, because of his age. Not that he was old.”

  “How old do you figure?” Morey asked.

  The clerk shrugged. “I’m not good at ages,” he said. “Fifty, maybe. Maybe fifty-five. Like I said, I’m not good at guessing somebody’s age.”

  “Think you could go through your records for the last couple of nights and come up with a name for us?”

  The clerks looked at each other before the woman said, “We have so many guests. I don’t see how we could do that.”