Margaret Truman's Internship in Murder

by Margaret Truman

  “I understand,” said Morey. “Do you remember how he paid?”

  “We didn’t check him out,” they said in unison, “but we always ask for a credit card for incidental expenses when they check in.”

  “Even if they pay cash?” Ewing asked.

  “Yes, but if someone insists on only using cash, we drop the request for a credit card. Some guests give us a cash deposit above and beyond the room rate to cover incidentals. What isn’t used is returned to them when they check out.”

  “He gave you a cash deposit?”

  “Yes. A hundred dollars.”

  “Know whether he ate in the restaurant, had a drink at the bar?”

  “No idea. If you come back later, you can check with the restaurant and bar staff.”

  “Yeah, we’ll have to do that,” Morey said, not sounding happy about it.

  They decided to have a sandwich in the hotel’s dining room. After they’d been seated, Morey showed the waitress the photos and asked whether the man in them was familiar.

  “No,” she said, “I don’t remember ever seeing him.”

  “I’ll check out the bartender,” Morey told his partner.

  “Don’t bother,” said Ewing. “If the guy hung out at the bar, it’d be at night.”

  “Worth a shot,” Morey said, and went to the bar, where the bartender was going through his ablutions to get ready for customers. Morey showed his ID and displayed the photos. “Does the man in these photos ring a bell?” he asked.

  The bartender, who looked to Morey to be too young to be serving drinks, looked at the pictures and laughed.

  “Funny?”

  “No, it’s just that I do recognize the guy. I usually work nights, but they called me in today for the early shift. Sure, I remember him. That’s the Stabilizer.”

  “Huh?”

  “The Stabilizer. That’s what I call him. It’s the name of a crazy drink he ordered, half port wine, half brandy. He had to tell me how to make it.”

  “When was he here?”

  The bartender screwed up his face in thought. “A night or two ago. He was hitting on a woman at the bar. I figured they’d leave together, but he split and she stayed.”

  “How did he pay?”

  “Cash. He tipped good, too. Some customers stiff you.”

  “You didn’t happen to hear the woman he was hitting on say his name, did you?”

  “No. Wait a minute. I think he told her his name was John.”

  “John what?”

  A shrug from the bartender.

  “John Doe, huh?”

  Another laugh from the young man. “I guess so,” he said.

  The detectives drank iced tea with their lunch.

  “What about that restaurant owner in Georgetown who was killed?” Ewing asked.

  “Sounded like a professional hit.”

  “He was in heavy to the loan sharks,” Ewing said. “At least that’s what Zeke said at the briefing.”

  “He should have gone to a bank,” Morey said. “I’d better call Zeke and tell him what we’ve got so far.”

  “What’d he say?” Ewing asked after Morey and Borgeldt had spoken.

  “He wants us to stay here and show those pictures to everybody who works here at the hotel. The bartender says he thinks the guy’s name as John. They can go through their records and pinpoint any guy named John who checked in over the past couple of days and paid cash.”

  The hotel’s manager was cooperative, and within an hour a guest named John, who’d paid cash, was identified as John Mitchell. The desk clerk who’d checked him in remembered him from the photos. “I remember the ponytail,” she said. “It looked kind of cool with his tan.”

  “He had a tan?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Had he made an advance reservation?” Morey asked. “Maybe through a travel agent?”

  “No,” she replied. “I remember him saying he’d just arrived in town at the last minute, some sort of meeting, I think.”

  “What did he give as his home address?”

  She gave Ewing the address that the man known as John Mitchell had provided, a street number in Clearwater, Florida. Morey called into headquarters and had someone there run a reverse check on the address.

  “It doesn’t exist,” he told his partner after the call was ended.

  “This John Mitchell, how did he pay when he checked in?” Ewing asked the clerk.

  “Cash, and he gave us a hundred-dollar deposit against charges he might run up while staying here.”

  “Did he run up any charges?”

  She referred to the printed record. “No,” she said. “The hundred dollars was returned to him.”

  “Anything else you remember about the man?” he asked the clerk.

  “Only that he was well-spoken, sounded very cultured. He might have had an accent.”

  “Accent? What kind of accent?”

  “Not really an accent,” she said. “You know, sort of like a—oh, maybe he was British or something.”

  “He had a British accent?” Morey said.

  “Not really a British accent,” she said. “As I said, he was well-spoken.”

  “Thanks for your help,” Morey told the clerk and the manager. “We appreciate it.”

  The manager walked them through the lobby and outside. “Mind if I ask what this is all about?” he asked. “You said it had to do with a case.”

  “We can’t say more,” Ewing said, “because the case is ongoing. Thanks again.”

  On the drive back to headquarters, Ewing said, “I’m just thinking about the phony address the guy used, Clearwater, Florida. I’ve got family in St. Pete, Florida. It’s close to Tampa, where the congressman’s from. So was the intern who was murdered. Maybe there’s a connection. The clerk—nice gal, by the way—said he had a tan, so maybe he is from Florida.”

  “We’ll mention it to Zeke. You going to watch the interview with Gannon tonight on CNN?”

  “Yeah, sure. The whole city’ll be watching.”

  “I don’t figure where this guy, John Mitchell, with the ponytail and the so-called British accent, comes in,” Morey said. “Brixton, the PI, and the attorney Smith think that Gannon killed the intern.”

  “This guy Mitchell was at parties or something where the intern was, too, and according to Brixton tried to run him down. Maybe he and the congressman got together.”

  “I know one thing for sure,” Morey said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Whatever the congressman says tonight will mean squat. He’s a politician. He’ll lie.”

  CHAPTER

  39

  Mac and Annabel Smith watched the Gannon interview at their Watergate apartment. It struck Mac that Gannon was nervous and unsure of himself. As he said to Annabel, “It reminds me of Nixon during his debate with JFK. Gannon’s sweating the way Nixon did.”

  Annabel agreed. “He sounds as though he’s full of bravado, but his face says something else.”

  Gannon had put into play what he’d been instructed to do by his handlers, including the PR woman, Roseann Simmons, and his attorney, Richard Nichols: Say what you want to say regardless of what you’re asked.

  LEWIS: You’re aware, Congressman, that there are numerous rumors that you and your murdered intern, Laura Bennett, were engaged in a sexual affair.

  GANNON: Yes, I’m aware of them, and it breaks my heart to hear them. Ms. Bennett was a fine, decent young woman from an upstanding family, and to see her name dragged through the mud by those with political motives is atrocious.

  LEWIS: But did you and Ms. Bennett have an affair?

  GANNON: No disrespect, Ms. Lewis, but the media’s love of anything salacious, no matter how inaccurate—and especially when an elected official is involved—distorts the truth.

  Lewis tried to elaborate on her question, but Gannon cut her off.

  GANNON: Not only does it distort the truth, it focuses the public’s attention away from the important issues faci
ng the nation …

  And so it went, Lewis probing and Gannon deflecting, back and forth, the interviewer’s frustration held in check, the congressman’s annoyance, as well as his building anxiety, in plain view to the millions across the country and around the world watching it unfold on their TV sets.

  * * *

  Laura’s parents, Lucas and Grace Bennett, watched at their Tampa home.

  “He’s a goddamn liar,” Luke barked at the TV screen. “Tell the truth, damn it!”

  * * *

  Brixton and Flo sat said by side on the couch in their apartment, their attention fixed on their TV, a bowl of popcorn in Brixton’s lap.

  “Look how he avoids answering any of the questions,” Brixton grumbled. “He must have been prepped up to the gills by his people.”

  “Have you ever heard a politician who didn’t avoid answering a direct question?” Flo said, popping a puffed kernel into her mouth.

  When the interview ended, Brixton called Mac Smith.

  “What did you think, Mac?”

  “The same thing you thought,” the attorney replied. “He got through it, but he sure looked uncomfortable.”

  “As he should be,” said Brixton. “Did you see how he played up his polygraph test, how he passed it with flying colors?”

  “That’s why he took the test, so he could crow about it. Any word from your friend with the ponytail?”

  “No. How about you and Annabel. She receive any more calls?”

  “No.” Smith’s other line rang. “I’ll call you back, Robert,” he said.

  Twenty minutes later Brixton’s phone rang again.

  “It’s Mac,” Smith said. “That other call was from Zeke Borgeldt. His detectives had some success in tracking down your assailant.” He gave Brixton a rundown on what Detectives Morey and Ewing had learned from the hotel staff.

  “He said his name was John Mitchell?”

  “Right. A phony name. He also gave a phony address in Clearwater, Florida.”

  “But he’s from out of town,” Brixton said. “No doubt about that. He checked out of that hotel?”

  “Yes, and there’s no telling where he went next,” Smith said. “For all we know, he’s left D.C.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” Brixton said. “He’s got unfinished business here—me.”

  “Zeke is sending the same two detectives to other hotels with the photos.”

  “Borgeldt’s a good guy.”

  “No argument from me. You and Flo enjoy the rest of your evening. I’ll see you at the office in the morning.”

  * * *

  Donna Lewis was not happy as she rode back to CNN from the hotel.

  “I couldn’t move him off his damn prepared statements,” she said to her director.

  “You did fine, Donna,” the director said. “You had him squirming. His body language and facial expressions showed him to be a liar, no matter what words he used.”

  “That may be true,” she said, “but it’ll work for him. Look.”

  She displayed her iPhone for him on which tweets to CNN from listeners had been forwarded to her. Those viewers who bought what Gannon had said ran three to one over those who considered his performance disingenuous. She read one of the tweets aloud: “‘It was disgusting the way the interviewer kept badgering Congressman Gannon. The man told the truth. Leave him alone!’”

  The director laughed. “Never overestimate the average voter’s intelligence,” he said.

  “He lied every minute we were on the air,” Lewis said. “He’ll come out of this unscathed.”

  “Welcome to the nation’s capital, Donna.”

  * * *

  Bruce McGinnis had watched the interview in his motel room in Bethesda, Maryland.

  After having killed the Georgetown restaurant owner the previous night, he’d driven to Maryland and checked into a small, individually owned motel away from the bustling downtown area.

  He’d wanted to leave Washington, but his assignments kept him there. The restaurant owner, who’d also dealt drugs and had run afoul of other dealers to whom he’d owed money, was assigned to McGinnis as a target, and he’d fulfilled his contract with the swiftness and assuredness that he was known for.

  He’d left the motel only once that day, to drive a different rental car into the District’s Southeast to collect the second half of his fee from the dealer who’d put out the hit on the restaurant owner. He’d carried a handgun with him in the event the dealer balked at turning over the second payment, but it hadn’t been necessary to use it. The money was handed over, and McGinnis returned to the motel, where he lolled by the small pool and read a historical murder mystery, his favorite genre.

  While watching the Gannon interview, McGinnis perused the material in his briefcase that related to his final mission in Washington, D.C.—to get rid of a private investigator who had made it very plain that he viewed Congressman Harold Gannon as the man behind the disappearance and killing of his intern, Laura Bennett, and the murder of his press aide, Cody Watson.

  He was sorry that he’d agreed to take on this final assignment. He’d had enough of Washington and yearned to return home. His stomach was acting up, worse than it had ever been, and the contemplation of yet another killing only exacerbated the pain. Maybe it was time to give up this lucrative but stressful line of work. He’d been doing it for years, and it had provided a sizable nest egg. People retired, didn’t they? He was fifty-eight, in excellent physical shape aside from the problems in his gut. How many lives had he taken since leaving the army, where he’d been trained in the art of taking another’s life? Nine? A dozen? The number didn’t matter. What counted was that he’d been the best at what he did for a living, and he took pride in that.

  Robert Brixton.

  McGinnis had Brixton’s home and office addresses, photos, a rundown of his daily activities, the name of the woman with whom he lived and worked, and his close friends, Mackensie and Annabel Reed-Smith.

  As the final minutes of the Gannon interview played on the TV, McGinnis, aka John Mitchell and other aliases, decided to wrap up this assignment as quickly as possible. He called and made a reservation for a flight to Atlanta leaving Reagan National at eight A.M. the day after tomorrow. Booking flights that didn’t take him directly to Florida was part of his planning wherever and whenever he traveled on an assignment. It was always a flight to another city in the event he was being watched, and then connecting to a final leg back home. You couldn’t be too careful in his business.

  CHAPTER

  40

  Before returning to Tampa from Washington after having secured Arturo Casson’s commitment to run for Hal Gannon’s House seat—provided Gannon could be convinced to resign—Joe Selesky met with leaders of the House Democratic Caucus in an apartment maintained by the DNC as a secure location. There were six in the room besides Selesky, five men and one woman.

  “He’s got to go,” one of the men said. “I like Hal personally, but his behavior has made every elected official the butt of jokes. Letterman cracked a few last night, and let me tell you, my wife didn’t appreciate the message behind those jokes, that we’re all philanderers and skirt chasers.”

  “What did you think of his appearance on CNN, Joe?” Selesky was asked.

  “Candidly? He bombed. Look, as long as the murders of his intern and press aide go unsolved, the spotlight is squarely on Hal Gannon. Our polls in Tampa–St. Pete show his support fading fast. Not only is he now thought of as a liar who cheats on his wife, his voting pattern has finally hit home with Democrats. He’s gotten too damn cozy with Republicans for their taste. He made that work in his favor for a while, but it doesn’t play anymore.”

  “Have you discussed with Hal the possibility of stepping down?” Selesky was asked.

  “That would seem the next logical step,” someone else said.

  “He won’t buy it from me,” Selesky said.

  “What about his family? We hear that his wife and he are on the o
uts over this.”

  “Charlene Gannon was never happy with Hal running and winning his House seat. That’s why you seldom see her here in D.C. She used to show up at some of his appearances, but from what I can tell she wants nothing more to do with his campaign.”

  “Have you spoken with Roseann Simmons?” the lone female in the room asked. “She’s been with Hal since the very beginning. She has clout with him.”

  Selesky guffawed. “Roseann? She’d lay down her life for him. Christ, Hal Gannon is her reason for existence. We should all have somebody that loyal in our corner. Look, all this conversation is nice, but we’re running out of time. It’s too late for a primary, and even if it weren’t, it would only drive a wedge in our core base. Casson has agreed to run providing Hal is persuaded to step down. Arturo will make a hell of a good candidate. He’ll have the backing of the Cuban-American community, and he’s on the progressive side of the issues that matter with the core. But like I said, we’ve got to move fast to make Hal see the light and drop out. He can take the high road, say he’s doing it to spend more time with his family, the usual BS, wants to clear the decks for a true progressive like Arturo, and get back to practicing law. At the same time he can make the point again that he wants whoever killed his intern and press aide brought to swift justice.”

  “Let me ask a tough question,” one of the men said to Selesky.

  “Shoot.”

  “Do you think that Hal Gannon had anything to do with what happened to his intern and press aide?”

  “What does it matter what I think?” Selesky countered. “He says he didn’t, and that’s good enough for me.”

  His answer didn’t necessarily reflect his true feeling, that he wouldn’t be surprised if Gannon had had, in some way, a hand in those.

  “You have to make the case with him to drop out,” Selesky was told.

  “Me? Fat chance. It’s the people in this room who have to make him see the light, put the pressure on him, threaten to strip him of committee assignments, whatever you have to do to get it done.” He checked his watch. “I have to catch a plane. Buttonhole Gannon and lay down the law. Threaten to withhold your support for his run. Do whatever you have to do—but do it fast!”