Murder in the White House (Capital Crimes Book 1) by Margaret Truman Read Free Book Online

is commonly understood that a 23-year-old woman in the Information Management Section was a recent Bagatelle companion of the late Secretary of State—more than once—and spent the night, again, more than once, in the Secretary’s Watergate apartment.
    This is not speculation or rumor—nor is it idle gossip. Secretary Blaine’s private and personal life may well not have been the origin of the motive for his murder. We are not suggesting he was killed by a jealous lover or by a woman scorned. The investigators, however, will have to look into this element of the story—unless they come up with the killer very soon…
    “I heard this story over there,” said Gabe Haddad.
    “Who is the girl?” asked Ron.
    “Her name is Judy Pringle. She’s a system designer in the Information Management Section. She didn’t come in today. Called in sick.”
    “Would it be worth talking to her?” Ron asked.
    “I suppose we have to.”
    “I’m already getting to hate this job,” Ron said, shaking his head.
    “Her name is on his telephone log,” said Gabe. “Did you notice? His secretary noted calls from her and calls to her. Apparently she could call right in.”
    Ron nodded. “Efficient secretary. If she kept—”
    “She’s smart, and good,” said Gabe. “She kept a tight office. She maintained his telephone log and appointments calendar with more thoroughness than he probably knew. Could be a break for us.”
    “Did you question her?”
    “No. She was shaken. We’ll have to do it later.”
    Ron glanced down the final page of the telephone log the secretary had kept for Blaine. “Most of these names are what you would expect,” he said. “People who had obvious reason to call the Secretary of State. Some of them—”
    “We should check every name on there,” Haddad said.
    “Which should give our FBI people plenty to keep them busy,” said Ron, feeling increasingly uneasy about going through the “effects” of a man, the record of so much of his life. Ghoulish, but, he reminded himself, unavoidable.
    The thought didn’t wash away the uneasy feeling, though.

2
    The Special Investigation Office, The West Wing, Wednesday, June 13, 9:00 PM
    Before he closed the office for the night Ron checked with Honey Taylor, the President’s personal and confidential secretary, to see if the President wanted a report before he left. Honey had left for the evening, but her assistant, Claire Bond, said the President had gone up to dinner with his family and had left instructions that he did not want to talk to anyone except in an emergency.
    Jill and Gabe had been with him until eight. Gibson Dunn had left only at eight-thirty. Locke, the FBI man, had gone back to the FBI building; but Ron had spoken to him on the telephone and had told him to pick up copies of the Secretary of State’s telephone logs and the other documents and to begin checking the listed names. After eight-thirty, Ron had spent half an hour reading a file of clippings sent in by the News Office. He was interrupted once: by a doctor at Bethesda who called to say the final autopsy report would be ready in the morning.
    A discreet rap on his door. It was one of the new secretaries temporarily assigned to him by Fritz Gimbel—ayoung black woman, a Mrs. Walsh if he had heard her name correctly. “There’s someone waiting to see you, Mr. Fairbanks. She asked if you were still here and if she could see you.”
    Ron checked his watch. It had been a long day, but he buttoned his collar and pulled his necktie tight. “Who is it?”
    “A Miss Kalisch, sir. She works for Mr. Eiseman.”
    He shook his head. “I don’t know her. Well, I’ll see her for a moment. Are you waiting for me to go before you do?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Well, thanks. Why don’t you go now? I’ll only be here a few more minutes.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Fairbanks.”
    The Miss Kalisch who had waited to see him was a diminutive young woman who hesitated at the door. Only when he