The Best Laid Plans

Chapter 18

DEAD 16-YEAR-OLD IDENTIFIED AS DAUGHTER OF COLORADO GOVERNOR BOYFRIEND IN POLICE CUSTODY HANGS HIMSELF POLICE HUNT MYSTERY WITNESS

He stared at the headlines and felt suddenly faint. Sixteen years old. She had looked older than that. What was he guilty of? Murder? Manslaughter, maybe. Plus statutory rape.

He had watched her come out of the bathroom of the suite, wearing only a shy smile. "I've never done this before."

And he had put his arms around her and stroked her. "I'm glad the first time is with me, honey." Earlier, he had shared a glass of liquid Ecstasy with her. "Drink this. It will make you feel good." They had made love, and afterward she had complained about not feeling well. She had gotten out of bed, stumbled, and hit her head against the table. An accident. Of course, the police would not see it that way. But there's nothing to connect me with her. Nothing.

The whole episode had an air of unreality, a nightmare that had happened to someone else. Somehow, seeing it in print made it real.

Through the walls of the office, he could hear the sound of traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue, outside the White House, and he became aware again of his surroundings. A cabinet meeting was scheduled to begin in a few minutes. He took a deep breath. Pull yourself together.

In the Oval Office were gathered Vice President Melvin Wicks, Sime Lombardo, and Peter Tager.

Oliver walked in and sat behind his desk. "Good morning, gentlemen."

There were general greetings.

Peter Tager said, "Have you seen the Tribune, Mr. President?"

"No."

"They've identified the girl who died at the Monroe Arms Hotel. I'm afraid it's bad news."

Oliver unconsciously stiffened in his chair. "Yes?"

"Her name is Chloe Houston. She's the daughter of Jackie Houston."

"Oh, my God!" The words barely escaped the president's lips.

They were staring at him, surprised at his reaction. He recovered quickly. "I - I knew Jackie Houston...a long time ago. This - this is terrible news. Terrible."

Sime Lombardo said, "Even though Washington crime is not our responsibility, the Tribune is going to hammer us on this."

Melvin Wicks spoke up. "Is there any way we can shut Leslie Stewart up?"

Oliver thought of the passionate evening he had spent with her. "No," Oliver said. "Freedom of the press, gentlemen."

Peter Tager turned to the president. "About the governor...?"

"I'll handle it." He flicked down an intercom key. "Get me Governor Houston in Denver."

"We've got to start some damage control," Peter Tager was saying. "I'll get together statistics on how much crime has gone down in this country, you've asked Congress for more money for our police departments, et cetera." The words sounded hollow even to his own ears.

"This is terrible timing," Melvin Wicks said.

The intercom buzzed. Oliver picked up the telephone. "Yes?" He listened a moment, then replaced the receiver. "The governor is on her way to Washington." He looked at Peter Tager. "Find out what plane she's on, Peter. Meet her and bring her here."

"Right. There's an editorial in the Tribune. It's pretty rough." Peter Tager handed Oliver the editorial page of the newspaper, PRESIDENT UNABLE TO CONTROL CRIME IN THE CAPITAL. "It goes on from there."

"Leslie Stewart is a bitch," Sime Lombardo said quietly. "Someone should have a little talk with her."

In his office at the Washington Tribune, Matt Baker was rereading the editorial attacking the president for being soft on crime when Frank Lonergan walked in. Lonergan was in his early forties, a bright, street-smart journalist who had at one time worked on the police force. He was one of the best investigative journalists in the business.

"You wrote this editorial, Frank?"

"Yes," he said.

"This paragraph about crime going down twenty-five percent in Minnesota, that's still bothering me. Why did you just talk about Minnesota?"

Lonergan said, "It was a suggestion from the Ice Princess."

"That's ridiculous," Matt Baker snapped. "I'll talk to her."

Leslie Stewart was on the telephone when Matt Baker walked into her office.

"I'll leave it to you to arrange the details, but I want us to raise as much money for him as we can. As a matter of fact, Senator Embry of Minnesota is stopping by for lunch today, and I'll get a list of names from him. Thank you." She replaced the receiver. "Matt."

Matt Baker walked over to her desk. "I want to talk to you about this editorial."

"It's good, isn't it?"

"It stinks, Leslie. It's propaganda. The president's not responsible for controlling crime in Washington, D.C. We have a mayor who's supposed to do that, and a police force. And what's this crap about crime going down twenty-five percent in Minnesota? Where did you come up with those statistics?"

Leslie Stewart leaned back and said calmly, "Matt, this is my paper. I'll say anything I want to say. Oliver Russell is a lousy president, and Gregory Embry would make a great one. We're going to help him get into the White House."

She saw the expression on Matt's face and softened. "Come on, Matt. The Tribune is going to be on the side of the winner. Embry will be good for us. He's on his way here now. Would you like to join us for lunch?"

"No. I don't like people who eat with their hands out." He turned and left the office.

In the corridor outside, Matt Baker ran into Senator Embry. The senator was in his fifties, a self-important politician.

"Oh, Senator! Congratulations."

Senator Embry looked at him, puzzled, "Thank you. Er - for what?"

"For bringing crime down twenty-five percent in your state." And Matt Baker walked away, leaving the senator looking after him with a blank expression on his face.

Lunch was in Leslie Stewart's antique-furnished dining room. A chef was working in the kitchen preparing lunch as Leslie and Senator Embry walked in. The captain hurried up to greet them.

"Luncheon is ready whenever you wish, Miss Stewart. Would you care for a drink?"

"Not for me," Leslie said. "Senator?"

"Well, I don't usually drink during the day, but I'll have a martini."

Leslie Stewart was aware that Senator Embry drank a lot during the day. She had a complete file on him. He had a wife and five children and kept a Japanese mistress. His hobby was secretly funding a paramilitary group in his home state. None of this was important to Leslie. What mattered was that Gregory Embry was a man who believed in letting big business alone - and Washington Tribune Enterprises was big business. Leslie intended to make it bigger, and when Embry was president, he was going to help her.

They were seated at the dining table. Senator Embry took a sip of his second martini. "I want to thank you for the fund-raiser, Leslie. That's a nice gesture."

She smiled warmly. "It's my pleasure. I'll do everything I can to help you beat Oliver Russell."

"Well, I think I stand a pretty good chance."

"I think so, too. The people are getting tired of him and his scandals. My guess is that if there's one more scandal between now and election, they'll throw him out."

Senator Embry studied her a moment. "Do you think there will be?"

Leslie nodded and said softly, "I wouldn't be surprised."

The lunch was delicious.

The call came from Antonio Valdez, an assistant in the coroner's office. "Miss Stewart, you said you wanted me to keep you informed about the Chloe Houston case?"