Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder (13 page)

The agent laughed. “Eating raw meat will kill him faster than any terrorist.”

“Not there,” another staffer chimed in. “Best steak tartare in the city.”

“He's got steel arteries,” another staffer quipped.

“What's Mrs. Mortinson's schedule for today?” Whitson was asked.

“I haven't been told yet by her scheduler. I'll find out and let you know. Enjoy the holiday. There might not be another until he's in the White House.”

*   *   *

Presidential candidate George Mortinson got off the stationary bike in the home he and his wife had shared in the District since his election to the Senate. It was six a.m. He'd gotten to bed at one after meeting with his campaign strategists.

Mortinson was one of those men who need little sleep to function, and he enjoyed late-night bull sessions with those closest to him, including his chief of staff, Meg Whitson, who'd been at his side since his days as a congressman from Wisconsin. He'd used that platform to run for, and win, a Senate seat and served almost two full terms in the senior congressional body. That he would one day run for the presidency was a foregone conclusion for pundits for whom politics was heroin.

Mortinson came from a Wisconsin political dynasty. His grandfather had served one term as governor, his father two terms in the same position. There was plenty of family money to support this third generation's foray into national politics. The grandfather had made his fortune in a chain of supermarkets that blanketed the country, followed by a fast-food franchise that grew to include outlets in every state. When he died, his financial interests were left to his son, who had little interest in following in the family's business footsteps. Instead of taking a hands-on role in running the companies, he hired the best managers and set his sights on emulating his father's fling with state politics. By the time his father retired due to ill health, he'd established himself as Wisconsin's most successful, forward-thinking governor; his son George's political future was ordained.

That wasn't to say that the path to the White House would be easy. George Mortinson's politics were decidedly left of center. Many on the right considered him the biggest threat to the nation since FDR, and attacks on his platform and policies were the nastiest since Barack Obama sat in the Oval Office. He was branded a Socialist; some even accused him of being a Commie lover, soft on national defense, too willing to cave to the demands of other governments, and too quick to wind down the country's military adventures and bring the troops home. A few years ago, his stance on such matters wouldn't have played well in a nation leaning far right. But the policies of the current administration led by President Allan Swayze had proved disastrous on many fronts, and the nation was desperate for change. Besides, Swayze's brooding, dour style and tendency to butcher the English language were magnified when compared to Mortinson's quick wit, wide smile, and good looks. Three television debates had highlighted the differences between the two men, with Swayze stumbling for answers while Mortinson smoothly laid out his vision for the country.

His wife, Trish, walked into the room as he toweled off.

“The voters should see you now,” she said pleasantly, “all sweaty and with your hair a mess.”

“It would add to my appeal,” he countered, “especially with female voters. Male sweat is an aphrodisiac.”

“Not for this female,” she said. “Are you really taking the day off from campaigning? Is it true?”

“It sure is. I don't know why you didn't stop me from running for president. It seems like I don't have a minute to myself, every day planned like a military exercise.”

“It'll be worse when you're president.”

“Maybe I should concede defeat.”

“They haven't voted yet.”

“I could save them the trouble. If I didn't think that another four years of Swayze would doom the country, I might seriously consider it.”

He snapped his towel at her as he passed on his way to the shower, stopped, gave her a quick kiss, and left.

George and Tricia Mortinson were referred to in the media as “the golden couple.” She was as beautiful as he was handsome, her face a cameo framed by rich auburn hair. Like her husband, she came from money. She was a champion of the arts; a Mortinson presidency would benefit artistic institutions of every type—opera, ballet, theater, museums, public television and radio, and the music world. She was a fashion style setter, too, and it was expected that once she was first lady, the White House would be tastefully redecorated. Mrs. Swayze's heavy-handed decorative touch had been compared by one critic to a set from a 1920s Gothic motion picture.

Morrison emerged from the bathroom, a blue towel wrapped around his midsection.

“Did you clear your slate for today?” he asked.

“As best I could,” Tricia said. “I'm tied up through lunch, but I'm free after that. What do you have planned?”

“Tennis and lunch with Mac Smith. We're on for dinner with them tonight. The Moreys, too. Bistro Bis.”

Her expression mirrored her displeasure.

“Prefer another restaurant? If I change plans now, the Secret Service guys will rebel.”

“No, it's okay. I just thought we might spend some time alone tonight. God, there never seems to be any time to relax, just the two of us.”

He came up behind and wrapped his arms around her. “I know. Like I said, maybe running wasn't the greatest idea I've ever had.”

She twisted so that she faced him, her face inches from his. “I'm just afraid that the country will end up owning you.”

“Never happen,” he said, kissing her lightly, then more firmly. “The country rents a president.
You
own me.”

She pulled away. “Looks like we've developed hard feelings between us,” she said, looking down at the towel.

He laughed. “We'll resolve our differences tonight when we get back from dinner. Wish me luck on the tennis court. Mac tells me that his knee is acting up again. I might even win this time.”

She watched her husband leave the room and smiled. As far as she was concerned, he was the most unlikely politician she'd ever met, and she'd met plenty. It wasn't that he lacked ambition, or was unwilling to put his heart into campaigning. He thrived when shaking hands on the rope lines and when giving speeches. It was the political nitty-gritty that turned him off, the backroom deals, the wheeling and dealing, and the constant pleading for money from those who were willing to give it in return for later favors. As far as Mortinson was concerned, the nation's political system was terribly broken and wasn't about to be fixed by him—or by anyone else. It was beyond that. Congress voted to please and appease its big-money contributors whether it benefited the country or not. The days when senators and congressmen from rival parties fiercely debated on the floor and then had a drink together, played poker, and shared family evenings were but a distant memory. The best Mortinson hoped for was to use his bully pulpit to rally enough of the citizenry to undo the most toxic of Swayze's policies and to build a consensus for new, more progressive approaches to the nation's myriad problems.

His dismay, even disgust with the political system was one of the reasons that he sought out people like Mackensie and Annabel Smith with whom to spend time. He and Smith had a tacit understanding: politics would never intrude into their conversations. They would talk about anything else—sports, movies, music, gardening, books, cars, vacation spots—anything but the nasty business of politics. And, of course, their performances on the tennis court provided plenty of conversational meat.

On this day, Mortinson arrived at the Sutton Racquet Club, accompanied by four Secret Service agents, where Mac Smith awaited. They played two vigorous sets, and to Mortinson's delight, he won both, albeit by close scores.

“I'd like to blame my knee,” Smith said, “but it feels good today. Looks like you've improved your backhand.”

“Actually, I cheated. Some of your shots that I called out were in.”

“Don't let the press know.”

“The hell with the press. Clinton cheated at golf and he did okay.”

Smith laughed and walked with Mortinson to the limo that had delivered the candidate to the tennis club. “I'll follow you,” he said as Mortinson patted an agent on the back and prepared to climb into the limo.

Smith turned on the all-news station WTOP as he drove to the restaurant. There was breaking news: Virginia senator Marshall Holtz had been the victim of an assassination attempt while holding a town meeting in his hometown of Fairfax. According to the reporter, the senator, who was in his fourth term, had been attacked by a man with an automatic weapon as he greeted constituents following his speech. The shooter, who was tackled by bystanders, had gotten off a dozen shots, one of them hitting the senator in the left shoulder and left side of his neck. Others were wounded in the attack and rushed to a hospital along with Holtz, their condition unknown.

Smith shook his head and rammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. “When the hell are we going to get smart about guns?” he said aloud.

By the time he arrived at Chef Geoff's, Mortinson had been made aware of the attack on Holtz. “You heard?” he asked Smith as they were escorted to a table with great fanfare.

“About Senator Holtz? Yeah, I heard.”

“I had drinks with Marshall a couple of days ago. He told me that threats against him had been increasing.”

“Did he beef up his security?” Smith asked. “I assume everyone did after the incident last week.” He referred to an attack on a congresswoman in Mississippi that was thwarted by members of her security staff. The attacker, an older man with a history of mental illness, had arrived at a fund-raiser carrying a long curved sword and had rushed at her as she got out of her car. No one was hurt, and her assailant was immediately apprehended.

“He said he was working on it,” Mortinson replied. “He had a briefing from the Capitol police and was in the process of deciding what to do.”

“Looks like he didn't make his decision fast enough,” Smith offered.

“I'm not sure there's a lot he could do. Hell, it's easy to knock off members of Congress. That's the new threat. The terrorists and crazies don't need to do something as spectacular as commandeering aircraft and knocking down buildings. They can go after us one by one, a senator here, a congresswoman there, kill a dozen people in a mall with a suicide bomber, toss a grenade into a town meeting.”

Mortinson was right. Terrorist groups no longer needed to launch a sensational strike as they did on nine eleven. They could bankrupt the country with idle chatter on the Internet that sent the nation into a high level of alert with a cost of millions of dollars each time it happened. Shooting an elected official or killing a dozen people in a mall was enough to send the citizenry into a panic. How do you fight this and win? Billions of dollars to support the war effort in Afghanistan and Iraq had had little or no effect on preventing an assailant from walking up to a U.S. senator and pulling the trigger.

“What about you, George?” Smith asked as they bit into their burgers, with Secret Service agents looking on from different locations in the restaurant. “You're obviously a prime target.”

Mortinson wiped ketchup from his mouth and shrugged. “I've got the best protection in the world,” he said, nodding in the direction of the agents.

“Still…”

“I know, I know, if someone wants to kill me—
really
wants to kill me—they'll find a way.”

Smith decided not to feed into this topic and said nothing as he concentrated on eating. When they were finished, Mortinson said, “I have to put out a statement about Marsh Holtz and get over to the hospital. “I'm not sure that I can make our dinner tonight.”

“Let's cancel,” Smith suggested. “We can do it another time.”

“So much for my day off,” Mortinson said as they walked outside, where a staffer waited.

“Senator Holtz survived the attack,” she said. “A hospital spokesman just announced that his wounds are serious but not life-threatening.”

“That's good to hear.”

“She handed him a statement his PR staff had written. Mortinson glanced at it and handed it back. “Too contrived,” he said. “I'll come up with something of my own.”

Smith watched his friend climb into the limo. His attention then went to others in the vicinity, men, women, children, ordinary people going about their daily business. Some stopped to wave to the candidate. An elderly couple tried to approach but was kept by agents from getting close. A middle-aged man who looked to Smith as being of Arabic origins watched the goings-on. A young man wearing a hooded sweatshirt stood quietly, his face devoid of expression. Was one of them a potential assassin? Smith wondered.

He got into his car and called Annabel at her gallery to say that dinner with the Mortinsons was off. “I talked to the Moreys, and they understood,” he said. Annabel didn't seem unhappy about it, nor was he. If dinner had been planned at the Mortinsons' home, he might have felt different about it. But dinners out in public places proved to be unwieldy because of the protection for the candidate. Besides, Smith was due at police headquarters at four to meet with Nic Tatum and Sheila Klaus; she'd been brought in that morning to be questioned again in the murder of Dr. Mark Sedgwick.

 

CHAPTER

18

Sheila Klaus sat alone in an interrogation room when Mac Smith arrived. Nic Tatum had preceded him and stood with Detective Joe Owens on the opposite side of the two-way glass separating them from her.

“Mackensie Smith,” Smith said, extending his hand to the senior detective.

“I remember you,” Owens said pleasantly. “You grilled me more than once on the witness stand.”