Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder (28 page)

“What the hell is going on?” a cop asked.

“Just a little argument,” Gibbons said.

“That son of a bitch attacked us,” said a biker.

“The hell I did,” Gibbons said. He pointed to the barmaid. “Tell 'em who started it,” he said.

“I didn't see,” she answered.

“All right,” one of the cops said to Gibbons, “name.” He was poised to write in a pad he took from his uniform pocket.

“You don't need my name,” Gibbons said. “These punks started a fight, that's all. It's over, no harm done.”

“What about the chair?” the barmaid said.

“You want to press charges?” she was asked by a cop.

“My boss'll kill me if that chair isn't paid for.”

“All right,” Gibbons said. “I'll pay for your goddamn chair.”

“You want to press charges?” a cop repeated.

“No, just get them to pay for the chair and their drinks and get out of here.”

“I still need names,” a cop said. “Gimme your licenses.”

The bikers complied, and their names and addresses were noted.

“You,” Gibbons was told.

While the cops took down the information from the bikers, Gibbons had time to process what was taking place. He carried two driver's licenses—his legitimate one from California and the phony license he'd been given to use to get through airport security in San Francisco—and didn't know which one to hand over.

“Come on,” a cop said.

Gibbons pulled out his wallet, slid his legitimate license from its plastic sleeve, and gave it to the cop.

“How much for the chair?” his partner asked the barmaid.

She shrugged. “A hundred maybe.”

Gibbons had plenty of cash on him and tossed bills on the table, which the barmaid scooped up and tucked in her cleavage.

“Okay,” a cop said to the bikers, “why don't you jerks take a hike.”

They started to leave, but the barmaid stopped them. “Your drinks,” she said.

They combined what cash they had, paid the bill, and left, tossing a couple of curses at Gibbons over their shoulder.

“Thanks,” Gibbons said.

“Stay out of trouble,” a cop said. “San Francisco? Always wanted to visit there.”

Gibbons remained behind after the cops had left and ordered another beer. It occurred to him as he drank that it might have been a mistake giving them his real driver's license. Too late now. He decided as he paid his tab, added a good tip, apologized to the barmaid for the fracas, and left the bar that he wouldn't mention what had happened to Puhlman. As long as he kept it to himself, no harm was done.

 

CHAPTER

33

Nic Tatum's eleven o'clock client told him at the outset of their session that she couldn't be hypnotized. He conducted the Spiegel Hypnotic Induction Profile and determined that she was in the midrange, an Odyssean, and asked that he be allowed to at least try. She agreed, and after a few minutes she'd entered trance during which he went through a prescribed set of suggestions aimed at her smoking habit. When she came out of trance she laughed and said, “I told you I couldn't be hypnotized.” Tatum didn't argue. He gave her a CD and suggested that she listen to it a few times each day, especially when she had the urge to smoke. She promised that she would and asked about another appointment.

“I don't think you'll need one,” he said, “but if you do, just call.”

He picked up Cindy at her apartment, and they headed for Sheila Klaus's home in Rockville.

“How did your morning go?” she asked as they drove out of the District.

“Good. I had another client who said she couldn't be hypnotized. She slipped into trance easily.”

Cindy laughed. “Do you ever worry that a female patient will accuse you of making sexual advances while she's under?”

“Always a possibility, but since I don't—make advances—I don't think about it. But Mesmer had his problems, though.”

“Who?”

“Franz Anton Mesmer, the German physician who ended up in Paris in the late 1700s practicing what he called animal magnetism. It was hypnosis, actually, only Mesmer didn't know it. It took until sixty years later before a Scotsman, James Braid, identified hypnosis as a medical specialty. Whatever Mesmer did, he became the darling of Paris, treating lots of wealthy patients, all of them women. He traveled in lofty circles, held musical evenings at his home and was actually one of Mozart's patrons, used to sponsor recitals by him. Anyway, King Louis something or other decided that Mesmer was too popular, especially with the ladies, and convened a commission to investigate whether he was using this so-called animal magnetism to seduce unsuspecting young women. The king appointed a whole slew of doctors and scientists to the panel, including—and get this—Ben Franklin, ambassador to France. Imagine that, Ben Franklin, a devoted womanizer, deciding whether Mesmer was a lecher. Anyway, the committee ruled against Mesmer and he faded into obscurity. What's left is the term ‘mesmerism.'”

“Benjamin Franklin was a womanizer?” Cindy asked.

“According to the historians. Look, when we see Sheila, I'll just introduce you as a friend, okay?”

“Whatever you say. Do you think this other personality of hers, this…”

“Carla Rasmussen.”

“Carla Rasmussen. Do you think she'll make an appearance?”

“I hope so. At least you'll know I'm not crazy.”

When they pulled up in front of the house, Tatum turned off the ignition and they looked for any sign of Sheila. They went to the front door and Tatum rang the bell. The last time he'd been there, the door had been open, with only the screen door in place, and he was surprised that it wasn't that way again on this beautiful, mild, sunny day.

“Let's check the back,” he said. “She spends a lot of time there tending her garden.”

They circumvented the house and looked in the yard. No sign of her. They returned to the front, where Tatum picked up one of two newspapers wrapped in protective plastic. He removed it and saw that it was yesterday's paper. The second package contained that day's edition.

“She's obviously not here,” Cindy said.

“And it looks like she hasn't been for two days,” Tatum said.

“She probably got away for a few days. She's been through an ordeal.”

“Possible, but I had the feeling that she was so happy to be home and in her garden that she wouldn't be going anywhere.”

They drove back to Cindy's apartment.

“Coming up?” she asked.

“No, I have some errands to run. Want to grab an early bite?”

“I'm in the mood for Chinese.”

“I'll pick some up and be by around five.”

Instead of returning home, he drove to police headquarters on Indiana Street and dropped in on Detective Joe Owens.

“Nic, my man,” Owens said. “What brings my favorite shrink here today?”

“I need a favor.”

“I always get uptight when I hear that. Before you tell me this favor, you should know that at the urging of your buddy, Mackensie Smith, we ran down financials for Ms. Klaus. Seems she's in pretty good shape, owns the house free and clear.”

“How'd she manage that? She left her job with a disability. I can't imagine that pays a hell of a lot.”

“No, it doesn't, but she paid off her mortgage in one shot. I sent a detective to the bank that held the mortgage. Seems Ms. Klaus came in with a check to cover what was left on it and told the bank that a relative had died in Bermuda and left her the money. We ran the check before the case was dropped.”

“Lucky lady.”

“I'd say so. Okay, Nic, what's the favor?”

“It's not a big deal. I need to know if someone has flown from D.C. to San Francisco in the last couple of days.”

“Who?”

“Who else? Sheila Klaus.”

“Shut the door.”

“Look, Nic,” Owens said after Tatum had resumed his seat, “that's old news, history.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why is it old news? You know as well as I do that she was released because somebody up top, way up top, put in the word.”

Owens was mum.

“All I want to know is whether she's gone to San Francisco. My girlfriend and I stopped by her house earlier today, and there were newspapers sitting on the step.”

Owens shrugged.

“I just need to know, Joe. All it takes is a phone call. She always flew United when she traveled with Sedgwick and on her own. One call to the airline to see whether Sheila Klaus or Carla Rasmussen took a flight to the West Coast over the past two days.”

Tatum waited.

Owens said through a deep sigh, “All right, Nic. But forget that MPD had anything to do with this. I'll be back.”

Tatum knew that Owens had gone to the intelligence section from which official calls to airlines and other transportation entities were made, using a code agreed upon between the carriers and MPD. He returned ten minutes later carrying a slip of paper.

“Well?” Tatum asked after Owens had settled behind his desk.

“No Sheila Klaus on any flights to San Francisco for the past two days.”

Tatum's sigh rang of frustration.

“But a Ms. Carla Rasmussen was on a flight.”

“She was? That's good to know.”

Owens handed Tatum the slip of paper on which he'd jotted down the details of the flight. “What are you going to do with this, Nic?” he asked.

“I don't know,” Tatum replied. “Thanks for this, Joe, I appreciate it.”

Tatum had been honest when he said that he didn't know what he would do with the knowledge that Sheila (and Carla) had flown to San Francisco. But by the time he got in his car and started driving home, he had an idea. The minute he entered his apartment, he went online and booked a flight to San Francisco leaving that evening.

 

CHAPTER

34

Presidential candidate George Mortinson and his staff and reporters flew back to Washington from San Francisco. It had been a successful appearance for the popular Democrat. As he quipped to Meg Whitson on the plane, “Maybe I should run for mayor of San Francisco. They love me there.”

“They love you everywhere, Senator. Your poll numbers have jumped another two points.”

“Swayze's getting desperate,” Mortinson said. “Did you hear what he said in Wyoming yesterday, that if the voters go for me, they'd better get ready for another nine eleven?”

“It plays to his dwindling core,” said Whitson. “Swayze knows he's losing and doesn't know what to do.”

“Couldn't happen to a better guy,” Mortinson said. “What's on tap for tomorrow?”

“A full day.”

He moaned.

“I left two hours day after tomorrow for tennis with Mac Smith. Thought you'd appreciate that.”

“Thanks. How is the rally at the Reagan Building shaping up?”

“Good. The Secret Service isn't thrilled at how many people you'll be greeting at the rope line, especially stopping to have pictures taken with them.”

“Sorry to make their jobs harder,” he said. “They're a good bunch. Wake me in an hour.”

*   *   *

Jake Gibbons returned to the house, where Peter Puhlman and Iskander Itani were playing cards in the living room.

“Hello, Jake,” Puhlman said. “How did it go?”

“How did it … oh, yeah, Iskander will be licensed in a few days, a lot of paperwork to wade through.”

“Who am I fighting?” Itani asked.

“I'm, ah, working on that, kid. Should know in a coupla days.”

Itani threw his cards on the table and went to his bedroom.

“What's with him?” Gibbons asked.

“He's uptight, that's all. Had a headache. He used that imaginary helmet the doc taught him. Seemed to work. He talked on the phone today with Borger.”

“That's supposed to calm him down.”

“It did, but he's gotten antsy again. It's only a few more days, Jake. Where did you go today?”

“Around. I went to a museum.”

Puhlman chuckled. “I'm impressed,” he said.

“That airplane museum. Interesting.”

“I'm sure it was. I spoke with Borger, too. He says all we have to do is keep Itani cool and collected, play along with him. Like I said, just a couple of more days.”

“What happens then?”

“Nothing. We leave him here and go back to Frisco.”

Gibbons got himself a beer from the kitchen and rejoined Puhlman in the living room. “I've been thinking today about that girl Elena,” he said.

“What about her?”

“Jesus, Peter, the kid murdered her and we got rid a the body. That makes us accessories, right?”

“Forget about it, Jake. It's over and done with. Doc Borger knows what he's doing.” He lowered his voice and became conspiratorial. “Borger has connections you can't even imagine, way up high in the government. He's one of those geniuses that the government pays a fortune to. We never have to worry about anything as long as he's behind it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but what's the deal with the kid in there? He moves into the doc's house and they hole up three, four times a day in the doc's office. Now we bring him here to D.C. and we sit in this house with him. For what? You say we're leaving him here and we go back home? What's he here for? What's goin' on?”

Puhlman said, “I know that the kid gets on your nerves, Jake, but you're starting to get on mine. You aren't paid to ask questions. Just do what I tell you and everything will be fine.”

Gibbons drank from his beer bottle, a scowl on his broad, lumpy face. “I just keep thinking about that girl, that's all,” he said.

“It's a shame it happened,” Puhlman said, “but bad things happen to people. Forget about it. Let's make some dinner. I'm hungry.”