Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [42]
The State Department picked up on the Iraqi protest and asked in a written statement that the rumors circulating about the possible cause of Mutki’s death be discounted until a more definitive cause of his demise had been determined. “The Iraqi government has come a long way in establishing a democracy in which journalists are free to express their views,” said the statement. “We ask that the media wait until more facts have been established.”
A Kurdistan Regional Government representative demanded that the United States government launch an official investigation of Afran Mutki’s “murder” and bring those responsible to justice. “This esteemed journalist has been assassinated on U.S. soil”—yes, they used the word assassinated—“and it is incumbent upon the government of the United States to bring those behind it to swift justice.”
While Mutki’s death and the controversy surrounding it had joined other hot political topics being discussed across Washington—in day-care centers and on tennis courts, in the halls of Congress and in launderettes—it was of little interest to Mitzi Cardell. She found most topics debated at her dinner parties boring, even irrelevant. What mattered was her social calendar, who would be seated next to whom in her salon, and whether the purveyor of food for those occasions understood that the shrimp had to be firm, not flabby.
After showering and dressing on the morning following the dinner for the attorney general, she called Jeanine Jamison’s private number at the White House.
“This is Mitzi Cardell. May I speak with the first lady?”
“She’s unavailable at the moment, Ms. Cardell,” the man said.
“When would be a better time to call?”
“She has a very busy schedule today.”
Mitzi bottled her anger. She knew the man functioning as Jeanine Jamison’s buffer, Lance Millius. He’d been one of Fletcher Jamison’s closest confidants during the recent presidential campaign, a loyal and politically smart insider who was destined for a top White House job should Jamison win, as his chief of staff perhaps, or an equally powerful position. There was considerable buzz around Washington when Jamison named Millius the first lady’s chief of staff, lots of speculation that the new president didn’t trust his wife and wanted a strong hand making sure she didn’t stray from the party line or commit a verbal gaffe. That the post hadn’t gone to a woman also raised a few practiced eyebrows around D.C., including Mitzi’s.
But his gender wasn’t what really riled her. She considered him an arrogant, overly ambitious young man whose only true loyalty was to Lance Millius, someone Ayn Rand obviously had in mind when she championed a sense of self. Mitzi sometimes wondered whether the first lady was having an affair with Millius. Wouldn’t she love to be privy to that bit of juicy insider gossip.
She’d shared her dislike of him with her childhood friend, but Jeanine had dismissed her complaints: “Lance is an incredibly loyal and effective chief of staff, Mitzi. I think he’d lay down his life for me. Besides, the president has faith in him.”
Mitzi hadn’t pursued it, although she’d wanted to. If she had, she would have had to admit to her friend that what really irked her was having someone—anyone—stand between them. Had achieving the White House gone to her friend’s head? she sometimes wondered. Jamison’s win, albeit by an extremely narrow vote, represented a victory for Mitzi, too. Having her best friend in the White House was a dream come true because it solidified her position as the city’s most important and influential hostess. Access to power has always been paramount in Washington, and Mitzi had carefully cultivated relationships with the city’s leading figures. Jeanine was the prize in her black book of private phone numbers and e-mails. Having a snotty young twerp like Lance Millius loom between them was anathema.
“It’s important, Lance, that I speak with her today,” Mitzi said.
“I’ll make her aware that you called, Ms.