Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [94]
“Well, I think you’d better start thinking about that, Mitzi.”
“This is terrible,” Mitzi said.
“How did you leave it with the reporter?”
“I said I wasn’t available. He left his number.”
“You didn’t call him back.”
“Of course not.”
“We have to assume that whatever this reporter knows he got from Brixton, and what can Brixton have? Damn little. It’s not like it happened yesterday, for Christ’s sake. It happened over twenty years ago. What about this attorney friend of yours?”
“Mackensie Smith? I don’t know what Brixton has told him.”
The tears came.
“Stop it!” Jeanine said. “Crying isn’t going to solve a goddamn thing.”
“My reputation will be ruined,” Mitzi said as she fished a Kleenex from her purse.
“Your reputation!” Jeanine snapped.
“We can’t let this happen,” Mitzi said and blew her nose.
“No, we can’t.”
“Did you ever tell Fletcher about it?” Mitzi asked.
“Of course not.”
“Maybe—”
“Maybe I should have? You’re right. I can’t allow him to be surprised by this, wake up and read about it in the papers. Can this Brixton be bought off?”
“How would I know?”
“I’m sure the reporter can’t be. Your lawyer friend?”
Mitzi shook her head. “No. He’s—”
Jeanine got up and paced the room, her hand to her forehead. When she resumed her seat she said, “I’ll have to tell Fletch about this. He’s due back any minute now.”
“What do you think he’ll say?”
“He’ll blow his stack. Maybe you should tell John.”
Mitzi shuddered.
“I know this,” Jeanine said. “I’m not going to see my life or Fletch’s presidency ruined because of some dime-store, white-trash private detective looking to make a buck.”
Jeanine’s hard tone was palpable, and Mitzi recoiled from it.
“I’ll talk to Fletch tonight. You go on home. I’ll call you tomorrow. In the meantime don’t mention this to anyone. Got that? Not anyone!”
CHAPTER 34
Fletcher Jamison, president of the United States, blustered into the White House, followed by a gaggle of attentive aides. He’d just returned from giving a speech in support of his agenda to rescind regulations on financial institutions that had been imposed by the preceding administration. It had gone over well with the handpicked crowd, and the warm reception they gave him was a welcome tonic after what had otherwise been a bad day. Congress had balked at his most recent budgetary proposals, and the latest polls showed his popularity heading for the tank. A small group of vocal, sign-carrying opponents had made their feelings known outside the auditorium.
“Jerks!” Jamison had muttered once back in the limo and headed for the airport where Air Force One awaited him.
“They’re meaningless,” an aide said. “All mouth, no substance.”
“You’d think they’d get a life,” the president said.
“They like to protest,” the aide said. “They latch on to any reason to carry their stupid signs and chant slogans.”
“What the hell do they want from me?” Jamison snarled as the limo and security vehicles neared the airport. “The media takes these polls and twists them to suit their agenda.”
“Exactly,” another aide enthusiastically agreed.
Jamison had grabbed a fast nap on the flight back to D.C., although it hadn’t done anything to improve his disposition. His aides knew to stay clear when he was in one of his moods, and they did so until he was back in the White House, had received a quick briefing on the day’s headlines from his political adviser, and headed for the first family’s private quarters, where his personal assistant stood at attention, ready to accept Jamison’s discarded clothing and to fetch him anything he might want. As usual, it was a glass of his favorite Tennessee mash whiskey with a splash of water, and popcorn.
Jeanine waited for him in her bedroom. She’d rehearsed what she would say and how she would say it, choosing her words carefully, dismissing the incident in the parking lot as a frivolous teenage evening gone awry, making light of it while at the same time letting him know of her concern for what it might mean should the story end up in the media. She chose a deep pink cashmere sweater