Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [52]
Applause and whistles interrupted.
“—and I admit it. I married up and got myself more than the most wonderful wife any man has the right to deserve. This great nation of ours has the best first lady in its long history!”
And so it went.
First lady Cathleen Parmele addressed the crowd after her husband. She kept her remarks brief, saying only that it was a privilege and honor to represent the American people in the White House and adding the requisite tagline: “I am looking forward to being at my husband’s side as he leads our nation for another four years. God bless you. God bless America!”
One of Parmele’s aides, who’d been standing close to the president, looked to where Fletcher stood. The political adviser indicated with a nod of the head to get Parmele and the first lady off the stage and to the limo.
A fat raindrop hit Fletcher’s nose, and he absently wiped it away. He was about to leave the area when a Washington Post reporter covering the president’s trip came to Robin Whitson’s side and said something in her ear.
“Let’s go,” Fletcher said.
Robin held up a hand. “In a minute, Chet.”
Fletcher’s frown matched the press secretary’s. What’s going on? his expression asked. We have a schedule to keep.
The press secretary walked with the reporter to a secluded pocket away from others’ hearing.
The first couple passed; Havran and Brown fell in behind them. Fletcher stayed where he was, his attention never leaving the press secretary and the reporter.
“Where’s Chet?” Parmele asked when he reached his limo.
“With Robin,” Havran said.
Robin Whitson finished her furtive conversation with the Post reporter and joined Fletcher.
“What was that about?” he asked as they headed for the waiting cars, heads lowered against a steady rain.
“You tell me, Chet,” she replied.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning—what’s going on with the Widmer hearings?”
“That’s what he wanted to know?”
“Yes.”
“Why doesn’t he ask Widmer?”
“He tried. Widmer’s staff is treating the hearings as top secret. What’s with this book, Chet?”
“Book?”
“About the chief. He even asked me about the man who was killed in Union Station.”
“Not now, Robin.”
“Not now? Look, Chet, I’m supposed to be kept in the loop. I don’t like being blindsided by a reporter.”
“Not now!”
Fletcher climbed into his car where Havran and Brown were already seated.
“Went well,” Brown commented.
Fletcher said nothing.
“A problem?” Havran asked.
“What? No, no problem.”
Later, airborne and halfway back to Washington, Fletcher huddled with the president in his private office at the front of the aircraft. When he emerged and headed down the aisle toward the rear, he came face-to-face with Robin Whitson. Her expression was one large question mark.
“Don’t worry about anything, Robin,” Fletcher whispered. “Everything is taken care of. There is no problem.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Tim Stripling saw the departure from Washington of President Parmele and his entourage on CNN that morning. Why TV and cable networks bothered to cover the president winging off on a fund-raising and campaign trip to Indianapolis puzzled him, as coverage of such nonevents always did. Leaving to attend an international peace conference or to address a conference of mayors or governors might have justified TV time. But a campaign trip on Air Force One, financed by the taxpayers? There’d be plenty of those as Parmele’s quest for a second term got into gear. Did the public really want to watch every time the president’s plane lifted off a runway? Maybe it was the need on the part of news organizations to fill the time, or not to be caught short by competitors. The why didn’t matter. As far as Stripling was concerned, the whole thing was dumb.
While Stripling, the former CIA operative, cared little about Parmele’s campaign swings, it didn’t represent