Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [122]
Colgate stayed in the suite until nine, when he announced to the press aide that he was leaving and could be reached at home. She briefed him on the calls from the press—there were forty-seven of them—and asked whether he had decided to address the media.
“That depends,” he said.
“The hotel says that there’s a slew of them downstairs,” she said.
He called the hotel manager and asked that an alternative exit be arranged. Twenty minutes later, he was escorted from the suite by hotel executives and the Secret Service agents who’d been camped outside his door. They led him through the inner recesses of the Willard to a rear door used by deliverymen.
There was no escaping the reporters in front of his Georgetown townhouse, however. Uniformed police dispatched to maintain order cleared a path for Colgate as he ignored the chorus of questions hurled at him, bounded up the steps, and used his key to open the front door, shutting out the cacophony behind him.
The housekeeper heard his arrival and came to the foyer.
“Where’s Mrs. Colgate?” he asked.
The housekeeper fought back tears. “Upstairs, sir.”
“What’s wrong?” Colgate asked.
She shook her head and ran from the foyer.
He approached the stairs and looked up. The landing was dark, but light from the master bedroom seeped through the door, which was slightly ajar. He walked up slowly, his legs heavy, his breath shallow. He paused at the top. “Deb?” he called. There was no response. He went to the door and pushed it fully open. Deborah sat in a wing chair by the window, an empty glass next to her. His eyes shifted to her designer luggage, which was nestled together at the foot of the bed.
“Hi,” he said, stepping into the room.
She was mum.
He crossed the room and took the matching chair. “I came back early,” he said.
“I heard.”
“I know what you must be thinking, Deb, but—”
She held up her hand. “I don’t want to hear it, Bob. Please, I don’t want to hear it from you.”
“Is there someone else you’d rather hear it from? The press?”
She dropped her hand and turned away.
He reached for her knee. She remained motionless.
He looked at the luggage. “You have an appearance scheduled?” he asked.
“No.”
She abruptly stood and walked to another window. “I’m leaving,” she said.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m leaving, Bob. I’m leaving the marriage and the campaign.”
“Oh, now, wait a minute,” he said. “I know this is rough, but we can get through it. We have to get through it, and we can only do that together, as a team. We’ve come so far that to—”
“Shut up!” she snapped, now facing him. “Do you really think I’d continue with this farce?”
“It’s anything but, babe,” he said, closing the gap between them but having the good sense to not close it all the way. “We knew going into this that it would be tough, dirty, slime tossed at us. Pyle and his people are ruthless, Deb. That’s all this is, Pyle and his people throwing the kitchen sink at us, character assassination, gutter politics. We can overcome it. I know we can. The voters don’t give a damn about sexual slurs and innuendos. What they do care about are the issues, the economy, this immoral war Pyle got us into through lies. Health care, college tuition, gas prices—those are the bread-and-butter is-sues that hit them in the pocketbook.”
“Is that all this is, Bob, sexual slurs and innuendo?”
“You bet that’s all it is, Deb. Look, we can ride this out, provided we act as one. We can set up something on TV, a prime-time interview, go straight to the American people. Believe me, I know how to spin this—and it will work.”
Her voice was as hard as her face. “No, Bob,” she said, “we will not go directly to the American people. Do you really think that I’ll be at your side like those other pathetic women who stand by their men, aging by the minute, looking adoringly at their philandering husbands while inside they’re seething with rage and loathing? No, Bob, you won