Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [87]
“I take it that the car that pulled in behind us contains some of the city’s finest,” Ziegler said, adding what passed for a knowing laugh.
“It’s to be expected,” Rollins said.
“Are they doing their job, Jerry?” he asked.
“Yes, I think so. We don’t have much choice but to believe that they are.”
“Of course. How is Governor Colgate these days?”
“He’s fine. The president?”
“As ornery as ever but very much on top of things. He asked me to personally convey his concern about your daughter.”
Rollins winced and looked through the tinted side window; it appeared to be nighttime outside.
“You know, Jerry,” Ziegler said, never turning to look at his backseat companion, “there are times when we can put politics aside in a time of personal need.”
“I’m aware of that, Kevin,” Rollins said, shifting position so that he faced Ziegler. “You’ll have to excuse me if I have trouble concentrating. There’s a lot on my mind.”
“No need to explain that, Jerry,” Ziegler said. And then he did the inexplicable. He patted Rollins’s knee.
Little more was said as they made their way to their destination, a pretty brick house on a tree-lined street of pretty brick houses. This one was on a corner. A plain, white five-foot-high plank fence that appeared to have been recently installed defined the property and created a barrier between it and the adjoining home. Rollins’s first thought was that it might be one of Ziegler’s private residences. There was no number on the door or fence. The front windows were covered with draperies. A car was parked in the short driveway, nudged up close to the overhead door of the single-car garage. The driver pulled the Town Car behind the other vehicle, allowing its front bumper to gently touch its rear one.
“Your house, Kevin?” Rollins asked as they walked to the front door.
“Mine to use,” Ziegler answered. “For special events.”
“Is this a special event?” Rollins asked.
“I’m hoping it will be, Jerry.”
The door was opened by a young man wearing a suit. Ziegler paused before entering and looked back at the street, where the police vehicle had come to a stop a half block away. “I’d invite them in,” Ziegler said, chuckling, “but I’m sure they wouldn’t appreciate it.”
They passed through a living room, in which two women worked side by side at computer desks, telephone headsets draped over their hairdos. Neither looked up as Ziegler led Rollins into what probably served as a dining room when the house was occupied by normal homeowners. Desks there were also occupied, by a man and a woman. Ziegler opened French doors and stepped into a rear sunroom, in which a table was elaborately set for lunch. A man and a woman wearing short white jackets over black slacks and frilly white shirts stood at attention in a corner.
“Your choice, Jerry,” Ziegler said, indicating either of two chairs upholstered in a sunny flowered yellow fabric. The expanse of windows was draped with white muslin from ceiling to floor. The chairs faced each other.
Rollins processed his situation. Each campaign maintained a variety of locations from which to conduct off-site fund-raising and other nitty-gritty tasks away from the centers of attention—in Pyle’s case, the White House and his party’s “official” headquarters. The Colgate campaign had its own selection of such places. In effect, they were safe houses, although that smacked too much of clandestine activities, the stuff of spy novels. But