Dark Ambition (4 page)

"How well do you know Mrs. Winthrop?"

"Ann's one of my best friends. We've known each other for twelve years. In the last three, since she and her husband moved to Washington, we've spent a lot of time together. As you might expect, he's away or tied up a great deal, and I'm not married. So there you are."

"Do you know why there wasn't a maid or any other domestic staff in the house today? Don't they have people who manage this house?"

"They have a live-in couple who work in the house, but they're away for the weekend."

"There were some hundred-dollar bills on the stairs when I got here. Do you know why?"

"I would guess that whoever killed him stole some money and dropped them."

Campbell was looking down, tapping his pad. "Why does a secretary of state have so much cash in his house that a burglar can't even hold it all?"

Jennifer shook her head. "I don't know. My friendship is with her. I didn't know him very well."

"Maybe somebody wanted it to look like a burglary."

"If that's your theory, then you'll be happy to know that nothing was taken from upstairs."

He eyed her with suspicion. "How do you know that?"

"I asked Ann to check her jewelry and other things."

He smiled. "Helping me do my work?"

"I told you, I'm a lawyer."

Campbell barked an order to one of his forensic people: "Do a thorough job upstairs as well." Then he turned back to Jennifer. "What else did Mrs. Winthrop do upstairs?"

"She told me to call her daughter in Philadelphia and her son in San Francisco. They're on their way."

"Does Mrs. Winthrop have a job?"

"As I mentioned, she's a theater producer. Sometimes she directs. She's also the CEO of the Dolly Madison Theatre downtown, which she started two years ago."

"Did Mr. Winthrop have any enemies?"

"I didn't know him well enough to say. As I told you, my friendship was with her, but just reading the newspaper tells me he had lots of enemies."

He looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"The militant Arabs were angry about his efforts to combat Middle East terrorism. The Russians were madder'n hell that he wouldn't support an aid package until they coughed up their nuclear weapons. The Japanese were disturbed because of his opposition to their new Asia trade alliance, and the Chinese were furious that he wanted to sell arms to Taiwan. Together, those groups make up more than half the world."

"You think some foreign terrorist killed him?"

"I don't think anything. I'm just trying to answer your questions."

"Does the name George Nesbitt mean anything to you?"

She stopped to think about it for a few moments. "Not a thing. Who is he?"

Campbell kept on boring in. "To your knowledge," he said sharply, "did the secretary of state have sexual relations with men?"

"You mean, was he gay?"

Campbell nodded.

"I didn't get that impression from Ann, but we never discussed their sex life together."

"You think they had a happy marriage?"

Jennifer decided not to share her opinions on this subject with Campbell. Instinctively, she wanted to protect Ann. "I don't know. Her husband was busy. He traveled a lot. She made her own life. In that way, they were like most other important couples in this town. Their marriage didn't come first. But why are you asking me all of this?"

"Did Mrs. Winthrop have a hysterectomy?"

"Why the hell should I tell you that?"

His expression and voice turned harder. "I can easily get it from routine medical records."

"But why do you even care?"

"Because I saw a wet spot in the front of his pants. I've got to wait for the lab analysis, but that fluid tells me that he was getting ready to have sex with somebody, or at least thinking about it."

Mystified, she wondered what was going on here. "Maybe he just urinated."

"Then tell me why he had four dozen condoms hidden in a red file jacket in one of the drawers of a chest downstairs," he said, pointing in that direction. "Most married couples in their fifties aren't worried about birth control, and if they are, they keep whatever they use in a bathroom near their bedroom."

Hearing about so many condoms stunned Jennifer. "Ann had a hysterectomy about six years ago," she said weakly.

Campbell paused to jot some notes in the steno book. When he was finished, he said, "I think I'd better talk to Mrs. Winthrop."

Instinctively Jennifer tried to intervene. "Do you have to do that right now? She's had quite a shock."

The detective disregarded that idea completely. "The events are fresh. Now's the best time."

"Why don't you wait until the FBI gets here? They'll be running the show. Why make her do it twice?"

He bristled. "What makes you such an expert?"

"I spent two years working at Justice."

"Then you'll be happy to know that we're cooperating more these days. The D.C. police and the FBI operate as equal members of a team in a case like this. They won't make her tell her story a second time."

Was Campbell serious? Did he really believe the public announcements that White House officials were making about increased cooperation with the D.C. police? "You're kidding yourself. I called to make sure the President knew what happened to Robert. He wasn't merely the President's closest friend. He was a member of the cabinet. Killing him is a federal crime, as well as a local one. In this case, the FBI will never trust the D.C. police to do a good enough job."

Her words struck a sensitive nerve. "Well, they're wrong," Campbell snapped, "and until they get here, I'll do it my way."

She shrugged. Further discussion was obviously useless. "You're in charge for now. I'll get Ann, but please, can you avoid exposing her to all the blood and the odor downstairs? I don't think that would serve any useful purpose."

That caught him up short. Then he nodded at her request. "Of course."

As Jennifer reached the bottom of the stairs to the second floor, Ann was starting down. Her gray hair was tousled wildly on her head. Her skirt and blouse were rumpled.

"I'm sorry to bother you now, Mrs. Winthrop," Campbell said politely.

"You have to do your job." She led the way to the dining room table, and the three of them sat down.

"Thanks for your help," Campbell said. "I know how difficult this is for you." He glanced over his notepad. "What time did you leave the house today?"

"Jennifer picked me up around eleven."

"Anybody else here at the time?"

"Just Robert and the gardener."

"You have a name and address?"

Ann crossed into the kitchen and returned with a brown address book. "Clyde Gillis," she said. "Six-fifteen Quincy Street, Southeast Washington, 555-1249."

"How long has he worked for you?"

"Ever since we came to Washington. Nice man."

"Do you know a George Nesbitt?"

She shook her head.

Campbell gazed at Ann sympathetically. She had had a real shock. He didn't want to badger her. "Did your husband have any enemies?"

Ann scowled. "I have no idea."

Her harsh tone made him pause. Then he pressed on. "Were you aware of any threats that might have been made on his life recently?"

"A couple of nights ago, a man with a foreign-sounding voice called. He asked me if my husband was home. When I said no, he said to tell him that Hammas will kill him if he doesn't change his policy toward Israel."

"Did you tell Mr. Winthrop?"

She nodded. "He laughed about it and said prank calls like that went with the job."

That was about the way Campbell figured it, too, and he shrugged. "To your knowledge, what was taken from the house this afternoon?"

"I didn't see anything."

"Jewelry?"

She glanced at Jennifer. "I checked. It's all here."

"What about cash?"

For the first time, a question seemed to trouble Ann, Jennifer thought. Campbell had the same reaction.

"None of mine. I don't keep much in the house."

"And Mr. Winthrop?"

"He liked to keep a fair amount of cash. I don't know what was taken."

Campbell's instincts told him that the cash was an important point. At last, he might be getting somewhere. "Why did he keep so much cash? In his position that's odd."

"He said it made him feel comfortable to be ready for any emergency."

The flat way she said it told him this was the party line. Campbell stopped to review his notes, to figure out another way to get at her.

"Do you think you'll be able to find out who killed my husband?" asked Ann, also without emotion.

"We'll sure try, but I have to tell you there were nine hundred and twelve homicides in the District last year. Most were related to drugs one way or another. Unfortunately, we don't have the resources to solve every one of them, but you can bet we'll put everything we have into solving this one."

Campbell didn't say that with pride. It was clear what he meant. An innocent kid on the way home from school in a black area gets caught in a drug cross fire, and he becomes a statistic. A secretary of state, who happens to be from a wealthy New York WASP family and a friend of the President, gets shot, and the mayor would tell Campbell to pull out all the stops. The city's reputation as the murder capital of the world was about to take a giant boost when the secretary of state's death made headlines in every Sunday paper around the globe tomorrow.

Campbell was getting ready to frame his next question when two men came barreling through the front door. One, in his late forties, looking like a former football player, with a blond crew cut, was wearing a brown polyester sports jacket, a white shirt, and a tie. The other one, not even thirty-five, was shorter, a little under six feet, thin and wiry, dressed in an Italian designer suit. He had gray metal-framed glasses and wavy thick brown hair.

"Where's Detective Campbell?" the polyester jacket asked.

"I'm Campbell," the detective said, rising to his feet. "Who are you?"

"FBI Special Agent Bill Traynor, and he's Ed Fulton, who's working with me at Director Murtaugh's request."

The younger man seized his cue. Fulton broke in. "The feds have taken over the investigation," he announced. "Half a dozen FBI forensic people are on the way. You can have your people wait outside."

"Now, hold on a minute," Campbell replied. "It's a homicide committed in the District. We always work together in a case like this."

"Not this time, bud," Fulton snapped. "Not when the victim is the secretary of state."

Looking pained, Ann got up and left the room. Nobody seemed to notice her. Jennifer was too intrigued by the Washington infighting to move.

Campbell walked over to the phone. "I'm calling the police chief," he said. "He'll go right to the White House."

"You're too late," Fulton shot back. "Director Murtaugh has already spoken to the mayor. The truth is that she was very pleased to be rid of this hot potato."

If Fulton thought that invoking Murtaugh's name would make Campbell more malleable, he was wrong. It further enraged the detective. He bit down hard on his lower lip as he picked up the phone. It took him three calls until he found Malcolm Lowry, the chief of police, at a daughter's house. After listening for a minute, he slammed the phone down in disgust.

"Fine, it's all yours," he said. He pointed his finger at Fulton and Traynor. "I hope you two geniuses choke on it."

Fulton wasn't the least bit intimidated. "You don't have to get pissed," he said in a condescending tone. "The secretary of state was a good friend of the President's. This development shouldn't surprise you."

Bill Traynor looked at Campbell sympathetically.

"C'mon, we're all in the same business," he said, trying to smooth things over. "Why don't you start by telling us what you've learned so far?"

Campbell's mouth was set in a firm line. "How could I learn anything if I'm so stupid?"

"Hey, I didn't say that," Fulton replied. "I just wanted to make it clear who's in charge."

This young twerp was pissing him off. "Well, you could have said that we were working together."

"Look, we don't need this crap," Fulton said, now sounding furious himself. "As far as I'm concerned, you can tell us what you learned, pull your people, and hit the road."

Campbell put the notebook in his pocket. He moved in close to Fulton, his fists clenched. For an instant Jennifer thought he was going to punch him out. "You've got an attitude problem," he said. Then he pulled away with dignity, as if he had decided that the satisfaction of smacking Fulton around wasn't worth losing his job. "I've got nothing to tell you, smart ass. The security guards who were out in front this afternoon are still here. Mrs. Winthrop is in the house and"—he suddenly became aware of Jennifer listening with an amused expression on her face—"and Ms. Moore, who brought Mrs. Winthrop home from the theater, is right here. Your forensic people can get any prints or other stuff from my people. I'm out of here."

Campbell shoved his hands into his pockets and stormed out of the house, taking half of his people with him.

"You got anything special to contribute right now?" Fulton asked Jennifer. His tone was haughty. To have gotten his job, this guy must have one helluva resume, Jennifer thought. She had rarely met anyone who enraged people so easily—including her.

Yeah, I've got something to contribute, Jennifer told herself. A lesson for you in how to talk to people. "Not a thing," she replied coldly. "As Detective Campbell already told you, I brought Ann Winthrop home. If you don't mind, I'll wait with her until her daughter gets here, and then I'll leave. You can find me in the Washington phone book at Blank and Foster law firm on Monday, if you need me."

"By Monday we'll have this crime solved," Fulton said with confidence. "We'll have the man who killed Winthrop behind bars."

 

 

 

Chapter 3