Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder (34 page)

Woodhouse's partner said, “In other murders involving a prostitute, it's often one of her johns, her clients, who did it.”

“That makes sense,” said Borger, “but no, she never mentioned anyone by name. That would have been terribly indiscreet of her. But she did—”

Woodhouse's cocked head invited him to continue.

“She did mention one client, not his name, but said that she was afraid of him. She said that he'd threatened to kill her.”

“But no name.”

“No name.”

“Did you suggest that she notify the police?”

“Of course I did, but I understood her reluctance to do that. She was, after all, a prostitute, which means she was breaking the law. She was concerned about how you, the police, would respond to her.”

Their interview with Borger lasted another half hour. It was toward the end of it that Woodhouse said, “We've established that she was with you the day of her murder.”

“Why day was that?” Borger asked. Woodhouse told him. Borger excused himself to check his appointment book. When he returned he said, “That's right, we did have a session on that day.”

“What time?”

“I don't have it noted in my book, but I remember distinctly that it was four o'clock.”

“Why do you remember it so distinctly?” asked Woodhouse.

“I recall it because she was quite upset about this client's threats, so much so that I suggested that she spend the night here.”

“You usually have patients spend the night at your house?”

“Not routinely, but I have done it with certain patients. Sometimes prolonging the time spent with a patient can be therapeutic. Frankly, I was concerned for her safety.” He shrugged. “But she refused my offer and said that she'd be all right, that she could take care of herself.”

The detectives thanked Borger for his time and cooperation and left. When they were in the car, Woodhouse‘s partner said, “He's slick, isn't he?”

“Too slick for my blood,” Woodhouse replied. “You notice that he had the newspaper on his desk?”

“No.”

“He acted as though being told of the murder was a big surprise. I don't believe him.”

“Want to go back?”

“Later. Let's follow up on some of the other names we have from her calendar and address book, then we'll pay the doctor another visit.”

 

CHAPTER

40

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Senator George Mortinson lobbed a ball over Mac Smith's head and watched his tennis opponent scramble to reach and return it. He failed.

“Nice shot,” Smith said as he prepared to serve.

Smith eventually won the abbreviated match, which was cut short when Meg Whitson came to the court and told the senator that he was behind schedule for a noontime speech he was slated to deliver. Mortinson had been running late all morning, much to the chagrin of his staff. Flanked by Secret Service, he walked with Smith to where their cars were parked, with Meg encouraging them to move faster.

“If we'd played it out, I would have beaten you,” Mortinson said.

“Maybe,” Smith said.

“You know, Mac, it would be good form to let the next president of the United States win.”

“What would I get for throwing the match?”

“A night in—”

“The Lincoln Bedroom?”

“The maids' quarters,” Mortinson said through a laugh. “Coming to the event tomorrow?”

“Wouldn't miss it, Senator. Annabel's looking forward to it, too. We're bringing friends, Nicholas Tatum and his gal friend Cindy Simmons. I told you about them. She's a big fan, was thrilled to get a signed photo of you at a restaurant the other night.”

“Look forward to seeing them, and you and Annabel.”

Smith watched Mortinson be driven away to a shower and to his next appointment on the campaign trail. He and Annabel were staunch supporters of the Mortinson candidacy and the policies that he espoused. But neither was disillusioned about what running for so lofty a position as the leader of the free world demanded. It took an immense ego and sense of self-confidence that few other people possessed. It also helped to have a fatalistic view of one's mortality.

There were always some deranged individuals out there determined to impose their will on the nation by ridding it of someone they considered dangerous and a threat to what they believed in. Four sitting presidents had been assassinated: Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, and Kennedy. Others, like Truman, Nixon, Ford, and Reagan, had survived attacks. Potential president Robert Kennedy had been gunned down while campaigning, and every president lived with death threats—the Bushes, Clinton, Teddy and Franklin Roosevelt, and Barack Obama. It went with the territory was the way they all dismissed that grim reality when questioned about it in public. But were they always that cavalier in their private moments?

Mortinson and Tricia had discussed the danger to candidates for high political office on more than a few occasions. She agreed with him that protection for presidential candidates was top-notch, the men and women of the Secret Service consummate professionals who would give their lives to protect their wards. But she was also aware that her husband was of the opinion that the best protection in the world couldn't guarantee that someone, sometime, couldn't find a way to inflict injury, especially on someone as gregarious as George Mortinson. She'd urged him to curb his need to press into crowds, seeking every outstretched hand, too often deviating from the scheduled route, to the dismay of the agents assigned to him. She also tensed when he took part in parades, opting for a convertible that afforded the crowds a better view of him than a covered vehicle like that used by the pope and other world leaders. Visions of Jack Kennedy in Dallas always came to mind, and she would breathe a sigh of relief when her husband had passed safely along the parade route.

Yes, it went with the territory, but that didn't make it more palatable.

Mortinson's speech was at the venerable Woman's National Democratic Club, which had been enticing the biggest names in politics to speak at their twice-weekly luncheons since the club's founding in 1922. Housed in an imposing 1894 Beaux Arts mansion near Dupont Circle, its membership, which had included men since 1988, was a friendly crowd to address for any Democrat running for office. Tricia Mortinson not only accompanied her husband on this day, she introduced him. She kept it short; he spoke for twenty minutes and left time for questions. Some were directed at Tricia, including one from an older woman who asked what it was like to be married to not only the next president of the United States but to such a handsome man as well.

Tricia laughed at the question, thought for a moment, and said, “You know how some men consider beautiful women as not having brains? Well, that's not true of my—dare I say it?—beautiful husband. He'll bring to the office a thoughtful, reasoned approach to the multitude of problems we face as a nation. In other words, the United States of America will be in very capable hands.”

The men and women in the audience stood and applauded, although some of the more conservative attendees remained seated. The Mortinsons, accompanied by Secret Service agents, left the head table and personally greeted everyone, shaking hands, smiling broadly, and stopping for those who'd brought a camera. Meg Whitson had sat in the rear of the room during the event. She looked at her watch and scowled. They were already a half hour behind schedule, and she mentally grappled with how they could make up the time for the rest of the day.

The Mortinsons eventually reached the street, where their limo waited, along with a black sedan for the agents. A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk and pressed forward to say hello to the next president of the United States. Two of the agents subtly used their bodies to keep Mortinson from straying from a direct path to the limo, but their efforts failed. He broke from them and started shaking hands with the crowd. A young man wearing a hooded gray sweatshirt and torn jeans, and needing a shave, stood at the rear of the knot of people. As Mortinson reached past others to offer his hand, one of the agents brusquely stepped in front and shielded him from the scruffy onlooker. Mortinson looked quizzically at the agent, who said, “Didn't like his looks, Senator.”

Mortinson shrugged at the young man as he turned his back and walked away. The candidate shook a few more hands on his way to the limo, climbed in the back where his wife and Meg Whitson waited, and asked Tricia, “Did you see that?”

“What?”

“The agent didn't like the looks of a kid wanting to greet me. He damn near knocked me over getting between us.”

“That's his job, George,” she said.

“Maybe he takes it too seriously,” was Mortinson's reply.

“I don't think that any of them can take the job too seriously,” Meg said. “Relax, Senator. You've got another appearance and we're already late.”

*   *   *

As much as Nic Tatum needed a nap, he found it difficult to fall asleep for more than a few minutes at a time. He finally gave up the attempt and got on his treadmill for twenty minutes, then lifted weights for another fifteen before heading for the shower. He and Cindy had decided to go out for dinner at six. At four, he got in his car and drove to Rockville, where Sheila Klaus lived. He didn't know why he decided to do that; it was as though someone was pulling strings and guiding him there. He didn't intend to confront her again. He just had this unstated need to see whether she had returned.

He parked across the street from the house and looked for signs of life. Another unopened newspaper sat on the front step, a signal that Sheila wasn't back from San Francisco. He got out of the car and went to the front door, where he saw something else on the step, a box. He picked it up and read the label: Tangelos from a farm in California. The return address was a post office box in San Mateo. A shame, he thought as he put the box down. If she wasn't back soon, the fruit would go to waste.

Convinced that he'd made yet another useless trip, he returned to his car, but instead of driving off, he sat, the motor off, and gazed at the house as though he could make her appear through sheer willpower. After ten minutes of this, he started the car and was about to pull away when a taxi pulled up in front of the house and Sheila got out. Tatum watched as the driver opened the trunk and removed a small carry-on suitcase. Sheila fished in her purse for the fare, paid him, picked up the suitcase, and went to the door, where she used her key to enter. A few seconds later, she reappeared to fetch the newspaper and box, went inside again, and closed the door.

Tatum considered changing his mind and going to the house. But after fierce internal debate, he fought the urge, pulled away from the curb, and headed back to the District and his dinner date with Cindy, his departure observed through a partially open drape by Carla Rasmussen.

When he was out of view, Carla used a kitchen knife to open the box. Inside were two rows of the orange fruit. She removed the top layer. Beneath it, wrapped in the same crinkly paper used to protect each individual piece of fruit, was a Smith & Wesson 639 Airweight revolver with a matte black finish. Wrapped next to it was a box of .38 special ammunition.

 

CHAPTER

41

When the mood for crêpes struck Nic and Cindy, they favored the Napoleon Bistro in the vibrant Adams Morgan section of the city. They ate on the patio, and over the restaurant's signature dish, Montmarte Crêpes, Nic told Cindy about his trip to Rockville and that he'd seen Sheila return from San Francisco.

“Did you speak with her?” Cindy asked.

“No. I was tempted to but asked myself what was to be gained. There's nothing I can do to get the truth out because the authorities have stonewalled any inquiries into the Sedgwick murder and Sheila's role in it. It's like the government is covering up her involvement, and
she
sure as hell doesn't want to have the truth come out—if she even knows what the truth is. I've been chasing my tail, and for what? As long as she's under Borger's control, there's not a damn thing I or anyone else can do about it.”

“Do you know why she went to San Francisco under that other name?”

“Carla Rasmussen.”

“Why did
they
go in the first place?” Cindy asked.

“Who knows? Maybe Borger needs to reinforce the control he has over her.” A shrug accompanied that supposition.

“This Dr. Borger is an evil man,” she said.

“Evil incarnate,” said Tatum. “But he's beyond any chance of having to pay for what he's done to her, and undoubtedly to others. “The government backs him, and the government will cover for him. I don't know what I was thinking, Cindy, trying to get to the bottom of it and bring it to light. Like you said, I'm not somebody wearing a cape out to save mankind.”

She giggled. “I think you'd look sexy in a cape.”

“Just a cape?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I'll give it a try when we get home.”

She was well aware how frustrated he was and wanted him to put the Sheila Klaus matter to rest. But was that possible? Would it ever be? What he knew, and what he believed, weren't likely to fade over time. Were she able, she would have wielded a magic wand and made it all go away, dismissed this Sheila Klaus and her strange second personality to some never-never land far away from him—and from her. The truth was that she'd fallen in love with Nicholas Tatum and didn't like competing for his attention with another woman—
two
other women, Sheila and Carla.

He helped assuage her concerns when he said as they entered her apartment, “The hell with Sheila Klaus, Sheldon Borger, and the rest of them. If I never see or hear of Sheila Klaus again, it will be too soon.” He kissed her and asked, “Have you seen my cape?”