Murder in the White House (Capital Crimes Book 1) Read Free

some kind of job in the Webster Administration; he had no idea what. He knew his old mentor, Justice William G. Friederich of the United States Supreme Court, had recommended him. He had clerked for Justice Friederich. It was the thought of having to explain to
him
that had kept Ron from walking out this afternoon.
    “Justice Friederich is a friend,” said Fairbanks. It was a careful, bland answer. He had determined to keep a wary distance. He did not want a job in the Webster Administration, really. He had come to Detroit out of courtesy to Justice Friederich, and, of course, out of curiosity.
    “I’m looking for a few people with a special sense of commitment,” Webster said. “There are not many things in this life that are worth a total commitment, and I’ve known people who made that kind of commitment for nothing very much. But this… the presidency for four years. It
is
worth it. I’ve made the commitment for myself, and I’m looking for people who will make it with me. I’m looking for one hundred percent dedication. You think you could give that to me, Ron?”
    Fairbanks looked over his scotch. “To be altogether frank, I don’t think I could. I usually hold back a little something of myself… for myself, I guess… I don’t think I could change that, even if I wanted to.” He smiled faintly. “I’m sorry. I don’t see any point in lying about it.”
    Webster smiled too—more broadly. “Well, you’re honest,” he said wryly.
    “I’m a skeptic, I guess something of a cynic,” Fairbanks said.
    Webster laughed. “Any other disqualifications?”
    Fairbanks grinned. “I didn’t vote for you.”
    “I knew that. Bill Friederich told me. He also told me you had your reasons. He said you were circumspect and, if you agreed to work for me, would support me while you were with me. Was he right about that?”
    Fairbanks nodded. “I’m rather naive politically,” he said.
    Webster laughed again. “I hear otherwise.”
    A door from another room in the suite opened, and Webster’s daughter came in. Fairbanks recognized her from her pictures. “Lynne,” said Webster. “Pour yourself a drink and sit down. This is Ron Fairbanks. I’m about to offer him a job.”
    The young woman settled a critical eye on Fairbanks. She was nineteen or twenty, as Fairbanks remembered the press stories about the Webster family: a student, the President-elect’s youngest child. She was attractive, not to say beautiful; but Fairbanks thought she looked tired. He remembered reading somewhere too that Lynne Webster had said the campaign had exhausted her. She did pour herself a drink, and came to stand behind her father, as if waiting for him to dismiss Fairbanks and then she could have a word with him.
    “I want you to serve as Special Counsel to the President,” Webster said to Fairbanks….
    “I didn’t expect it,” Ron said to Lynne an hour later. He had not expected what followed, either. Webster had said he realized Ron had missed his return flight. He told him there was a room for him there at the Plaza; and then, for a further surprise, he said to Lynne that he could not have dinner with her after all, since Senator Fleming was arriving within the hour, and since Ron was stuck overnight in Detroit, alone, maybe it would be pleasant if they had dinner together.
    Here they were, then, in La Fontaine, the fine French restaurant in the hotel, sitting opposite each other at a table: the daughter of the President-elect and his new Special Counsel. Lynne was not pleased. She had expected to have dinner with her father, not to be pushed off on a stranger and be compelled to make conversationabout such things as her impending move to the White House. She was silent. She dipped her hand in the water in the fountain from which the restaurant took its name—it was immediately beside their table—and said casually that the water was room temperature. People in the restaurant recognized her. They stared. She noticed