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

and was uncomfortable; she stared at her hands. Two Secret Service agents sat at a nearby table too, rarely taking their eyes off her. Lynne glanced around. People were embarrassed to be caught staring and quickly looked away.
    “Assault by eyeball,” she said.
    The waiter lingered over their table, extending the ritual of opening a bottle of white wine so he would have more time to study the daughter of the President-elect, to memorize her features, her clothes, her figure, the better to be able to describe them vividly to friends later. Lynne accepted a glass of wine and held it between her hands, staring into it, frowning.
    “There are two things,” said Ron slowly, “that being the daughter of the President-elect does not involve.”
    “Oh? And what are they?”
    “First, it involves no obligation on your part to entertain me this evening, simply because your father held me in Detroit so long I missed my plane. Second, it involves no obligation on my part to attempt to entertain you when obviously you are uncomfortable and bored. I suggest I pay for the wine and leave.”
    She blushed. “I’m… I’m sorry—”
    “Third thing, no obligation to apologize. We were thrown together, no fault on either side… does he do that often?”
    “He meant well,” she said quickly. “He thought youand I would have things to talk about, things in common. He meant to relieve me of another evening of political talk.”
    “Well…” Ron shrugged, smiled.
    “Can you make us some interesting conversation, Mr. Fairbanks?”
    “I think so, Miss Webster… For starters, you have very good legs…”
    And from there it went quite well. The daughter of the President-elect defrosted, though still a bit edgy… nervous… in a way that made him more curious than he could explain…
    The White House, Tuesday, June 12, 10:15 PM
    Waiting in the Yellow Oval Room were the Secretary of State, the Chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, the ranking Republican of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, and the White House Chief of Staff. They had watched on television the return of Air Force One to Andrews, and when the helicopter landed on the lawn they were assembled in the Yellow Oval Room, sipping drinks and munching on chips and nuts.
    Senator Kyle Pidgeon, the Republican, flushed and wheezing, held the Secretary of State tight in conversation; and it was only with visible effort that Lansard Blaine was able to break away, cross the room, and shake the hand of the President.
    “I’ll want you with me downstairs,” was all the President said to Blaine. He referred to a meeting in the Oval Office, scheduled for 10:30, when he would reportto the other members of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee and to some from the House Foreign Affairs Committee. (“It makes them feel
damned
important to meet with the President in the middle of the night,” he had remarked to Lynne as they walked from the helicopter.)
    Blaine sipped brandy from a snifter. “Solid front, hmm?” he said. “I heard O’Malley ask you if I’m resigning.”
    “
I’ll
deal with O’Malley,” the President said under his breath—just before he smiled broadly and reached to shake the hand of Senator Pidgeon.
    Ron Fairbanks studied the Secretary of State. Blaine had always impressed everyone with his self-assurance, with the reserve and calm he could display under intemperate attack by a senator or a protestor or an aggressive interviewer. It was plain tonight, however, that he was ill at ease. Ron watched him slip away from Senator Pidgeon once again and walk purposefully to the steward to order another cognac.
    “Are you going to check over the Pillsbury memorandum before you leave for the night?”
    Fairbanks’s attention was diverted by the question from Fritz Gimbel, the Chief of Staff. “I suppose so,” he said to Gimbel. “This is breaking up shortly…?”
    Gimbel glanced at his watch. “In eight minutes.”
    In eight minutes. Yes,