Murder in the White House (Capital Crimes Book 1) by Margaret Truman

them. We’re no damn closer to knowing who killed Blaine than we were Wednesday morning.” He stopped, his face creased with deep lines. “I can’t seem to—”
    “
Ron
…”
    “If we could just… can’t you see? If—”
    “
Ron
. It’s after midnight, you’re exhausted…”
    “Oh, right… I’m sorry, I’ll go—”
    “No, not what I meant.” She put her hand on his shoulder and pulled him toward her. “Come here. Put your head down.
Relax
, for God’s sake.”
    Awkwardly, a little embarrassed, he put his head down on her breasts, where she guided him. He closed his eyes but felt her hand moving and opened his eyes to see that she was unbuttoning her blouse. She pressed his head down so that his cheek was against one of her full, soft breasts.
    “Ron,” she whispered, “you have another day to face tomorrow, and another one after that… you’ve got to take care of yourself too. You don’t have to leave here tonight, but if you want to, just sleep a little now and I’ll wake you up.”
    He reached for her hand.
    “Thank you, lady. You are, to coin a phrase, just what the doctor ordered.”

4
    Ronald Fairbanks’s Apartment, Friday, June 15, 8:30 AM
    Ron let Johnson’s telephone ring, suspecting he was at home but in bed. He sat with the telephone in his left hand, pressed to his ear; with his right he sipped from a glass of orange juice. He would let it ring twenty times. The
Washington Post
lay on his breakfast table. He had made coffee and had a croissant, warmed slightly in his microwave oven, with good English marmalade. He sat there in a short black-and-white silk robe and a pair of shorts. Ten rings, or twelve. If Jeremy Johnson didn’t answer he would call Locke and have him put a couple of agents out to find him.
    “Hullo?” A dulled voice exhaled.
    “Jeremy Johnson?”
    “Yes. Who’s this?”
    “My name is Ronald Fairbanks. I’m Special Counsel to the President, and I’m in charge of the Blaine murder investigation.”
    “Hullo, Jamie, or Georgia, or whoever it is. It ain’t funny, you know. You’ve woke me up in the middle ofthe night practically, for naught. Goo-by, and be a good chap and don’t ring me again.”
    “This is serious, Mr. Johnson. I need to talk to you.”
    “Wha’d you say your name was?” His cockney accent was thick.
    Ron repeated it, and his position with the President.
    “Really?”
    “Yes, really.”
    “I don’t believe it.”
    “Let me suggest you try—”
    “All right, all right, you’re the special… whatever. Investigation of the murder of Blaine, you say.”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, what do I know about that?”
    “I’d like to find out.”
    “Nothing.”
    “I need to see you just the same. This morning.”
    “Out of the question. I’m not coming into town this morning—”
    “I can have you
brought
in.”
    “How’s that?”
    “I can have you picked up and brought in.”
    “Wha’? By the police?”
    “By the FBI.”
    “Now, see here! What is this? Maybe I’d better talk to my counselor first.”
    “Well, that’s your right. You can bring him with you. But I want to see you in my office at the Justice Department this morning—”
    “This
morning
? It’s…”
    “It’s eight-thirty. Let’s say eleven?”
    “What’s your name again, one more time?”
    “Fairbanks. Ronald Fairbanks.”
    “Bloody fancy name, that. All right,
Ronald
… see you at bloody eleven.”
    Special Investigation Office, The Justice Department, Friday, June 15, 10:30 AM
    “I’ve got another one here you’d better know about,” Walter Locke was saying.
    “You worry me,” Ron said. “I wonder what you have in those files on me.”
    “Well, you work for the government… or did the Secretary of State…”
    “A lot of personal stuff,” Ron said. “I don’t know if—”
    “It may help us find out who killed him. Remember that.”
    Ron glanced at Jill Keller, who sat to one side, taking in this sparring between Ron and the Special