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

Agent. They were talking about the women in Blaine’s life. Ron had been surprised to learn how much the FBI did in fact know about Blaine’s personal life, and it troubled him that the FBI should know so much. He put aside his feelings for now. He had no other choice… “All right, who else?” he asked.
    “A woman named Martha Kingsley. She’s the wife of a naval officer. We have a separate file on her… separate from the file on Blaine. She worked once as an aide to Senator Killbane, which is why the file was open. There’s reason to think—it can’t be proved—that she once used confidential information from the files of theArmed Services Committee, gave it to a defense contractor, probably for money. There
was
a leak, and she’s the most likely source of it. She moves around. Her husband is on sea duty much of the time, and when he’s away—sometimes even when he’s not—she is seen in the company of members of Congress, members of the Administration, prominent lobbyists, wealthy men… She’s an exceptionally good-looking woman. She’s Washington-wise. If she slept with the Secretary of State, she got some advantage from it, you may be sure.”
    “Do you know he slept with her?” Jill asked.
    “We know he visited her apartment,” said Locke. “At night.”
    “You know too much for my comfort,” said Ron.
    “We don’t know anything about you that need make you uncomfortable,” said Locke, this time smiling openly.
    “You’ve looked.”
    “I’ve looked.”
    “If you read history,” said Ron with a shrug, “you know that the files of any police organization, anywhere, contain a lot of… gossip.”
    “You can’t keep it out,” said Locke.
    ***
    Johnson was late. He said he had reached the Justice Department building by eleven, but he swore no one knew where Fairbanks had an office—and some swore he had none, had no connection with the Department—and it had taken half an hour to find the Special Investigation Office.
    “I require information, not punctuality,” said Ron.“Let me introduce Mrs. Keller. She’s a lawyer with the Justice Department, assigned to temporary duty with me.”
    “It’s right Christian of you not to complain about my bein’ late,” Jeremy Johnson said.
    He glanced around the shabby temporary office, sat down. He was a young man, maybe thirty-one or -two, tall, broad-shouldered, and roughly handsome. His thick sandy hair hung errant across his forehead. His jaw was broad and strong, and his face was flushed. He had brought the butt of a cigarette in his hand, and as soon as he was seated he crushed it out and took another from a pack. The aroma of whisky was discernible on his breath.
    “You knew Lansard Blaine,” Ron said. He did not intend to give Johnson a chance to balance himself. “How did you come to know him?”
    Johnson shrugged. “Ah… well, I represent my company in the States, I see a lot of people. I met your Secretary of State at some party somewhere—I don’t remember where. We struck up an acquaintance.” He shrugged again. Ron noted that his East End accent had diminished.
    “Did you know him well?”
    “No, not very well. He was, after all, your Secretary of State.”
    “Did you know him socially or in business?”
    Johnson took a drag on his cigarette. “A bit of each, I guess.”
    “Talk to him often?”
    “Not often.”
    “You live on Stirrup Lane in Alexandria. I called you at home this morning. I took your home telephonenumber off the telephone bill for Lansard Blaine’s Watergate apartment. He called you at home, from his apartment, six times in the past four months. How many times did you call him?”
    Johnson crushed his cigarette between his lips. “I find that ’ard to believe—”
    “Your name also occurs in the State Department telephone log eighteen times for the same period.”
    Johnson nodded. His face was red. “I believe I should ask,” he said, “whether you’re suggesting I had anythin’ to do