Page 43 of The Best Laid Plans


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"Jesus," Sime Lombardo said softly. "This is incredible. How was it delivered?"

"It was mailed," Peter Tager told him. "Addressed to the president, 'Personal.'"

Sime Lombardo said, "It could be some nut who's just trying to - "

"We can't take a chance, Sime. I don't believe for a minute that it's true, but if even a whisper of this gets out, it would destroy the president We must protect him."

"How do we do that?"

"First, we have to find out who sent this."

Peter Tager was at the Federal Bureau of Investigation headquarters at 10th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, talking to Special Agent Clay Jacobs.

"You said it was urgent, Peter?"

"Yes." Peter Tager opened a briefcase and took out a single sheet of paper. He slid it across the desk. Clay Jacobs picked it up and read it aloud:

" 'I want you to know that I'm a real fan of yours...I will get in touch with you in a few days while you think about it.' "

Everything in between had been whited out.

Jacobs looked up. "What is this?"

"It involves the highest security," Peter Tager said. "The president asked me to try to find out who sent it. He would like you to check it for fingerprints."

Clay Jacobs studied the paper again, frowning. "This is highly unusual, Peter."

"Why?"

"It just smells wrong."

"All the president wants is for you to give him the name of the individual who wrote it."

"Assuming his fingerprints are on it."

Peter Tager nodded. "Assuming his fingerprints are on it."

"Wait here." Jacobs rose and left the office.

Peter Tager sat there looking out the window, thinking about the letter and its possible terrible consequences.

Exactly seven minutes later, Clay Jacobs returned.

"You're in luck," he said.

Peter Tager's heart began to race. "You found something?"

"Yes." Jacobs handed Tager a slip of paper. "The man you're looking for was involved in a traffic accident about a year ago. His name is Carl Gorman. He works as a clerk at the Monroe Arms." He stood there a moment, studying Tager. "Is there anything else you'd like to tell me about this?"

"No," Peter Tager said sincerely. "There isn't."

"Frank Lonergan is on line three, Miss Stewart. He says it's urgent."

"I'll take it." Leslie picked up the telephone and pressed a button. "Frank?"

"Are you alone?"

"Yes."

She heard him take a deep breath. "Okay. Here we go." He spoke for the next ten minutes without interruption.

Leslie Stewart hurried into Matt Baker's office. "We have to talk, Matt." She sat down across from his desk. "What if I told you that Oliver Russell is involved in the murder of Chloe Houston?"

"For openers, I'd say you are paranoid and that you've gone over the edge."

"Frank Lonergan just phoned in. He talked to Governor Houston, who doesn't believe that Paul Yerby killed her daughter. He talked to Paul Yerby's parents. They don't believe it either."

"I wouldn't expect them to," Matt Baker said. "If that's the only - "

"That's just the beginning. Frank went down to the morgue and spoke to the coroner. She told him that the kid's belt was so tight that they had to cut it away from his throat."

He was listening more intently now. "And - ?"

"Frank went down to pick up Yerby's belongings. His belt was there. Intact."

Matt Baker drew a deep breath. "You're telling me that he was murdered in prison and that there was a cover-up?"

"I'm not telling you anything. I'm just reporting the facts. Oliver Russell tried to get me to use Ecstasy once. When he was running for governor, a woman who was a legal secretary died from Ecstasy. While he was governor, his secretary was found in a park in an Ecstasy-induced coma. Lonergan learned that Oliver called the hospital and suggested they take her off life-support systems." Leslie leaned forward. "There was a telephone call from the Imperial Suite to the White House the night Chloe Houston was murdered. Frank checked the hotel telephone records. The page for the fifteenth was missing. The president's appointments secretary told Lonergan that the president had a meeting with General Whitman that night. There was no meeting. Frank spoke to Governor Houston, and she said that Chloe was on a tour of the White House and that she had arranged for her daughter to meet the president."

There was a long silence. "Where's Frank Lonergan now?" Matt Baker asked.

"He's tracking down Carl Gorman, the hotel clerk who booked the Imperial Suite."

Jeremy Robinson was saying, "I'm sorry. We don't give out personal information about our employees."

Frank Lonergan said, "All I'm asking for is his home address so I can - "

"It wouldn't do you any good. Mr. Gorman is on vacation."

Lonergan sighed. "That's too bad. I was hoping he could fill in a few blank spots."

"Blank spots?"

"Yes. We're doing a big story on the death of Governor Houston's daughter in your hotel. Well, I'll just have to piece it together without Gorman." He took out a pad and a pen. "How long has this hotel been here? I want to know all about its background, its clientele, its - "

Jeremy Robinson frowned. "Wait a minute! Surely that's not necessary. I mean - she could have died anywhere."

Frank Lonergan said sympathetically, "I know, but it happened here. Your hotel is going to become as famous as Watergate."

"Mr. - ?"

"Lonergan."

"Mr. Lonergan, I would appreciate it if you could - I mean this kind of publicity is very bad. Isn't there some way - ?"

Lonergan was thoughtful for a moment. "Well, if I spoke to Mr. Gorman, I suppose I could find a different angle."

"I would really appreciate that. Let me get you his address."

Frank Lonergan was becoming nervous. As the outline of events began to take shape, it became clear that there was a murder conspiracy and a cover-up at the highest level. Before he went to see the hotel clerk, he decided to stop at his apartment house. His wife, Rita, was in the kitchen preparing dinner. She was a petite redhead with sparkling green eyes and a fair complexion. She turned in surprise as her husband walked in.

"Frank, what are you doing home in the middle of the day?"

"Just thought I'd drop in and say hello."

She looked at his face. "No. There's something going on. What is it?"

He hesitated. "How long has it been since you've seen your mother?"

"I saw her last week. Why?"

"Why don't you go visit her again, honey?"

"Is anything wrong?"

He grinned. "Wrong?" He walked over to the mantel. "You'd better start dusting this off. We're going to put a Pulitzer Prize here and a Peabody Award here."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm on to something that's going to blow everybody away - and I mean people in high places. It's the most exciting story I've ever been involved in."

"Why do you want me to go see my mother?"

He shrugged. "There's just an outside chance that this could get to be a little dangerous. There are some people who don't want this story to get out. I'd feel better if you were away for a few days, just until this breaks."

"But if you're in danger - "

"I'm not in any danger."

"You're sure nothing's going to happen to you?"

"Positive. Pack a few things, and I'll call you tonight."

"All right," Rita said reluctantly.

Lonergan looked at his watch. "I'll drive you to the train station."

One hour later, Lonergan stopped in front of a modest brick house in the Wheaton area. He got out of the car, walked to the front door, and rang the bell. There was no answer. He rang again and waited. The door suddenly swung open and a heavyset middle-aged woman stood in the doorway, regarding him suspiciously.

"Yes?"

"I'm with the Internal Revenue Service," Lonergan said. He flashed a piece of identification. "I want to see Carl Gorman."

"My brother's not here."

"Do you know where he is?"

"No." Too fast.

Lonergan nodded. "That's a shame. Well, you might as well start packing up his things. I'll have the department send over the vans." Lonergan started back down the driveway toward his car.

"Wait a minute! What vans? What are you talking about?"

Lonergan stopped and turned. "Didn't your brother tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

Lonergan took a few steps back toward the house. "He's in trouble."

She looked at him anxiously. "What kind of trouble?"

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss it." He shook his head. "He seems like a nice guy, too."

"He is," she said fervently. "Carl is a wonderful person."

Lonergan nodded. "That was my feeling when we were questioning him down at the bureau."

She was panicky. "Questioning him about what?"

"Cheating on his income tax. It's too bad. I wanted to tell him about a loophole that could have helped him out, but - " He shrugged. "If he's not here..." He turned to go again.

"Wait! He's - he's at a fishing lodge. I - I'm not supposed to tell anybody."

He shrugged. "That's okay with me."

"No...but this is different. It's the Sunshine Fishing Lodge on the lake in Richmond, Virginia."

"Fine. I'll contact him there."

"That would be wonderful. You're sure he'll be all right?"

"Absolutely," Lonergan said. "I'll see that he's taken care of."

Lonergan took 1-95, heading south. Richmond was a little over a hundred miles away. On a vacation, years ago, Lonergan had fished the lake, and he had been lucky.

He hoped he would be as lucky this time.

It was drizzling, but Carl Gorman did not mind. That's when the fish were supposed to bite. He was fishing for striped bass, using large minnows on slip bobbers, far out behind the rowboat. The waves lapped against the small boat in the middle of the lake, and the bait drifted behind the boat, untouched. The fish were in no hurry. It did not matter. Neither was he. He had never been happier. He was going to be rich beyond his wildest dreams. It had been sheer luck. You have to be at the right place at the right time. He had returned to the Monroe Arms to pick up a jacket he had forgotten and was about to leave the garage when the private elevator door opened. When he saw who got out, he had sat in his car, stunned. He had watched the man return, wipe off his fingerprints, then drive away.

It was not until he read about the murder the following day that he had put it all together. In a way, he felt sorry for the man. I really am a fan of his. The trouble is, when you're that famous, you can never hide. Wherever you go, the world knows you. He'll pay me to be quiet. He has no choice. I'll start with a hundred thousand. Once he pays that, he'll have to keep paying. Maybe I'll buy a chateau in France or a chalet in Switzerland.

He felt a tug at the end of his line and snapped the rod toward him. He could feel the fish trying to get away. You're not going anywhere. I've got you hooked.

In the distance, he heard a large speedboat approaching. They shouldn't allow power boats on the lake. They'll scare all the fish away. The speedboat was bearing down on him.

"Don't get too close," Carl shouted.

The speedboat seemed to be heading right toward him.

"Hey! Be careful. Watch where you're going. For God's sake - "

The speedboat plowed into the rowboat, cutting it in half, the water sucking Gorman under.

Damn drunken fool! He was gasping for air. He managed to get his head above water. The speedboat had circled and was heading straight for him again. And the last thing Carl Gorman felt before the boat smashed into his skull was the tug of the fish on his line.

When Frank Lonergan arrived, the area was crowded with police cars, a fire engine, and an ambulance. The ambulance was just pulling away.

Frank Lonergan got out of his car and said to a bystander, "What's all the excitement?"

"Some poor guy was in an accident on the lake. There's not much left of him."

And Lonergan knew.

At midnight, Frank Lonergan was working at his computer, alone in his apartment, writing the story that was going to destroy the President of the United States. It was a story that would earn him a Pulitzer Prize. There was no doubt about it in his mind. This was going to make him more famous than Woodward and Bernstein. It was the story of the century.

He was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. He got up and walked over to the front door.

"Who is it?"

"A package from Leslie Stewart."

She's found some new information. He opened the door. There was a glint of metal, and an unbearable pain tore his chest apart.

Then nothing.

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