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

involving his official duties, but as the consequence of some emotional conflict arising out of his complex personal life.
    “Look here,” said Ron. “The wire story…”
    The investigation into the death of Secretary of State Lansard Blaine has been complicated by revelationsthat he was intimately involved with a number of young women in Washington, some of whom at least stayed overnight in his Watergate apartment. Although investigators have not revealed the identities of any of the women involved, it is understood that at least one is a civil service career worker employed at the State Department and one is rumored to be a sometime prostitute.
    Lunch for Ron, for Jill Keller, and for Gabe Haddad—fruit salad, sandwiches, Cokes—was brought to Ron’s office. His jacket tossed over a chair, Ron in his shirtsleeves leaned back in his reclining chair and propped his feet on the corner of his desk. “I’m assuming none of us has talked to reporters,” he said. “None of
us
are ‘White House source.’ So who the hell is?”
    “You’ll never find out,” said Gabe Haddad. “No President ever did, and I don’t think you’re any more likely to.”
    “Well, it’s clear someone’s talking,” Ron insisted. “And whoever it is,” he said, picking up a ham salad sandwich, “could be our killer—”
    “Oh, come on now, Sherlock Holmes,” Jill protested.
    “Well, it’s not so farfetched, really… Blaine didn’t become a sexual acrobat last week or last month. He was at it from the time he came to Washington, and, as they say, probably before. And he wasn’t too secretive about it. Still, the media apparently never found out, though it’s the kind of thing they thrive on. Then suddenly, within hours after he’s dead, they all know it. I doubt that his Watergate neighbors called the papers and blew the whistle. The women involved didn’t call.Someone
here
did. Someone leaked it, made a point of leaking it. Why? To divert attention from whatever, whomever—”
    “A smokescreen,” Jill said.
    Ron nodded. “To confuse, to obscure, blur the lines.”
    Gabe Hadded shrugged. “So all we have to do is third-degree a reporter until he tells us who fed him the story. Right?”
    Ron nodded again. “All we have to do is make a reporter reveal his confidential source.”
    “And after we’re black and blue and covered with lumps,” said Jill, “we’ll have nothing more than a suggestion that supports your theory and no hard evidence. All we can do is just refuse to take the bait, to be distracted.”
    “Right. If I’m right,” Ron said, “Blaine probably wasn’t killed by a jealous lover or a woman scorned, as they say. It was someone who would like us to think he was…”
    “But is our killer that naive?” Gabe asked. “I mean, to think he could throw us off this way?”
    “Probably not,” Ron said. “But it’s worth something to him to make a confusion.”
    Gabe Haddad shook his head solemnly. “Too bad, I was looking forward to interviewing Blaine’s girl-friends.”
    “Don’t worry,” said Ron. “We’ll interview them… every one of them. My theory
could
be all wet. And besides, the ladies had big ears, and it seems the Secretary was less than discreet in filling them. It seems he left secret diplomacy at the office.”

3
    The Special Investigation Office, The West Wing, Thursday, June 14, 2:45 PM
    “We’ll fly to Detroit,” said Lynne. She was telling Ron that she and her parents would go back to Michigan the next day to attend the funeral of Lansard Blaine. “Then out to Ann Arbor. We’ll be back here early in the evening, as I understand it.”
    “I’m not going, of course,” said Ron.
    “Well… my father told me to tell you to come with us if you want to. I… I’d appreciate it if you came.”
    “I’d like to, Lynne, I’d like to be with you, you know that…”
    She wore no makeup, her eyes were swollen, and she spoke in a subdued, almost trembling voice. Was it