“So someone was here with her when she died. Why didn’t he call a doctor? Why did he bother wiping out his fingerprints? And what the hell is a young kid doing in an expensive suite like this?”
He turned to Robinson. “How was this suite paid for?”
“Our records show that it was paid for in cash. A messenger delivered the envelope. The reservation was made over the phone.”
The coroner spoke up. “Can we move the body now, Nick?”
“Just hold it a minute. Did you find any marks of violence?”
“Only the trauma to the forehead. But of course we’ll do an autopsy.”
“Any track marks?”
“No. Her arms and legs are clean.”
“Does it look like she’s been raped?”
“We’ll have to check that out.”
Detective Reese sighed. “So what we have here is a schoolgirl from Denver who comes to Washington and gets herself killed in one of the most expensive hotels in the city. Someone wipes out his fingerprints and disappears. The whole thing stinks. I want to know who rented this suite.”
He turned to the coroner. “You can take her out now.” He looked at Detective Nelson. “Did you check the fingerprints in the private elevator?”
“Yes. The elevator goes from this suite directly to the basement. There are only two buttons. Both buttons have been wiped clean.”
“You checked the garage?”
“Right. Nothing unusual down there.”
“Whoever did this went to a hell of a lot of trouble to cover his tracks. He’s either someone with a record, or a VIP who’s been playing games out of school.” He turned to Robinson. “Who usually rents this suite?”
Robinson said reluctantly, “It’s reserved for our most important guests. Kings, prime ministers…” He hesitated. “…Presidents.”
“Have any telephone calls been placed from this phone in the last twenty-four hours?”
“I don’t know.”
Detective Reese was getting irritated. “But you would have a record if there was?”
“Of course.”
Detective Reese picked up the telephone. “Operator, this is Detective Nick Reese. I want to know if any calls were made from the Imperial Suite within the last twenty-four hours.…I’ll wait.”
He watched as the white-coated coroner’s men covered the naked girl with a sheet and placed her on a gurney. Jesus Christ, Reese thought. She hadn’t even begun to live yet.
He heard the operator’s voice. “Detective Reese?”
“Yes.”
“There was one call placed from the suite yesterday. It was a local call.”
Reese took out a notepad and pencil. “What was the number?…Four-five-six-seven-zero-four-one?…” Reese started to write the numbers down, then suddenly stopped. He was staring at the notepad. “Oh, shit!”
“What’s the matter?” Detective Nelson asked.
Reese looked up. “That’s the number of the White House.”
17
The next morning at breakfast, Jan asked, “Where were you last night, Oliver?”
Oliver’s heart skipped a beat. But she could not possibly have known what happened. No one could. No one. “I was meeting with—”
Jan cut him short. “The meeting was called off. But you didn’t get home until three o’clock in the morning. I tried to reach you. Where were you?”
“Well, something came up. Why? Did you need—? Was something wrong?”
“It doesn’t matter now,” Jan said wearily. “Oliver, you’re not just hurting me, you’re hurting yourself. You’ve come so far. I don’t want to see you lose it all because—because you can’t—” Her eyes filled with tears.
Oliver stood up and walked over to her. He put his arms around her. “It’s all right, Jan. Everything’s fine. I love you very much.”
And I do, Oliver thought, in my own way. What happened last night wasn’t my fault. She was the one who called. I never should have gone to meet her. He had taken every possible precaution not to be seen. I’m in the clear, Oliver decided.
Peter Tager was worried about Oliver. He had learned that it was impossible to control Oliver Russell’s libido, and he had finally worked out an arrangement with him. On certain nights, Peter Tager set up fictitious meetings for the president to attend, away from the White House, and arranged for the Secret Service escort to disappear for a few hours.
When Peter Tager had gone to Senator Davis to complain about what was happening, the senator had said calmly, “Well, after all, Oliver is a very hot-blooded man, Peter. Sometimes it’s impossible to control passions like that. I deeply admire your morals, Peter. I know how much your family means to you, and how distasteful the president’s behavior must seem to you. But let’s not be too judgmental. You just keep on seeing that everything is handled as discreetly as possible.”