“What else can we do? The primary is in a couple of days.”
“The best way to make the matter go away is to find out who is murdering these women.”
“How are we supposed to do that? We’re at full gear here, traveling at high speed. How many people are traveling with us—fifty or sixty? Is someone trying to sabotage my campaign? Just when I’m beginning to say something that is at least of interest to me? Who? Upton? Unthinkable. Graves? This goes a bit beyond dirty tricks. Some foreign agent? That guy from Pravda—”
“Solov.”
“That’s his name? Looks like a complete basket case to me. You know he’s never approached me with a single question? What’s he here for? The press. You said Andrew Esty left yesterday, and there was a murder last night. So that lets him off.”
“He came back. He was ordered back. Saw him in the elevator last night. Why do you mention him in particular?”
“That guy’s a nut. Did you ever see him smile? He’s as tight as a tournament tennis racquet. One of those guys who thinks he’s absolutely right. Anyone who thinks he’s absolutely right is capable of anything, including murder. Some kook among the volunteers. Lee Allen can’t do very thorough checks on their backgrounds. We’re traveling too fast, don’t have the resources. I trust everyone on the staff implicitly. Believe me, they’ve all been vetted. You’re the only one I don’t know well personally, and you weren’t with us at the time of the murder in the Hotel Harris. What the hell am I supposed to do? Go before the electorate, and say, ‘Hey, guys and gals, I’m not a murderer.’ Has an unfortunate ring to it. ‘I’m not a froggy-woggy; I’m a toaddy-woaddy.’”
“Yes, it’s time to say something,” Fletch said. “It’s also time to do something. I love what you’re saying about the ‘New Reality,’ but the true reality is that the people are going to be concerned about unsolved murders touching your campaign.”
The governor waved his hand at the pages from Newsbill still in Fletch’s hand. “Did you show that filth to Walsh?”
“He had already left his room when I called this morning.”
The governor looked at his watch. “I’m due at a television studio for a taping in twenty minutes. I will refer to these women’s deaths, and say I am appalled. We have got to do something about violent crime in this country. It’s affecting all of us. There’s the big rally in Melville tonight. I have to fly to New York to be on that network program, ‘Q. & A.,’ live tomorrow morning. Everybody tells me I’ve got to attend a church service somehow in the morning, seeing I’m accused of slurring Christianity in Winslow.”
For a moment the two men were silent. Recitation of schedule did not make the problem go away, either. “Damn,” the governor said. “It’s snowing again.”
Fletch said, “Now will you get some federal investigators to travel with us?”
“No.” The governor thought a moment, and then said: “Your job, Fletcher, is to make sure this doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t touch the campaign. That’s your only job.” The Man Who had fallen into the cadence of a public speech. “No matter who is doing this string of murders, for whatever reason, it is to have no bearing on my candidacy. The primary in this state is in a couple of days. No one can solve a string of far-flung murders in a couple of days. I cannot go into that primary election day with people thinking of murder, associating this campaign with the murder of women. Do what you have to do, but keep this away from me. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’d better go.”
Fletch opened the swing door of the hospital room for the governor. “Do you know the President has announced a press conference for two o’clock this afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“Saturday afternoon press conference. Most unusual.”
Going through the door the governor said, “I expect he’s going to speak well of Christianity and democracy and drop a bomb on me.”
27
“Here I am.” Freddie Arbuthnot announced her presence at Fletch’s elbow.
Actually, using one of the hotel’s house telephones, Fletch had been trying to find Walsh Wheeler. His room didn’t answer. Barry Hines wasn’t sure where Walsh was. He thought Walsh was meeting with Farmingdale’s Young Professionals Association. Lee Allen Parke thought Walsh was visiting an agronomy exhibit about fifty miles from Farmingdale. (Fletch was to discover Walsh breakfasted with the Young Professionals Association, then visited the agronomy exhibit.)
“You are looking for me, aren’t you?” Freddie asked.
“Always.” Fletch gave up on the phone. “Have you packed yet?”
“I never really unpack.”
“Neither do I. But I ought to go up and throw things together. Come with me?”
“Sir! To your hotel room?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure.”
Judy Nadich burst off the elevator.
“Hey!” Fletch said to her.
She turned around, her tote bag swinging against her leg. She was crying.
“What’s the matter?” Fletch asked.
“That bitch!” Judy said.
“Who?”
“Your Ms Sullivan.” She stepped closer to Fletch. “And your Doris Wheeler!”
“What did they do?”
“Nothing. Threw me out. Called me a squirrel.”
Fletch couldn’t help smiling.
“Told me to go cover the flower show!” Fresh tears poured from her eyes. “That’s not for a month yet!”
“So screw ’em,” Fletch said.
Judy tried to collect herself in front of Freddie. “How?”
“Screw ’em in what you write.” Fletch realized James had been right: Mrs. Presidential Candidate Doris Wheeler badly needed a lesson in manners. The realization made him hot.
“I don’t have anything to write!” Judy almost wailed. “I didn’t even see what the inside of her suite looked like!”
“Oh,” he said lamely.
“This story was important to me.” Judy Nadich walked away, head down, her tote bag banging against her knees, back to do stories about flower shows and cracked teacups and the funds needed to clean the statues in the park.
“Poor local press,” Freddie sighed. “I was one once.”
Fletch pressed the elevator button. “Where?”
“New York City.”
“New York City is not local. Even in New York City, New York City is not local.”
“On a national campaign like this,” Freddie said, stepping into the elevator, “local press is seduced with a weak drink, and granted a kiss on the cheek.”
“So this is how you live.” Freddie looked around his hotel room. “Your suitcase is dark brown. Mine is light blue.”
“Yeah,” Fletch said. “That’s the difference between boys and girls.” He went into the bathroom to collect his shaving gear. “You know anything in particular about the woman who was murdered this morning?”
“Mary Cantor, age thirty-four, widowed, mother of three. Her husband was a Navy navigator killed in an accident over Lake Erie three years ago.”
Fletch tried to visualize the three children, then decided not to. “Has the woman in Chicago been identified yet? The one found in a closet off the press room?”
“Wife of an obstetrician. Member of the League of Women Voters. Highly respectable. Just not carrying identification that night. Maybe she left her purse somewhere and someone walked off with it.”
Fletch came back into the bedroom. Freddie was stretched out on the unmade bed. “I don’t see what the women have in common,” he said. “A society woman in Chicago—”
“A socially useful woman, you mean.”
“Alice Elizabeth Shields, a bookish woman with her own mind, two nights ago. And last night, a mother, Air Force widow, a night chambermaid.”