DEAD 16-YEAR-OLD IDENTIFIED AS DAUGHTER OF COLORADO GOVERNOR BOYFRIEND IN POLICE CUSTODY HANGS HIMSELF POLICE HUNT MYSTERY WITNESS

He stared at the headlines and felt suddenly faint. Sixteen years old. She had looked older than that. What was he guilty of? Murder? Manslaughter, maybe. Plus statutory rape.

He had watched her come out of the bathroom of the suite, wearing only a shy smile. "I've never done this before."

And he had put his arms around her and stroked her. "I'm glad the first time is with me, honey." Earlier, he had shared a glass of liquid Ecstasy with her. "Drink this. It will make you feel good." They had made love, and afterward she had complained about not feeling well. She had gotten out of bed, stumbled, and hit her head against the table. An accident. Of course, the police would not see it that way. But there's nothing to connect me with her. Nothing.

The whole episode had an air of unreality, a nightmare that had happened to someone else. Somehow, seeing it in print made it real.

Through the walls of the office, he could hear the sound of traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue, outside the White House, and he became aware again of his surroundings. A cabinet meeting was scheduled to begin in a few minutes. He took a deep breath. Pull yourself together.

In the Oval Office were gathered Vice President Melvin Wicks, Sime Lombardo, and Peter Tager.

Oliver walked in and sat behind his desk. "Good morning, gentlemen."

There were general greetings.

Peter Tager said, "Have you seen the Tribune, Mr. President?"

"No."

"They've identified the girl who died at the Monroe Arms Hotel. I'm afraid it's bad news."

Oliver unconsciously stiffened in his chair. "Yes?"

"Her name is Chloe Houston. She's the daughter of Jackie Houston."

"Oh, my God!" The words barely escaped the president's lips.

They were staring at him, surprised at his reaction. He recovered quickly. "I - I knew Jackie Houston...a long time ago. This - this is terrible news. Terrible."

Sime Lombardo said, "Even though Washington crime is not our responsibility, the Tribune is going to hammer us on this."

Melvin Wicks spoke up. "Is there any way we can shut Leslie Stewart up?"

Oliver thought of the passionate evening he had spent with her. "No," Oliver said. "Freedom of the press, gentlemen."

Peter Tager turned to the president. "About the governor...?"

"I'll handle it." He flicked down an intercom key. "Get me Governor Houston in Denver."

"We've got to start some damage control," Peter Tager was saying. "I'll get together statistics on how much crime has gone down in this country, you've asked Congress for more money for our police departments, et cetera." The words sounded hollow even to his own ears.

"This is terrible timing," Melvin Wicks said.

The intercom buzzed. Oliver picked up the telephone. "Yes?" He listened a moment, then replaced the receiver. "The governor is on her way to Washington." He looked at Peter Tager. "Find out what plane she's on, Peter. Meet her and bring her here."

"Right. There's an editorial in the Tribune. It's pretty rough." Peter Tager handed Oliver the editorial page of the newspaper, PRESIDENT UNABLE TO CONTROL CRIME IN THE CAPITAL. "It goes on from there."

"Leslie Stewart is a bitch," Sime Lombardo said quietly. "Someone should have a little talk with her."

In his office at the Washington Tribune, Matt Baker was rereading the editorial attacking the president for being soft on crime when Frank Lonergan walked in. Lonergan was in his early forties, a bright, street-smart journalist who had at one time worked on the police force. He was one of the best investigative journalists in the business.

"You wrote this editorial, Frank?"

"Yes," he said.

"This paragraph about crime going down twenty-five percent in Minnesota, that's still bothering me. Why did you just talk about Minnesota?"

Lonergan said, "It was a suggestion from the Ice Princess."

"That's ridiculous," Matt Baker snapped. "I'll talk to her."

Leslie Stewart was on the telephone when Matt Baker walked into her office.

"I'll leave it to you to arrange the details, but I want us to raise as much money for him as we can. As a matter of fact, Senator Embry of Minnesota is stopping by for lunch today, and I'll get a list of names from him. Thank you." She replaced the receiver. "Matt."

Matt Baker walked over to her desk. "I want to talk to you about this editorial."

"It's good, isn't it?"

"It stinks, Leslie. It's propaganda. The president's not responsible for controlling crime in Washington, D.C. We have a mayor who's supposed to do that, and a police force. And what's this crap about crime going down twenty-five percent in Minnesota? Where did you come up with those statistics?"

Leslie Stewart leaned back and said calmly, "Matt, this is my paper. I'll say anything I want to say. Oliver Russell is a lousy president, and Gregory Embry would make a great one. We're going to help him get into the White House."

She saw the expression on Matt's face and softened. "Come on, Matt. The Tribune is going to be on the side of the winner. Embry will be good for us. He's on his way here now. Would you like to join us for lunch?"

"No. I don't like people who eat with their hands out." He turned and left the office.

In the corridor outside, Matt Baker ran into Senator Embry. The senator was in his fifties, a self-important politician.

"Oh, Senator! Congratulations."

Senator Embry looked at him, puzzled, "Thank you. Er - for what?"

"For bringing crime down twenty-five percent in your state." And Matt Baker walked away, leaving the senator looking after him with a blank expression on his face.

Lunch was in Leslie Stewart's antique-furnished dining room. A chef was working in the kitchen preparing lunch as Leslie and Senator Embry walked in. The captain hurried up to greet them.

"Luncheon is ready whenever you wish, Miss Stewart. Would you care for a drink?"

"Not for me," Leslie said. "Senator?"

"Well, I don't usually drink during the day, but I'll have a martini."

Leslie Stewart was aware that Senator Embry drank a lot during the day. She had a complete file on him. He had a wife and five children and kept a Japanese mistress. His hobby was secretly funding a paramilitary group in his home state. None of this was important to Leslie. What mattered was that Gregory Embry was a man who believed in letting big business alone - and Washington Tribune Enterprises was big business. Leslie intended to make it bigger, and when Embry was president, he was going to help her.

They were seated at the dining table. Senator Embry took a sip of his second martini. "I want to thank you for the fund-raiser, Leslie. That's a nice gesture."

She smiled warmly. "It's my pleasure. I'll do everything I can to help you beat Oliver Russell."

"Well, I think I stand a pretty good chance."

"I think so, too. The people are getting tired of him and his scandals. My guess is that if there's one more scandal between now and election, they'll throw him out."

Senator Embry studied her a moment. "Do you think there will be?"

Leslie nodded and said softly, "I wouldn't be surprised."

The lunch was delicious.

The call came from Antonio Valdez, an assistant in the coroner's office. "Miss Stewart, you said you wanted me to keep you informed about the Chloe Houston case?"

"Yes..."

"The cops asked us to keep a lid on it, but since you've been such a good friend, I thought - "

"Don't worry. You'll be taken care of. Tell me about the autopsy."

"Yes, ma'am. The cause of death was a drug called Ecstasy."

"What?"

"Ecstasy. She took it in liquid form."

"I have a little surprise for you that I want you to try... This is liquid Ecstasy... A friend of mine gave me this..."

And the woman who had been found in the Kentucky River had died of an overdose of liquid Ecstasy.

Leslie sat there motionless, her heart pounding.

There is a God.

Leslie sent for Frank Lonergan, "I want you to follow up on the death of Chloe Houston. I think the president is involved."

Frank Lonergan was staring at her incredulously. "The president?"

"There's a cover-up going on. I'm convinced of it. That boy they arrested, who conveniently committed suicide...dig into that. And I want you to check on the president's movements the afternoon and evening of her death. I want this to be a private investigation. Very private. You'll report only to me."

Frank Lonergan took a deep breath. "You know what this could mean?"

"Get started. And Frank?"

"Yes?"

"Check the Internet for a drug called Ecstasy. And look for a connection with Oliver Russell."

In a medical Internet site devoted to the hazards of the drug, Lonergan found the story of Miriam Friedland, the former secretary to Oliver Russell. She was in a hospital in Frankfort, Kentucky. Lonergan telephoned to inquire about her. A doctor said, "Miss Friedland passed away two days ago. She never recovered from her coma."

Frank Lonergan put in a telephone call to the office of Governor Houston.

"I'm sorry," her secretary told him, "Governor Houston is on her way to Washington."

Ten minutes later, Frank Lonergan was on his way to National Airport. He was too late.

As the passengers descended from the plane, Lonergan saw Peter Tager approach an attractive blonde in her forties and greet her. The two of them talked for a moment, and then Tager led her to a waiting limousine.

Watching in the distance, Lonergan thought, I've got to talk to that lady. He headed back toward town and began making calls on his car phone. On the third call, he learned that Governor Houston was expected at the Four Seasons Hotel.

When Jackie Houston was ushered into the private study next to the Oval Office, Oliver Russell was waiting for her.

He took her hands in his and said, "I'm so terribly sorry, Jackie. There are no words."

It had been almost seventeen years since he had last seen her. They had met at a lawyers' convention in Chicago. She had just gotten out of law school. She was young and attractive and eager, and they had had a brief, torrid affair.

Seventeen years ago.

And Chloe was sixteen years old.

He dared not ask Jackie the question in his mind. I don't want to know. They looked at each other in silence, and for a moment Oliver thought she was going to speak of the past. He looked away.

Jackie Houston said, "The police think Paul Yerby had something to do with Chloe's death."

"That's right."

"No."

"No?"

"Paul was in love with Chloe. He never would have harmed her." Her voice broke. "They - they were going to get married one day."

"According to my information, Jackie, they found the boy's fingerprints in the hotel room where she was killed."

Jackie Houston said, "The newspapers said that it...that it happened in the Imperial Suite at the Monroe Arms."

"Yes."

"Oliver, Chloe was on a small allowance. Paul's father was a retired clerk. Where did Chloe get the money for the Imperial Suite?"

"I - I don't know."

"Someone has to find out. I won't leave until I know who is responsible for the death of my daughter." She frowned. "Chloe had an appointment to see you that afternoon. Did you see her?"

There was a brief hesitation. "No. I wish I had. Unfortunately, an emergency came up, and I had to cancel our appointment."

In an apartment at the other end of town, lying in bed, their naked bodies spooned together, he could feel the tension in her.

"Are you okay, JoAnn?"

"I'm fine, Alex."

"You seem far away, baby. What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing," JoAnn McGrath said.

"Nothing?"

"Well, to tell the truth, I was thinking about that poor little girl who was murdered at the hotel."

"Yeah, I read about it. She was some governor's daughter."

"Yes."

"Do the police know who she was with?"

"No. They were all over the hotel questioning everybody."

"You, too?"

"Yeah. All I could tell them was about the telephone call."

"What telephone call?"

"The one someone in that suite made to the White House."

He was suddenly still. He said casually, "That doesn't mean anything. Everybody gets a kick out of calling the White House. Do that to me again, baby. Got any more maple syrup?"

Frank Lonergan had just returned to his office from the airport when the phone rang. "Lonergan."

"Hello, Mr. Lonergan. This is Shallow Throat." Alex Cooper, a small-time parasite who fancied himself a Watergate-class tipster. It was his idea of a joke. "Are you still paying for hot tips?"

"Depends on how hot."

"This one will burn your ass. I want five thousand dollars for it."

"Goodbye."

"Wait a minute. Don't hang up. It's about that girl who was murdered at the Monroe Arms."

Frank Lonergan was suddenly interested. "What about her?"

"Can you and me meet somewhere?"

"I'll see you at Ricco's in half an hour."

At two o'clock, Frank Lonergan and Alex Cooper were in a booth at Ricco's. Alex Cooper was a thin weasel of a man, and Lonergan hated doing business with him. Lonergan wasn't sure where Cooper got his information, but he had been very helpful in the past.

"I hope you're not wasting my time," Lonergan said.

"Oh, I don't think it's a waste of time. How would you feel if I told you there's a White House connection to the girl's murder?" There was a smug smile on his face.

Frank Lonergan managed to conceal his excitement. "Go on."

"Five thousand dollars?"

"One thousand."

"Two."

"You have a deal. Talk."

"My girlfriend's a telephone operator at the Monroe Arms."

"What's her name?"

"JoAnn McGrath."

Lonergan made a note. "So?"

"Someone in the Imperial Suite made a telephone call to the White House during the time the girl was there."

"I think the president is involved," Leslie Stewart had said. "Are you sure about this?"

"Horse's mouth."

"I'll check it out. If it's true, you'll get your money. Have you mentioned this to anyone else?"

"Nope."

"Good. Don't." Lonergan rose. "We'll keep in touch."

"There's one more thing," Cooper said.

Lonergan stopped. "Yes?"

"You've got to keep me out of this. I don't want JoAnn to know that I talked to anyone about it."

"No problem."

And Alex Cooper was alone, thinking about how he was going to spend the two thousand dollars without JoAnn's knowing about it.

The Monroe Arms switchboard was in a cubicle behind the lobby reception desk. When Lonergan walked in carrying a clipboard, JoAnn McGrath was on duty. She was saying into the mouthpiece, "I'm ringing for you."

She connected a call and turned to Lonergan. "Can I help you?"

"Telephone Company," Lonergan said. He flashed some identification. "We have a problem here."

JoAnn McGrath looked at him, surprised. "What kind of problem?"

"Someone reported that they're being charged for calls they didn't make." He pretended to consult the clipboard. "October fifteenth. They were charged for a call to Germany, and they don't even know anyone in Germany. They're pretty teed off."

"Well, I don't know anything about that," JoAnn said indignantly. "I don't even remember placing any calls to Germany in the last month."

"Do you have a record of the fifteenth?"

"Of course."

"I'd like to see it."

"Very well." She found a folder under a pile of papers and handed it to him. The switchboard was buzzing. While she attended to the calls, Lonergan quickly went through the folder. October 12th...13th...14th...16th...

The page for the fifteenth was missing.

Frank Lonergan was waiting in the lobby of the Four Seasons when Jackie Houston returned from the White House.

"Governor Houston?"

She turned. "Yes?"

"Frank Lonergan. I'm with the Washington Tribune. I want to tell you how sorry all of us are, Governor."

"Thank you."

"I wonder if I could talk to you for a minute?"

"I'm really not in the - "

"I might be able to be helpful." He nodded toward the lounge off the main lobby. "Could we go in there for a moment?"

She took a deep breath. "All right."

They walked into the lounge and sat down.

"I understand that your daughter went on a tour of the White House the day she..." He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence.

"Yes. She - she was on a tour with her school friends. She was very excited about meeting the president."

Lonergan kept his voice casual. "She was going to see President Russell?"

"Yes. I arranged it. We're old friends."

"And did she see him, Governor Houston?"

"No. He wasn't able to see her." Her voice was choked. "There's one thing I'm sure of."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Paul Yerby didn't kill her. They were in love with each other."

"But the police said - "

"I don't care what they said. They arrested an innocent boy, and he - he was so upset that he hanged himself. It's awful."

Frank Lonergan studied her for a moment. "If Paul Yerby didn't kill your daughter, do you have any idea who might have? I mean, did she say anything about meeting anyone in Washington?"

"No. She didn't know a soul here. She was so looking forward to...to..." Her eyes brimmed with tears. "I'm sorry. You'll have to excuse me."

"Of course. Thanks for your time, Governor Houston."

Lonergan's next stop was at the morgue. Helen Chuan was just coming out of the autopsy room.

"Well, look who's here."

"Hi, Doc."

"What brings you down here, Frank?"

"I wanted to talk to you about Paul Yerby."

Helen Chuan sighed. "It's a damn shame. Those kids were both so young."

"Why would a boy like that commit suicide?"

Helen Chuan shrugged. "Who knows?"

"I mean - are you sure he committed suicide?"

"If he didn't, he gave a great imitation. His belt was wrapped around his neck so tightly that they had to cut it in half to bring him down."

"There were no other marks or anything on his body that might have suggested foul play?"

She looked at him, curious. "No."

Lonergan nodded. "Okay. Thanks. You don't want to keep your patients waiting."

"Very funny."

There was a phone booth in the outside corridor. From the Denver information operator, Lonergan got the number of Paul Yerby's parents. Mrs. Yerby answered the phone. Her voice sounded weary. "Hello."

"Mrs. Yerby?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry to bother you. This is Frank Lonergan. I'm with the Washington Tribune. I wanted to - "

"I can't..."

A moment later, Mr. Yerby was on the line. "I'm sorry. My wife is...Newspapers have been bothering us all morning. We don't want to - "

"This will only take a minute, Mr. Yerby. There are some people in Washington who don't believe your son killed Chloe Houston."

"Of course he didn't!" His voice suddenly became stronger. "Paul could never, never have done anything like that."

"Did Paul have any friends in Washington, Mr. Yerby?"

"No. He didn't know anyone there."

"I see. Well, if there's anything I can do..."

"There is something you can do for us, Mr. Lonergan. We've arranged to have Paul's body shipped back here, but I'm not sure how to get his possessions. We'd like to have whatever he...If you could tell me who to talk to..."

"I can handle that for you."

"We'd appreciate it. Thank you."

In the Homicide Branch office, the sergeant on duty was opening a carton containing Paul Yerby's personal effects. "There's not much in it," he said. "Just the kid's clothes and a camera."

Lonergan reached into the box and picked up a black leather belt.

It was uncut.

When Frank Lonergan walked into the office of President Russell's appointments secretary, Deborah Kanner, she was getting ready to leave for lunch.

"What can I do for you, Frank?"

"I've got a problem, Deborah."

"What else is new?"

Frank Lonergan pretended to look at some notes. "I have information that on October fifteenth the president had a secret meeting here with an emissary from China to talk about Tibet."

"I don't know of any such meeting."

"Could you just check it out for me?"

"What did you say the date was?"

"October fifteenth." Lonergan watched as Deborah pulled an appointment book from a drawer and skimmed through it.

"October fifteenth? What time was this meeting supposed to be?"

"Ten P.M., here in the Oval Office."

She shook her head. "Nope. At ten o'clock that night the president was in a meeting with General Whitman."

Lonergan frowned. "That's not what I heard. Could I have a look at that book?"

"Sorry. It's confidential, Frank."

"Maybe I got a bum steer. Thanks, Deborah." He left.

Thirty minutes later, Frank Lonergan was talking to General Steve Whitman.

"General, the Tribune would like to do some coverage on the meeting you had with the president on October fifteenth. I understand some important points were discussed."

The general shook his head. "I don't know where you get your information, Mr. Lonergan. That meeting was called off. The president had another appointment."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. We're going to reschedule it."

"Thank you, General."

Frank Lonergan returned to the White House. He walked into Deborah Kanner's office again.

"What is it this time, Frank?"

"Same thing," Lonergan said ruefully. "My informant swears that at ten o'clock on the night of October fifteenth the president was here in a meeting with a Chinese emissary to discuss Tibet."

She looked at him, exasperated. "How many times do I have to tell you that there was no such meeting?"

Lonergan sighed. "Frankly, I don't know what to do. My boss really wants to run that story. It's big news. I guess we'll just have to go with it." He started toward the door.

"Wait a minute!"

He turned. "Yes?"

"You can't run that story. It's not true. The president will be furious."

"It's not my decision."

Deborah hesitated. "If I can prove to you that he was meeting with General Whitman, will you forget about it?"

"Sure. I don't want to cause any problems." Lonergan watched Deborah pull the appointment book out again and flip the pages. "Here's a list of the president's appointments for that date. Look. October fifteenth." There were two pages of listings. Deborah pointed to a 10:00 P.M. entry. "There it is, in black and white."

"You're right," Lonergan said. He was busy scanning the page. There was an entry at three o'clock.

Chloe Houston.

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