Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder Read online

  He picked up the phone. “Peter, it’s Sheldon.”

  Puhlman had been dozing in a chair when his special cell phone rang in the Virginia safe house.

  “Hello, Sheldon, how are you?”

  “Not good. There’s a complication.”

  Puhlman had been half awake when he answered the phone. Now he snapped to attention. “What complication?” he asked. “Something with the plan here?”

  “That young woman has been found.”

  Puhlman’s face creased with confusion. “Young woman?” The answer came to him during the silence on the other end of the connection.

  “How?” Puhlman asked.

  “It doesn’t matter. They’ve found her and she’s been identified.”

  “Oh?” He didn’t know what else to say.

  “Are you there, Peter?”

  “Yes, I’m here. Jake assured me that—”

  “Jake’s assurances are worthless.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Puhlman asked, realizing that he’d begun to sweat.

  “There’s nothing you can do at the moment,” Borger replied. “But I wanted you to be aware of it.”

  “Yes, I appreciate the call.”

  “How is Iskander?”

  “He’s … he’s fine. He’s right here.”

  “Put him on.”

  “Hello,” Iskander said after Puhlman had handed him the phone.

  “Hello, Iskander, it’s Dr. Borger.”

  “Hello, Doctor.”

  “How are you feeling? Have your headaches returned?”

  “No, they have not. I want to come home.”

  Borger forced a laugh that was meant to be reassuring. “You’ll be home soon, I promise you.”

  “I want to fight. When will I fight? I want to see my mother and brothers.”

  “Yes, of course you do, and you will see them very shortly, only another day or two.”

  Borger realized that he’d said the wrong thing, and Itani picked up on it. “You mean I will be coming back to San Francisco in a few days?”

  “What I mean, Iskander, is that you’ll be coming back after your fight there in Washington.”

  “When will that be?”

  “As soon as Jake makes the final arrangements.” When Itani didn’t respond, Borger said, “Revenge is sweet, Iskander.”

  Puhlman watched Itani slip into a deep trance.

  “You must listen to me, Iskander,” Borger said into the phone. “You know that you can trust me—and only me. I will always do what is best for you.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I want you to hand the phone to Peter, then go to the kitchen, get a glass of water, and bring it to him.”

  Puhlman continued to observe as Itani did as instructed and was surprised when Itani handed him the glass filled with water and took back the phone.

  “Did you do as I told you, Iskander?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now, you are to go to your bedroom and lie down on the bed. In a half hour you’ll come out of the pleasant trance state you’re in and feel refreshed and happy.”

  “How is Elena?” Itani asked.

  “Elena is fine. She asks for you often and is looking forward to seeing you again. Now give Peter the phone and go lie down.”

  Itani handed Puhlman the phone and disappeared into his room.

  “You gave him those instructions?” Puhlman asked.

  “Yes. My control is still complete.”

  “What about the other situation, the one you called about?”

  “I’ll take care of it. It will be necessary for you and Jake to leave San Francisco immediately after returning. I’ll make all the arrangements, including the money. Our friends have been generous.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ll need to leave, too. Is everything ready there?”

  “I believe so. Colin’s deputy called with final instructions.”

  “Good. Keep a close watch on Iskander until it’s done. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And I suggest that you not tell Jake about this turn of events.”

  Puhlman readily agreed. Gibbons had become obsessed with the potential ramifications of having gotten rid of Elena’s body. Knowing that she’d been discovered might put him over the edge.

  The call completed, Puhlman paced the room. Gibbons had gone for a walk and would be back in an hour. The news about Elena being found hit Puhlman in the gut like a sledgehammer. The assassination of Senator Mortinson did not unduly worry him. Borger had the backing of powerful people, including elements of the CIA. But the murder of Elena was another matter, one that Puhlman was afraid was beyond Borger’s ability to control. He didn’t need Borger’s advice to leave San Francisco immediately upon returning. He’d been planning to do so ever since that morning when he and Gibbons disposed of her body. The need to leave the city hadn’t been particularly urgent as long as she remained in her watery grave in San Francisco Bay. But now …

  * * *

  While Borger had put on a confident façade during his conversation with Puhlman, his true state approached panic. Like Puhlman, his fears didn’t revolve around the assassination of Mortinson. But Elena’s murder was beyond his scope of influence.

  He forced himself to get his emotions under control and to think clearly.

  Much depended upon what the police would find in her apartment. Had she kept a diary, or a so-called little black book with the names and addresses of her clients? He could only hope not. But he had to plan as though she had.

  Assuming that his name was found in her possessions, and further assuming that the police would follow up, he had to have his story straight. The housekeeper and cook certainly knew that Elena been at the house on a number of occasions, and had even stayed over a few nights, especially when the young prizefighter, Iskander Itani, had been there. But there was nothing beyond that to link him to her death. “Yes,” he said aloud as an idea struck him. He would say that he’d been counseling her to leave prostitution before something nasty happened to her. What would he say if they asked whether he’d availed himself of her sexual services? He’d make light of it and say that it was only after he’d been a client that he began working with her as a patient. He might even say he’d fallen in love with her. No, that was too over the top. His story would be that she’d become a patient and … and he would also say that she’d confided in him that she’d recently been stalked by a client who’d threatened to kill her. He’d urged her to go to the police, but she was afraid because of her illegal occupation.

  Satisfied with that story line, he proceeded to ponder who else might link him to her. He thought back to what Itani had told Mica Sphere when she’d spent time with him at the house, that he had a girlfriend named Elena. But why would the police question Mica? They didn’t even know that she existed. Elena was not such an uncommon name that Mica would remember it. Elena had been identified as Elena Marciano, but she used the name Jones when working. If Itani had told Mica Elena’s last name it would have been Jones, not Marciano.

  What about Puhlman and Gibbons?

  He had no choice but to trust them and get them out of San Francisco as quickly as possible. Their work with him was strictly off the books, cash provided by the CIA in most cases, augmented by funds from his backers in the assassination plot.

  Of course, there was Itani, who’d actually killed her. But his induced amnesia was rock-solid as far as Borger was concerned, both of having killed Elena and for having been programmed to assassinate George Mortinson. And if things went as planned in Washington, Itani wouldn’t live to tell anyone anything.

  * * *

  As Borger formulated his story, Detective Duane Woodhouse and two colleagues were sifting through Elena’s calendar and address book.

  “This name ‘Borger’ appears on four days on the calendar,” a detective said, “and there’s an address and phone number for Dr. Sheldon Borger on Nob Hill in her book. Must
be the same guy. And look at the last date. It coincides with the approximate time the ME said she died.”

  “Let’s pay the good doctor a visit,” Woodhouse said.

  Borger saw the unmarked car pull up at the gates and a man in a suit get out and press the intercom button.

  “Yes?” Borger said into a unit in the kitchen.

  “Dr. Borger?”

  “Yes.”

  “Detective Woodhouse, San Francisco PD. We’d like to have a word with you.”

  “May I ask what this is in reference to?”

  “It’d be easier to explain in person, sir.”

  “All right,” Borger said, pushing a button that electronically opened the gates.

  Woodhouse and his partner got out of their car and approached the front door. Borger opened it before they reached it and said, a wide smile on his face, “I’m not used to being visited by members of the city’s finest.”

  “We appreciate your time, sir,” said Woodhouse.

  “Come in, come in.”

  He led them to his study and asked if they wished something to drink.

  “No thank you, sir. We’re here regarding a young woman named Elena Marciano.”

  “Elena?” Borger said, feigning surprise. “What about her?”

  “She’s been the victim of a murder.”

  “Oh, no. Murdered? When? Where?”

  Woodhouse ignored the questions and said, “We have reason to believe that you and the deceased had some sort of a relationship.”

  “Relationship? Yes, I suppose you could call it that. I was her psychiatrist.”

  Woodhouse and his partner looked at each other. Borger’s response was unexpected.

  “She was a patient of yours?”

  “Yes. I can’t believe what I’ve just heard. Good Lord, who could have done this horrible thing to her?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out, sir. Were you aware of how Ms. Marciano made her living?”

  Borger paused before saying, “I’m not sure just how much I should reveal about her. After all, she was my patient and there’s the doctor-patient privilege to consider.”

  “That really doesn’t hold water, Dr. Borger,” Woodhouse said, “not when a homicide is involved.”

  “Please don’t misunderstand,” Borger quickly added. “I want to be of as much help as possible. You ask about what Elena did for a living. She was a prostitute.”

  “Yes, we’ve pretty much established that,” Woodhouse said. “Did she talk about her customers with you?”

  “Customers? She referred to them as clients.”

  “Did she name any of them?”

  Borger displayed his widest smile and raised his hand. “I think we’re veering into a touchy area,” he said.

  Woodhouse’s partner said, “In other murders involving a prostitute, it’s often one of her johns, her clients, who did it.”

  “That makes sense,” said Borger, “but no, she never mentioned anyone by name. That would have been terribly indiscreet of her. But she did—”

  Woodhouse’s cocked head invited him to continue.

  “She did mention one client, not his name, but said that she was afraid of him. She said that he’d threatened to kill her.”

  “But no name.”

  “No name.”

  “Did you suggest that she notify the police?”

  “Of course I did, but I understood her reluctance to do that. She was, after all, a prostitute, which means she was breaking the law. She was concerned about how you, the police, would respond to her.”

  Their interview with Borger lasted another half hour. It was toward the end of it that Woodhouse said, “We’ve established that she was with you the day of her murder.”

  “Why day was that?” Borger asked. Woodhouse told him. Borger excused himself to check his appointment book. When he returned he said, “That’s right, we did have a session on that day.”

  “What time?”

  “I don’t have it noted in my book, but I remember distinctly that it was four o’clock.”

  “Why do you remember it so distinctly?” asked Woodhouse.

  “I recall it because she was quite upset about this client’s threats, so much so that I suggested that she spend the night here.”

  “You usually have patients spend the night at your house?”

  “Not routinely, but I have done it with certain patients. Sometimes prolonging the time spent with a patient can be therapeutic. Frankly, I was concerned for her safety.” He shrugged. “But she refused my offer and said that she’d be all right, that she could take care of herself.”

  The detectives thanked Borger for his time and cooperation and left. When they were in the car, Woodhouse‘s partner said, “He’s slick, isn’t he?”

  “Too slick for my blood,” Woodhouse replied. “You notice that he had the newspaper on his desk?”

  “No.”

  “He acted as though being told of the murder was a big surprise. I don’t believe him.”

  “Want to go back?”

  “Later. Let’s follow up on some of the other names we have from her calendar and address book, then we’ll pay the doctor another visit.”

  CHAPTER

  40

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Senator George Mortinson lobbed a ball over Mac Smith’s head and watched his tennis opponent scramble to reach and return it. He failed.

  “Nice shot,” Smith said as he prepared to serve.

  Smith eventually won the abbreviated match, which was cut short when Meg Whitson came to the court and told the senator that he was behind schedule for a noontime speech he was slated to deliver. Mortinson had been running late all morning, much to the chagrin of his staff. Flanked by Secret Service, he walked with Smith to where their cars were parked, with Meg encouraging them to move faster.

  “If we’d played it out, I would have beaten you,” Mortinson said.

  “Maybe,” Smith said.

  “You know, Mac, it would be good form to let the next president of the United States win.”

  “What would I get for throwing the match?”

  “A night in—”

  “The Lincoln Bedroom?”

  “The maids’ quarters,” Mortinson said through a laugh. “Coming to the event tomorrow?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it, Senator. Annabel’s looking forward to it, too. We’re bringing friends, Nicholas Tatum and his gal friend Cindy Simmons. I told you about them. She’s a big fan, was thrilled to get a signed photo of you at a restaurant the other night.”

  “Look forward to seeing them, and you and Annabel.”

  Smith watched Mortinson be driven away to a shower and to his next appointment on the campaign trail. He and Annabel were staunch supporters of the Mortinson candidacy and the policies that he espoused. But neither was disillusioned about what running for so lofty a position as the leader of the free world demanded. It took an immense ego and sense of self-confidence that few other people possessed. It also helped to have a fatalistic view of one’s mortality.

  There were always some deranged individuals out there determined to impose their will on the nation by ridding it of someone they considered dangerous and a threat to what they believed in. Four sitting presidents had been assassinated: Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, and Kennedy. Others, like Truman, Nixon, Ford, and Reagan, had survived attacks. Potential president Robert Kennedy had been gunned down while campaigning, and every president lived with death threats—the Bushes, Clinton, Teddy and Franklin Roosevelt, and Barack Obama. It went with the territory was the way they all dismissed that grim reality when questioned about it in public. But were they always that cavalier in their private moments?

  Mortinson and Tricia had discussed the danger to candidates for high political office on more than a few occasions. She agreed with him that protection for presidential candidates was top-notch, the men and women of the Secret Service consummate professionals who would give their lives to protect their wards.
But she was also aware that her husband was of the opinion that the best protection in the world couldn’t guarantee that someone, sometime, couldn’t find a way to inflict injury, especially on someone as gregarious as George Mortinson. She’d urged him to curb his need to press into crowds, seeking every outstretched hand, too often deviating from the scheduled route, to the dismay of the agents assigned to him. She also tensed when he took part in parades, opting for a convertible that afforded the crowds a better view of him than a covered vehicle like that used by the pope and other world leaders. Visions of Jack Kennedy in Dallas always came to mind, and she would breathe a sigh of relief when her husband had passed safely along the parade route.

  Yes, it went with the territory, but that didn’t make it more palatable.

  Mortinson’s speech was at the venerable Woman’s National Democratic Club, which had been enticing the biggest names in politics to speak at their twice-weekly luncheons since the club’s founding in 1922. Housed in an imposing 1894 Beaux Arts mansion near Dupont Circle, its membership, which had included men since 1988, was a friendly crowd to address for any Democrat running for office. Tricia Mortinson not only accompanied her husband on this day, she introduced him. She kept it short; he spoke for twenty minutes and left time for questions. Some were directed at Tricia, including one from an older woman who asked what it was like to be married to not only the next president of the United States but to such a handsome man as well.

  Tricia laughed at the question, thought for a moment, and said, “You know how some men consider beautiful women as not having brains? Well, that’s not true of my—dare I say it?—beautiful husband. He’ll bring to the office a thoughtful, reasoned approach to the multitude of problems we face as a nation. In other words, the United States of America will be in very capable hands.”

  The men and women in the audience stood and applauded, although some of the more conservative attendees remained seated. The Mortinsons, accompanied by Secret Service agents, left the head table and personally greeted everyone, shaking hands, smiling broadly, and stopping for those who’d brought a camera. Meg Whitson had sat in the rear of the room during the event. She looked at her watch and scowled. They were already a half hour behind schedule, and she mentally grappled with how they could make up the time for the rest of the day.