The Case of THE PINK LADY (A Dick Nixon Mystery)

by Casper Bogart

  “Shelly? Dick Nixon.”

  A shriek of delight on the other end. “Oh, Mr. Nixon, it's so good to hear your voice! How are you doing? The papers say you've been depressed.”

  Fuck the papers, he thought, but then in his most cheerful voice said, “Baloney! I'm enjoying my time as a private citizen. Say Shelly, I wonder if I could ask you a favor? I need an address from a license plate. I'm trying to locate a woman. Could you look it up for me?”

  Nixon could hear her charm bracelet jingling on her fat arm. “For you, Mr. Nixon, I'd break into her apartment.”

  Nixon chuckled. His campaign workers were loyal, at least he had that much. “I’d never expect burglary, Shelly. The address will be more than enough.”

  He gave her Mary Kate Wilson's plate number off the red Thunderbird. In a moment, Shelly gave him the dead girl's address, an apartment near the La Brea Tar Pits.

  “Shelly, once again you've done me a great service.”

  Shelly giggled. “So take me to dinner. We won't tell Mrs. Nixon,” she teased.

  Nixon's face turned hot. “Uh, well, how about if I send you an autographed picture instead?”

  ***

  Nixon parked the Lincoln in front of a small apartment building on Cochran Street. It looked to have about ten units in it. A man with gray hair was hopelessly watering the brown grass and eyed Nixon suspiciously as he came up the walk.

  “Yeah? May I help you?”

  “Uh, maybe you can. I'm wondering if you knew Mary Kate Wilson, lived here in apartment 2C?”

  The man aimed the hose towards a dead rhododendron. “Yeah. She was my tenant. Killed herself last night. You a cop? Cause your co-workers already been here, searched her place top to bottom.”

  “Uh, no, I'm not with the police.”

  The man's eyes narrowed. “Huh. Then you must be a reporter, cause you look like somebody.”

  A reporter? God strike me dead, Nixon thought. “No, I'm just an interested party. Can you tell me anything about her?”

  “Well, I know she had a nice car. T-Bird. Red. And nice jahoobies. Real nice." He held his mouth open a second. "Hey, I know you! You're that Nixon guy!”

  Nixon flashed the big grin. “Yes, yes I am.”

  “I didn't vote for you. Ever. Not for President, not for Governor.”

  Nixon coughed. “Well, that's the wonderful thing about America. We can vote for whomever we choose.”

  The man paused and slurped a drink from the hose. “Yeah, it's a shame. Quiet girl. No trouble. Cops say they found a suicide note. Boyfriend broke up with her. But I say that's a bunch of crap. She was a quiet girl. Never saw a boyfriend.” He slurped from the hose again.

  “Anybody ever come to see her?” Nixon asked.

  The man thought. “Well, back in early December she had a lot of visits from guys in dark suits. I figure she was in trouble with the IRS.”

  “Why is that?”

  The man spit in disgust. “Because those guys always wear dark suits. Ain't you ever watched TV?”

  Nixon flashed a phony grin. “Right. Anybody else visit?”

  “Her Uncle visited her a lot.”

  Nixon raised his eyebrows. “You know her Uncle's name?”

  The man moved his hose to a tinder dry bougainvillea vine. “No. Nice fellah. Tall.”

  “Anything else about the girl you can tell me?”

  He thought for a second. “Yeah. She wouldn't have voted for you either. She was a good Democrat. As a matter of fact, she worked for the California Democratic Party.”

  Nixon stood a minute in stunned silence, then thanked him and walked numbly to his car.

  “Hey,” the man called after, “I saw that debate you had on TV that time with President Kennedy. You needed a shave.”

  ***

  The long distance operator told him how many dimes to put in the payphone, then rang the number. Hoover's secretary answered, and put him right through.

  “Hello Dick! How the hell you doing?”

  “I’m fine, Edgar. How goes the good fight?” Nixon knew that Hoover hated the Kennedys and was suspicious that they would try and force him out as head of the FBI.

  “I’m holding my own. Still, I wish you were in Washington. God knows the country could use you, Dick. The Russians are everywhere. I wish the election of 1960 had… well, you know how I feel about that subject.”

  Nixon felt a wave of good feeling wash over him. J. Edgar Hoover's regard for a has-been politician was like balm on his blistered soul. "You're a kind man, Edgar."

  “What can I do for you, old friend?”

  Nixon told Hoover about Murray Gold and the dead girl in his driveway. He told him about the dead girl having worked for the California Democratic Party.

  “It stinks, Edgar. Could you check with your boys and see if there's a file on her?”

  “I’ll get right on that. You at a payphone? Stay there and I'll call you back in ten minutes."

  Nixon gave Hoover the phone number. As he did, he caught a glimpse of a dark Impala driving by at about half the speed limit. He had seen the same car in his rear view as he was driving from the dead girl's apartment.

  Thinking about the car, Nixon added, "And Edgar, ask the boys if there's an agent out here looking into this mess."

  “I’ll do it, Dick. Sit tight.”

  Nixon hung up and waited for the head of the F.B.I. to call him back.

  ***

  It was almost midnight, the stereo was playing Van Cliburn and Nixon sat in his den, well into his third whiskey sour.

  It had been a long day. The girls had a skin rash from swimming in the toxically over chlorinated pool. And there was certainly no fornicating going on in his house. Pat had gone to bed without speaking to him. She was sure he was hatching some political come-back with Murray, and Nixon didn't have the energy to explain what was really going on.

  And anyway, what was really going on? Nixon's head was a jumble of information, and most of it made no sense.

  That afternoon, Hoover had called him back and told him that the dead girl had been working for the Democratic Party at the National Office in Washington during the Presidential Campaign. She was transferred to Los Angeles after the election, right about the time Nixon decided to run for Governor. This information troubled him deeply, but he didn't know what to make of it.

  But it was nothing compared to what Hoover had told him next: Mary Kate Wilson wasn't the dead girl's real name. Her real name was Katrina Ivanovich, and she had been born in Moscow.

  Nixon sipped the whiskey sour. He remembered the odd sound of Hoover's voice — it actually got lower, as if he feared he was being listened to …

  “There's something odd about her file, Dick. The Attorney General's office ordered a wiretap on her, I've got the file ordering it right here.” Hoover had paused, as if trying to make sense of something. “But the results of the tap are missing…”

  The Attorney General — Bobby Kennedy. Christ, If I had named my brother Attorney General, the press would have crucified me.

  He drained the whiskey sour. He thought about Hoover's final bombshell:

  “Dick, my men were looking into this girl's death as of this morning. But right after you called, while I was looking into this, I got another call. And that call requested that we stand down on this matter. And that call came…” Hoover paused here, his voice lowered as before. “That call came from the highest possible source.”

  Nixon knew what that meant. The White House was somehow involved in all of this.

  He nibbled on the maraschino cherry and thought about Murray. He had known him for years, and yet Nixon had that same feeling, way down in his gut, as he had years ago when he questioned Hiss in the Soviet spy case. Murray wasn't shooting straight.

  The phone rang.

  “Yeah?”

  A female operator. “Long distance from Washington, D.C.”

  Nixon snorted. “You bet it is.”

  Another voice. “Mr. Nixon? I have
the President calling.”

  Surprised, Nixon leaned forward and grabbed the cocktail shaker off the coffee table. Pouring the rest of the whiskey sour into his glass, he said, "I'm here."

  There was a pause, and the familiar voice came on the line.

  “Dick?”

  “Hello, Mr. President.”

  “Uh, sorry to call so late.”

  “It's even later for you, Mr. President.”

  They made some small talk, at first, a few references to the good old days in Congress when they were freshmen together.

  Then Kennedy told him the Russians were acting up, that he was trying to wrap up getting the missiles out of Cuba, that Vietnam was turning into a fiasco, and finally, he hoped that, despite their differences and their past rivalry he'd have his support and advice in the days ahead. Nixon assured Kennedy that he was an American first, and a partisan second. Inside, it felt good to still be wanted.

  Then JFK said, “Uh, Dick, I understand there's a bit of a mess with Murray Gold.”

  Ah. That's what the call is about. Nixon listened to the hiss and crackle on the line and wondered what to say.

  “It's a mess all right,” he said, finally. “Some girl killed herself in her car in Murray's driveway. He says he doesn't know her, and the police believe that, but between you and me, I think he was balling her.”

  “That's what happens when we're led around by our pricks,” the President of the United States said.

  Nixon could have answered that, but he resisted. It had only been a few months since Marilyn Monroe had been found dead, and it was widely whispered that both Kennedy and his brother had been sleeping with her. JFK had always screwed around, but America didn't know about it. Another base on balls the press gave him.

  The hiss of long distance silence filled the ear piece.

  “Dick, I've had to do things I'm not proud of. You and I, we've fought some tough fights. I just want you to know that whatever I've done, it's just been… Politics. Nothing personal.”

  This surprised Nixon. It sounded like actual remorse. “Shit, Jack. I know that.”

  They exchanged a few more words, regards to the wives, and then it was over.

  Nixon sat there, slipped off his shiny, black, wing tips. He played back the day in his head. He thought about the dead girl, about her T-Bird. He thought about Hoover. He thought about the strange call from Jack Kennedy. What could it mean?

  Then he thought about Murray's shoes.

  Nixon reached for his wallet and pulled out the scrap of paper with detective Jimmy Myer's home phone number on it. He dialed.

  “Hello, Detective? Dick Nixon. I wonder if I might ask a favor, as one commie hater to another?”

  ***

  Nixon stood there in the dark on the side of Murray's house, and fumbled open the door to the control box of the automatic lawn sprinklers. Shining his flashlight inside, he noted with satisfaction that the little tabs were set on the clock wheel to start the lawn watering at one A.M., and shut the sprinklers off again forty minutes later. As he was closing the box, he somehow managed to hit the on button, and the sprinklers came to life, drenching him until, with much swearing, he got them shut off.

  “Dick? Is that you?”

  Startled, Nixon turned to the voice behind him and dropped his flashlight. He could tell by the tall figure standing there, back lit by the porch lights, that it was all six foot six of Murray Gold.

  Nixon broke into a sweat, but his voice was calm. “Hello Murray. I was just out digging for pumpkins.”

  The silhouetted figure of Murray took a step towards him. “Huh? Are you okay Dick? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m glad you asked me that question,” Nixon said, sounding for all the world like he was at a press conference. "In the Hiss spy case, the microfilm was hidden in a pumpkin, remember? Well, I was just looking for a pumpkin. A metaphor.”

  Murray sounded concerned. “Are you sure you're okay, Dick?”

  Nixon flashed that smile. “Never better. I've had a few highballs, but— ”

  Murray laughed. “Oh, that explains it. Come on in the house, I'll fix you one for the road!”

  Nixon stopped him with his words. “Uh, not quite yet, Murray. You see, I've been thinking about your case, and I think I've kind of broken it.”

  “Really? Why that's great, Dick!”

  “For starters, the dead girl worked for the Dems."

  “You're kidding me?”

  “No. Worked for Kennedy in D.C., and then here for the Brown for Governor campaign."

  Murray whistled. “Holy cow. You think somebody is trying to make me look bad? Politics?”

  “Partially. It is certainly politics. But it certainly wasn't suicide Murray. Pretty girls don't blow their brains out with guns. In fact, pretty girls don't blow their brains out at all, they prefer pretty deaths. No, there's more to it, because, you see,” and here Nixon paused for effect: “she was a commie spy.”

  “Oh my God,” said Murray.

  “Yep. I talked to Hoover today. I know what her mission was, too.”

  Murray was eager. “What was it?”

  “To get to someone inside of my organization. To get everything they could on me. To steal my debate notes, my speech drafts, everything — so they could be sure I never got in the White House!”

  Murray's voice changed. “Dick, that sounds a little paranoid.”

  “Does it? I don't really think so. Think of the geo-political advantage the Soviets would have with Kennedy in the White House: young, inexperienced, a pushover. I made my reputation fighting communists, and the Kremlin knew that with Nixon in the White House they'd never get away with their expansionist plans.”

  Murray grunted. “Huh. I guess that makes some sense. Still— ”

  “Why else would this girl — this agent, whose real name was Ivanovitch — follow me here from Washington to work on the Brown for Governor campaign? To make sure I lost that election as well, to bury me politically, so that I'd have no chance of taking the White House in '64. With Dick Nixon dead politically, and young Jack Kennedy as President, Khrushchev could have his way with the world.”

  “God, Dick,” Murray said, “this is all so unbelievable!”

  “Except it's true. And that brings me back to the girl. Whomever killed her was the same rat who was feeding her my info from inside my organization.”

  Murray shifted his weight. Nixon lowered his voice for emphasis.

  “I think the Democrats — Bobby Kennedy in particular — hired this girl, not knowing who she really was. They hired her to infiltrate my organization. It worked. And then she gave the Kennedy camp all my debate notes. But then, Bobby got wind of who this girl they had hired to spy on me really was, and got nervous that word might leak out that his brother was elected with political help from a Soviet Spy!”

  There was silence at this. “Dick. You know the rumors about Marilyn Monroe— ”

  Nixon sneered. “Yes. That Bobby had her killed to shut her up,” Nixon said. “And so, the thought occurred to me, several whiskey sours into the evening, that he could have had this girl killed too.”

  Murray ran his fingers through his hair, the light of the porch behind him. “Oh my God. You think the Attorney General would actually do such a thing?”

  Nixon said, “The Attorney General is a Kennedy. And, it makes perfect sense. Why else have the local cops been so eager to accept suicide, when there are all sorts of problems with that theory? It's perfectly clear: they'd behave like this if they were leaned on from upstairs. Yes, it all makes perfect sense.” Then, as an afterthought, “Except for one small detail.”

  Nixon heard Murray take a breath. “What's that?”

  “That you killed her, Murray.”

  Murray took a step towards him.

  “Uh— I would stop right there, if I were you.” Nixon produced an ancient Colt .45 revolver from his coat pocket. His old man owned a grocery store in Whittier and had the gun for protection, a fac
t he kept secret from his pacifist, Quaker wife, Nixon's sainted Mother. When Nixon left for Washington, the old man gave him the shooter and told him if he ever used it, he should make sure it was on a Democrat.

  Murray's voice changed. Cold. “Dick, put that away. You don't know what you're doing.”

  Nixon nodded. “Wrong. True, I didn't know what I was doing— you're right about that. It was all a swirl in my head. Until I got a call from JFK and mixed all the facts around with the magic elixir of whiskey. And now I know.”

  At that, Murray laughed. “Oh really? And just what do you know, Dick?”

  “I already knew that the dead girl in your driveway was a Soviet Spy. But now I know that you forced her to take cyanide, at gunpoint, and then staged it to look like she shot herself.”

  “That's a pretty fantastic thing to say. Why the hell would I do that?”

  “Because,” Nixon said, “You're the rat who sold me out, Murray. You're a commie spy yourself.”

  Nixon watched Murray's jaw clench.

  “That's enough. You've lost your mind.” Murray started towards Nixon again, but he pointed the Colt at Murray's head.

  “Perhaps. But you'll hear me out, because I have my Daddy's gun.”

  Murray froze in his tracks.

  “The CIA must have been close to figuring it out. Her landlord said she was visited back in December by guys in "dark suits" and that sure sounds like the Feds, since they all seem to have the same tailor. That must have made you worried, and you decided to get rid of her lest she be caught and made to sing.”

  “Come on, Dick!”

  “She must have been scared too, because she showed up at your house last night, around midnight. I know that because this morning when I questioned you about all this, you said you had gone to bed early, and when I mentioned your shoes, you said you had walked through the sprinklers. But this morning, the grass was dry.”

  Nixon pointed with a flourish towards the sprinkler controls.