The First Lady

by James Patterson

  Jackson makes to speak, and I roll right over him, no patience at all. “Your work in sidestepping proper procedures and enabling the President to bed his mistress was completely rogue and unauthorized. You work for me, and the moment I found out was yesterday morning. Do you think I’m going to let that slide? Or that the director will?”

  “But I—”

  My rolling over him continues, and maybe I’m not being fair, but I don’t care. “You know your history. You know what happened to the agents caught up in the Clinton-Lewinsky mess? They had to hire private lawyers. They lost their homes, their savings, their college funds. And their careers crumbled like dust. You know a good lawyer, then?”

  I gather my notepad and bag, stand up, and Jackson’s face softens. “Eight months ago.”

  I sit down. “Where and how?”

  “It was a post-fund-raising get-together in Denver,” Jackson says, voice quiet. “Miss Doyle was part of the group. There were about two dozen there, a meet-and-greet, photo taken with CANAL, that sort of thing.”

  “Go on.”

  “Then CANAL asked if we could delay getting back to the hotel for a while,” Jackson says. “He and Miss Doyle went into a private room off the banquet hall for about a half hour.”

  “Was this the first time they ever met?”

  “To my knowledge, yes.”

  “Did she entice him in any way?”

  “Entice?”

  I lose my patience again. “Crap, Jack, you know what I mean. Did she have a low-cut dress on and drop some cottage cheese down her cleavage in front of the President? Did she laugh a lot and touch his shoulder, touch his hair? Did she turn and flip up the back of her dress to show him she was wearing a thong? Anything like that?”

  Jackson shakes his head. “No, nothing like that. Miss Doyle … she’s a class act.”

  That’s a comment too far. “Excuse me for being rude, but she’s banging a married man, and not just any married man.”

  Jackson is stubborn. “She … makes him happy. That’s all I know. And a happy President … well, it’s a good thing.”

  “Was she a stalker? Hanging around the Man’s campaign events? Trying to sneak into Camp David? Send him books of love poetry?”

  “Not at all. Like I said, she’s a class act. A fine woman.”

  I bite my tongue and say, “How often did they get together?”

  “Two, three times a month.”

  I can’t believe it. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Jackson shakes his head. “Nope.”

  “How in the hell did … how did you think you were going to get away with it? How did you think he was going to get away with it?”

  He says, “You know how it is. CANAL goes to a campaign event, or some political meeting, and at some point the press secretary, he says, the lid’s on, no more news for the night, the President’s gone to bed. And the hotels he stays at … secure, staff discreet, we rent the floor the President’s on and the floor above and the floor below. After-hours … easy enough to go out a back entrance, or a service area, or any other place for a … meeting.”

  “So you helped arrange these … meetings.”

  “We did.”

  “Not really in your job description, is it?”

  He shrugs. “Just following orders.”

  I say, “This Tammy Doyle … you think she has violence in her heart? Wants to hurt the President? Or the First Lady?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  I wait for a moment. “Anything else?”

  He waits for a moment as well. “I’m hearing … rumors. About the First Lady. That she might be … well, someplace where she can’t be reached.”

  I get up. “That’s all, Jack.”

  “You asked about Tammy Doyle and the First Lady. There’s something going on, isn’t there?”

  “Jack, your career has already been bombed into destruction. What, you have an appetite to make the rubble bounce?”

  He stares up at me. “But if you’re doing something about the First Lady being … unavailable … it’s not our job. It’s the FBI, DC police, whole lots of other agencies.”

  I say, “You know the drill. Just following orders.”

  CHAPTER 34

  AFTER THREE HOURS of purging her emails and phone messages, Tammy Doyle finally sits back in her office chair and takes a breath. She managed to slip into the K Street building holding Pearson, Pearson, and Price by going into an adjacent structure and walking through a maintenance hallway.

  In her office, there’s been looks, a few smiles, but mostly she’s been left alone, which is fine. The firm’s receptionists are screening any incoming calls, the media can camp out on the sidewalk for as long as they want, and she’s in a little cocoon of safety here.

  Tammy’s feeling better, even though her face is still tender from yesterday’s car accident and that side of her body is achy. The bruise on her cheek has been covered up with some foundation, and no one’s noticed a thing. She’s ignored the news this morning, and right now, all she wants is a third cup of coffee, and then there’s a knock at her door.

  “Come on in,” she calls out, and Ralph Moren, her group’s admin aide, steps in and says, “Tammy, there’s a woman here to see you.”

  Tammy says, “I doubt it. I don’t have any scheduled appointments.”

  Ralph nods, his face bright red above his equally red bow tie. “I know that but this woman … she’s from the Secret Service. And she says she needs to see you, straightaway.”

  Tammy waits for a moment, says, “All right, Ralph. Show her in … and get me a cup of coffee, the way I like it. And see if she wants one as well.”

  Ralph slips out, and about ten seconds later, the Secret Service agent comes in. Tammy stands up, extends a hand, gives her a close look. Tammy has gotten to know about a half-dozen Secret Service agents after meeting … Harry, and she’s not one of the protective team that travels with him. She’s older, tall, and very tired-looking, with frizzy brown hair and swollen eyes. She has on a black wool coat that goes down to her knees, along with a red scarf that looks handmade. After the initial awkward private meetings with Harry, she’d gotten along well with his Secret Service detail, with smiles and little shared jokes here and there.

  This woman doesn’t seem to be in a joking mood.

  She reaches into her leather bag, pulls out a small wallet, which she displays, showing a star-shaped badge and a photograph of the woman. “Miss Doyle, I’m Sally Grissom, special agent in charge, Presidential Protective Division for the Secret Service. Thanks for seeing me.”

  The Secret Service agent sits down, and Tammy does as well, and then the door opens up again and Ralph comes in with a large white coffee mug branded with the firm’s blue logo, and she says, “Are you sure we can’t get you anything, Agent … Grissom?”

  “No,” she says, and Tammy notes hard steel behind that one syllable. Ralph leaves, and Tammy says, “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “Do you think you do?” Grissom shoots back.

  “I’m not sure … why are you here?”

  Grissom says, “You’re a smart woman, you’ve worked here for three years, you know the ways of the world in DC. And I’m sure you know that the agents who … allowed you within the President’s company were violating Secret Service regulations.”

  “But they were … well, the President knew.”

  “The President isn’t their boss,” she says, voice hard and sharp. “I am. And I’m here to do an interview, to ensure you weren’t a threat then, and are not a threat now.”

  Tammy relaxes some, smiles, and takes a healthy sip of her coffee. Outside is the constant hum of traffic on K Street, with her windowed office overlooking the key avenue in this town, where deals are struck and money changes hands, all in the name of greasing the so-called wheels of power up on Capitol Hill and at the White House.

  “Please,” she says. “I’m not a threat. Honest.”

  Grissom says, “When did it st
art?”

  “Ah … you mean, when did I start seeing the President?”

  “Exactly.”

  “About … eight months ago. At a function in Denver.”

  “Had you been following him prior to that?”

  “Following? Like … stalking? No, I’m not a stalker.”

  “Your meeting in Denver, then, it was just an accident.”

  “Yes.”

  “How did it happen?”

  Tammy doesn’t like being put in the spotlight like this. It feels like a job interview that’s going off the rails.

  “It … happened.”

  Grissom says, “Sorry, that’s not going to be good enough. I want details, or I can take you into custody right now.”

  “You’re bluffing,” Tammy says.

  “Try me,” Grissom says quietly.

  Tammy pauses. “It was in Denver. My firm represents companies that have … pipeline interests in Colorado. There was a reception. We chatted for just a few seconds … and later, people were leaving, and Harry … I mean the President, caught my eye. He motioned me to follow him … and we went into this little conference room. And … we talked. That’s all. Just talked. About Denver. The campaign. Weather. And … you know what? He seemed lonely. The poor man … just lonely.”

  “And?”

  Tammy says, “A Secret Service agent knocked on the door, told him his motorcade was about to leave. We embraced … kissed … and … he asked me if I was going to be at an event in Saint Paul the next week.”

  She feels warm now, thinking about that first time. “I lied. I said I was. And that’s when … we became intimate.”

  Grissom says, “During your times together … did you say anything about the First Lady?”

  Something is changing in Tammy’s office. It’s no longer the safe cocoon she loves.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand your question.”

  “Grace Fuller Tucker. Did you and the President talk about her? Did you talk about her as a rival? An enemy?”

  Tammy says, “Not on your life.”

  “Prove it.”

  Tammy feels trapped by the cold eyes and look of the Secret Service agent across from her. “I … we hardly ever talked about her. Honest. Our time together was so limited that we made it count … and that didn’t mean talking about his wife.”

  “Did the President make promises to you? About your future together?”

  Tammy hesitates. Maybe now is the time for a lawyer, but still … she can’t stand the thought of being dragged through that mob downstairs with her arms cuffed behind her, still being the lead story on every television and cable news network on the planet.

  “Yes … he said that after the election he’d put out news leaks about his relationship with the First Lady, that they had grown apart. And after the inauguration … he’d separate from her. And eventually bring me into public view.”

  Grissom says, “Nice plan. Tell me, how much do you dislike the First Lady? Have you been following her? Sending her anonymous threats? Or are you jealous about her relationship with the President?”

  “No, no, I have … look.” She takes a deep breath. “This is rotten. I know it is. But the President … he was lonely. And … we connected. The two of us. I love him, and he loves me. We hardly ever talked about the First Lady … and you know what? I admire her. She’s trying to help homeless kids, she’s trying to make a difference … and I admire her for that. Honest to God.”

  “One last question,” Grissom says, and Tammy is nearly faint with relief.

  “Okay.”

  “Did the President make any mention of the First Lady having an affair of her own, with another man? Did he have any suspicions that she was cheating on him?”

  Tammy couldn’t reply for the surprise she felt. She recovered and said, “No. Not a word. Not a hint … nothing.”

  Grissom abruptly stands up. “Very well. Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Doyle … and good luck in the days ahead.”

  Before Grissom reaches the door, Tammy calls out, “Can I ask you a question?”

  The Secret Service agent, leather case in one hand, rearranges the handmade red scarf with the other. “Sure. I can give you that.”

  “I’ve heard … rumors. About the First Lady. Whether she’s … really in seclusion in the family quarters at the White House.”

  Grissom says, “Take care of yourself.”

  And then she’s gone, her non-answer raising lots more questions for Tammy.

  She takes out her cell phone, feels that urgent hunger to call Harry to see how he’s doing.

  But …

  Tammy puts the phone away.

  The last time she talked to him on this phone, Harry had lied to her.

  She doesn’t want to give him another opportunity.

  CHAPTER 35

  I’M IN THE President’s private study, on the second floor of the White House, and I suppose I should be impressed, but I’m not. I’m thinking about the naughty things that have happened in this room over the years—Harding, LBJ, Clinton—and I force myself to keep a slight smile on my face as I sit down across from the Man. Parker Hoyt is hovering at his side, near packed shelves of leather-bound books. There are also small oil paintings of famed past politicians decorating the walls, and President Tucker is sitting at a small wooden desk.

  He starts, “Agent Grissom, I want to apologize for the … brusque tone I took with you yesterday. You can imagine the … stress we were all under.”

  “I understand, sir,” I say, sitting still, hands in my lap. I catch the attention of his chief of staff and I say, “Mr. Hoyt, will you excuse us?”

  The President’s campaign may be in slow-motion collapse, and the comics and commentators may be having a wonderful time with the “Ambush in Atlanta,” but I have to give Parker Hoyt credit: he looks as tough and as sharp as when I saw him last.

  “Absolutely not,” he says. “I stay here. I want to hear what’s going on.”

  I smile at him. “Very well.” I shift my gaze. “Mr. President, do you know where your wife is?”

  The President is puzzled. “No. Of course not.”

  “Thank you.”

  Still in the chair, I say, “Mr. Hoyt, that concludes my investigation. You told me yesterday to do whatever it takes to find the First Lady, and I can’t do that by conducting interviews in your presence. So your choice is either to leave and let me perform this investigation in a manner I see fit, or stay here and the investigation is finished. I’m unable to find the First Lady.”

  The President says, “Parker, she makes sense. Please leave.”

  “Mr. President—”

  “Parker.”

  He says not a word and then quietly and quickly leaves, closing the heavy wooden door behind him. The President says, “With everything else that’s going on, you’ve managed to make an enemy for life, Agent Grissom.”

  “He’ll have to take a number,” I say. “Thank you, sir. I’ll make this as quick as possible. I know your time is extremely valuable.”

  He nods, and I think of the times I’ve interviewed men while I was working for Metro DC and the State Police in Virginia, men who were suspected of being drug mules, serial abusers, or rapists. The fact that I’m using my interview techniques with the President of the United States boggles my mind.

  “Again, Mr. President, do you know where your wife is?”

  “No.”

  “With the news about your … relationship with Tammy Doyle, I have to ask this … your marriage, was it in serious trouble?”

  He nods, eyes sad. “Ah …”

  He stops talking.

  “Mr. President … what you say to me I’ll keep confidential. Even if I’m subpoenaed at some point. Right now I want to find your wife, and I need your help.”

  He nods, swallows, and that’s when I no longer have the most powerful man in the world sitting in front of me.

  In front of me is a husband whose wife has gone missing. “<
br />
  It … started a couple of years ago. We both had our schedules, our demands. Often we were on the road on separate trips … and then … I started making compromises. Grace didn’t—or wouldn’t—understand that. Politics is a practical business, and it’s better to get half a loaf than none. But she kept on pushing me, pushing me … even working behind my back to reach out to congressional leaders. We had a few private blowups, and then … we settled, I guess. We settled into our own universes, our own lives …”

  I hear his words and I also see something else—my marriage, the long stretches of time I spent working and on the road, and Ben doing the same, out visiting the national parks, each of us juggling our own career, our own demands, while trying to raise a daughter.

  “I see, sir. Please continue.”

  He shrugs. “Our marriage … it was for appearances only. An empty shell. There was no more romance, no more passion. A peck on the lips or on the cheek, a week or so here … a couple of times we tried to mend things, spending long weekends at Camp David; then we’d go back to the old arguments, our old patterns. But you have to know one very important thing, Agent Grissom.”

  “And what’s that, sir?”

  “I still have affection for her. I always will. And I do love her still. I couldn’t have gotten here without her support, without her sacrifices. I want you to know I bear her no ill will.”

  I try to gauge his mood, what’s going on behind that sad yet handsome face, and I say, “When was the last time you spoke with the First Lady?”

  “Yesterday morning, when we had just left Atlanta.”

  “That must have been a difficult conversation.”

  Another swallow. “It was.”

  “How did it end?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Something just flickered across his face. “Your conversation with the First Lady,” I ask. “How did it end?”

  He seems to be struggling with something, and I decide not to press him. Too much pressure on my end and he’ll wrap things up, and maybe get another compliant Secret Service agent to conduct this fouled-up investigation. An attractive option for sure, but I’m in so deep now that I’m going to see it to the end.