The First Lady

by James Patterson

  He rubs a hand across the bristles on his chin, slowly nods. “So that’s how it’s going to be.”

  “Randy, maybe it’s my maternal nature, but I took care of you in Santiago, and I want to protect you again. So send everybody home … and thank you.”

  He says, “When this is over …”

  I touch his unshaven cheek. “When this is over, come visit me in Leavenworth, all right?”

  “I just might try to break you out.”

  “Don’t be a foolish boy,” I say. “Go.”

  And he walks to his people, and I take my phone and call Parker Hoyt to let him know what’s just happened.

  But again there’s no answer.

  A few minutes later I huddle up with Scotty and the three members of CANARY’s detail. The joy of learning the dead woman wasn’t the First Lady is gone, and now they’re slumped over, tired, worn down. Scotty doesn’t say anything, and Tanya and Brian look to their detail leader, Pamela Smithson, who simply asks, “What now?”

  I bite off what I want to say, which is What now? And is two days too late, and I say, “We take the night off. We’re exhausted, and we’ll start making mistakes.”

  And you’ve already made enough mistakes, I want to add, but I’m too tired to get into a shouting match at the moment.

  “We’ll start again tomorrow, eight a.m.”

  Tanya asks the reasonable question, “Where?” and I know we can’t meet at my office, or the East Wing, or W-17 … too many questions will roar our way tomorrow from other people who will be wondering why more than two days after the “Ambush in Atlanta,” the First Lady has been neither seen nor heard from. And I’ve got to lie once more to the other shift members of the First Lady’s protection detail, which is going to take some imaginative and delicate untruths.

  “The horse farm,” I say. “We … the buildings there. They haven’t been thoroughly searched. There’s a chance CANARY might be there, lying low.”

  “Wouldn’t the staff say something?” Brian asked.

  “They’re loyal to her, like you three,” I say. “If she asked them to keep her presence there quiet, don’t you think they’d do it?”

  Nobody says a word, which tells me they’re thinking it over.

  “Go,” I say, and they walk away, and Scotty comes to me and asks, “Boss, what about you?”

  I feel like crawling in the tent with the dead woman and taking a nap on the wet grass. I say, “I’ve got to get home. And I need to update Parker.”

  “You need a ride?”

  “I do.”

  Scotty says, “Got your back, boss.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and I walk away and try Amelia.

  No answer.

  A little cold stab in my gut.

  Okay.

  I call Parker Hoyt, at his office and on his cell phone.

  No answer at either number.

  I hang up.

  Vehicles are driving away, fewer people are around, and a Rockford County ambulance slowly approaches the white tent, here to take the dead woman away.

  Where the hell is Parker Hoyt?

  CHAPTER 40

  PARKER HOYT HANGS up his regular phone, interrupting a heartfelt call from the Senate majority leader, and grabs his special phone before it gets to a second ring.

  Again, ambient noise telling him his caller is outside.

  “Hoyt,” he says.

  “Not her,” his caller says.

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” the voice says. “The body’s not hers. Back to work.”

  The phone is disconnected on the other end, and Parker replaces the handset and slumps into his chair. For the past hour he’s been entertaining the notion of having a drowned FLOTUS. That would erase yesterday’s news from Atlanta and give the President a sympathy vote that would outweigh any damage from the scandal. But now that hope is gone.

  Damn.

  Where the hell did that bitch get to? And how long can he keep a lid on this damn mess?

  His regular office telephone rings, and his secretary, Mrs. Ann Glynn, says, “Amanda Price is on the line, sir. From Pearson, Pearson, and Price.”

  “Thanks, Ann,” he says. “Put her through.”

  A little click and the rough, smoky voice of Amanda comes through crisp and clear. “Parker, hon. How goes it?”

  He says, “I’ve had better days. And if the Buddhists are to be believed, I’ve had better lives. What do you need, Amanda?”

  “Your boy has been very naughty,” she says in her familiar voice.

  He shoots back, “And so has your girl.”

  She chuckles. “Let’s get together and talk it over.”

  “Yes,” he says with no reluctance. “Let’s.”

  Thirty-three minutes and two Diamond taxicab rides later, Parker arrives in a tiny alleyway off M Street Northwest in Georgetown, west of the White House. This high-priced part of Georgetown is old brick-and-cobblestone streets, but the thick wooden door he approaches is bland. After punching a code into a keypad, the lock clicks open and he enters the Button Gwinnett Club.

  The place is old, worn down, and the food and drink are comparable to the output of a kitchen at a soon-to-be-closed Holiday Inn in West Virginia. But with its initiation fee of $100,000, plus a penalty of ten times that much if the club’s solitary rule is ever broken, the Button Gwinnett Club is exclusive. Parker goes through the motions as he goes down the wood-paneled hallway. With a small key, he unlocks a small numbered wooden locker in which he deposits his iPhone, watch, and wallet.

  An old man, wearing a knee-length starched white apron, black trousers, and white shirt with black necktie, nods and says, “Sir … I believe your guest is in Room Three.”

  “Thank you,” he says, and takes a turn past one door toward another marked with a brass numeral 3, and walks in.

  Amanda Price is sitting at a small round table with a white tablecloth, sipping a martini, and he sits across from her. The room is private. All of the rooms in the Button Gwinnett are private, and with cell phones and all electronic devices forbidden in the dining areas, the club offers something that is rare in the District of Columbia: a place where the power brokers can sit and have open and fruitful discussions without any chance of being overheard or having their presence noted by the media, for that’s the solitary rule of the Button Gwinnett Club.

  Pure privacy.

  The door silently opens, and a waiter delivers his drink— tumbler of Jameson Irish whiskey and an ice water chaser.

  Amanda says, “Really, Parker, what was your boy thinking, going out like that? I thought he was smart enough to avoid what the little man tells him to do.”

  He takes a bracing sip. “Amanda, if you want to talk, talk. If you want to make jokes and snarky comments, I can go back to work and pick any random cable news channel to deliver what you’re offering.”

  Amanda smiles with the face of one who knows a secret. “How’s Grace handling this?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  “And where is she?”

  “In seclusion. Look, Amanda—”

  “How goes the search for her?”

  The Jameson is threatening to crawl back up his gullet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Amanda says, “Nice try, but don’t treat me like an idiot. I know she bailed out on her detail yesterday, and I know there’s a search going on for her. As low-key and quiet as possible, but there’s a search going on.”

  Parker needs a moment to think so he takes another sip of Jameson. It tastes bland and warm.

  He says, “What do you want?”

  A sharp-toothed smile. “That’s better. What I want is … to see what common ground we might share. In return for not passing on what I know to my friends in the media. It’s always practical to make deposits in the favor bank, especially a deposit as big as this one.”

  The room is quiet, the doors and walls are thick, and the reclusive management of the Button Gwinnett Club p
romises hourly electronic sweeps of the premises to ensure there’s no eavesdropping equipment, but Parker hesitates.

  Amanda says, “Please. If this were to get out—highly unlikely—we’ll both hang together, won’t we?”

  He says, “What kind of common ground?”

  Her red-polished fingernail traces the top of her glass. “Let’s just say that you and I could agree that having a First Lady that remains missing, or turns up deceased, would be a very good thing for certain parties.”

  “Go on.”

  “Hypothetically speaking …”

  “Of course.”

  “There are certain insurance corporations and pharmaceutical firms that have been severely damaged and compromised by that woman’s endless campaign to do good. They’re not looking forward to another four years of being on the other end of her constant criticism.”

  Parker takes another sip of his Irish whiskey. “They may get their wish in four more weeks.”

  Amanda shakes her head. “No, then it would get worse. A retired First Lady, out from under the thumb of her cheating husband and the government agencies, would be free to really go to town on her activism. And that could last a lot longer than a four-year term. She’d be out of the White House, but some see her as the second coming of Jackie O. She’d still have a lot of influence.”

  The talk and the whiskey are making him slightly light-headed, a sensation Parker despises, for he feels its weakness. “Fascinating hypothetical you’ve got there, Amanda. And hypothetically again … what would encourage me to act … or not act … to assist you and your clients?”

  Her smile is sweet and confident indeed. “If your boy can persuade the American people to send him back to the people’s house for another four years, without that chattering albatross around his neck, you’ll be thrilled at how cooperative my clients will be to work with Congress to get his agenda through. And if your boy loses, well, there’s always room on our board of directors, and those of our clients, to reward those who have been helpful.”

  Another pause, then one last sip of his whiskey. “That’s very intriguing. I’ll see what I can do, to make sure that … chattering albatross disappears from the President’s neck. One way or another.”

  She nods in satisfaction.

  He says, “And just to make sure we’re clear, if you don’t change those hypotheticals into stone-cold reality, I’ll crush you—personally—and Pearson, Pearson, and Price.”

  Amanda says, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  He nods, takes a cleansing swallow of the ice-cold water. “I’ve never liked you, I’ve never trusted you, but I’ve always been able to do business with you, Amanda.”

  “Right back at you, Parker.”

  “But my boy … we’ve dealt with him. Let’s talk about your girl.”

  “Fair enough,” she says. “Go ahead.”

  “She needs to keep her pretty, pouty mouth shut.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Or she might have another accident.”

  Amanda arches her left eyebrow. “Another?”

  He puts his glass down. “She almost got killed in a so-called car accident yesterday, coming home from the airport. I thought that might have been you, removing any future embarrassment to your firm.”

  Amanda stares right at him, face showing no emotion. “And here I was, thinking it was you, removing any future embarrassment to your President.”

  Parker waits, and he slowly gets up to leave. “Guess we’ll leave that one be.”

  Amanda says, “I guess we will.”

  CHAPTER 41

  MARSHA GRAY IS back at the front door of the sad-looking apartment complex where Sally Grissom lives. She’s taking a gamble, but she’s all right with that. Her whole life has been one big gamble, and sometimes it’s almost exhilarating.

  She takes about thirty seconds to use a small transmitter on the keypad, overriding the signal and disabling the lock.

  Done.

  Into the entryway, up three flights of stairs. There’s a smell here, of being poor and desperate, and it’s a mixture of urine, cooking grease, and moist trash. It brings back a load of memories of growing up in rural Wyoming. The night wind that would cut through the cracks and fissures in their mobile home. The blocks of government-issued cheese. Having one pair of much-patched dungarees to wear, day in and day out.

  Now she has on a Comcast jacket and baseball cap, pulled down low, with a heavy utility belt hanging around her slim waist. Like wearing a burka in some areas of the world makes you invisible, wearing a working-class outfit like this accomplishes the same thing.

  On the third floor now, moving quietly and rapidly to the target door. A quick untraceable phone call to the apartment management—identifying herself as a credit union rep doing a background check on Sally Grissom—had gotten her the correct apartment.

  There. Marsha scoots down, notices the Block doorknob and lock. Impressive stuff. That Secret Service agent knows her way around home protection.

  “But this mama’s no meth head,” she whispers, and after a few moments of tugging and pulling with locksmith’s tools, the door is unlocked. Marsha slowly opens it, and she notes a chain lock up near the top.

  Well, there you go.

  Looks heavy and functional, but Marsha knows better.

  From her supposed Comcast utility belt, she quickly removes a rubber band and a length of adhesive tape. She eyeballs the door opening and sees a kitchen, nothing else. Good. She slides her right hand into the gap and wraps the rubber band around the chain, draws it back out to the hallway, and securely fastens the other end to the tape.

  Marsha carefully extends her hand back into the apartment, stretches the rubber band as far as she can, and tapes it to the door. With that done, she brings her hand in, slowly closes the door, and—

  Hears a slight tinkle. With the door closing, the stretched rubber band—held in place by the tape—slides the chain free. Marsha opens the door slightly, tugs the taped chain loose, and takes two steps into the kitchen, closing the door behind her.

  Not bad.

  She’s just successfully broken into the apartment of a senior Secret Service agent.

  Time to get to work.

  In the kitchen she smells cooked bacon, and there’s a twinge of envy there, of being part of a family that would actually get together to share a breakfast, that actually cared about one another. Marsha shakes off that feeling and notes a living room to the left, and a hallway in front of her. The television is on, the volume turned up.

  With the chain lock in place and a television playing, it’s clear someone’s home.

  Marsha pauses, waiting to see if anyone is going to appear, demanding to know why and how she got in. If she’s very lucky, she’ll explain that the door was unlocked and as an eager Comcast employee, she had knocked and then let herself in upon hearing someone say “Enter.”

  Nobody appears.

  She slowly makes her way to the living room.

  Someone’s on the ratty-looking brown couch.

  Marsha takes a slow, quiet, deep breath to calm everything down.

  A young girl is stretched out on the couch, watching the screen. About ten or eleven, slim, very pretty, with long blond hair, a light-blue comforter over her. Despite the fact she’s watching television, she’s also plugged in to a video game on her iPad, and the girl—no doubt the daughter of the senior Secret Service agent—has earbuds in.

  Which explains why Marsha’s entry has gone unnoticed.

  Then a thought punches into her.

  What’s her overriding goal?

  To keep an eye on the Secret Service agent and disrupt where necessary, causing an opportunity to take care of the First Lady.

  The young girl on the couch is moving her gaze from the television to her iPad, back and forth. She takes the earbuds out and examines them, like they’ve suddenly stopped working.

  Instead of leaving the surveillance devices behind as planned … well,
here’s an opportunity, stretched out on the couch, where Marsha could take direct and violent action and truly disrupt the Secret Service agent’s investigation.

  Why not?

  The girl shifts her position on the couch, and her head moves in Marsha’s direction.

  CHAPTER 42

  SCOTTY IS DOING his best to get me home as quickly as possible, but his fast driving and judicious use of lights and siren aren’t easing the tightness in my gut. Three calls to Amelia have gone unanswered, straight to voice mail, and I even swallow my pride and call her dad, and even Ben’s damn cell phone isn’t answered.

  Scotty spares me a glance. “What’s wrong?”

  “Scotty …”

  “Boss, I mean, what’s wrong besides that mess we’re still dealing with?” Then he says, “No answer from Amelia, right?”

  “Right,” I say, putting my useless iPhone on my lap.

  “I’m sure she’s all right,” he says. “I mean, kids.”

  We force our way through a red light, traffic screeching to a halt, horns blaring. He whips the steering wheel in a blur, left-right, left-right, leading me to think of him driving an armored-up Humvee somewhere, dodging small arms fire or RPGs.

  “Scotty.”

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “Back at the waterfalls … did you see anything out of place? Anything odd?”

  Scotty’s a smart fellow and knows I wouldn’t be asking this just to pass the time. “No, it looked … well, it was a circus, but a well-managed one. I didn’t see anything that shouldn’t have been there. What got your attention?”

  “Just for a moment, across the river, I thought I saw a flicker of light. And movement. Like someone was checking us out.”

  “Anything more than that?”

  “No, not a thing.”

  Scotty says, “Maybe it was a birdwatcher, wondering what was going on. And when he or she saw all the fuss, decided to get the hell out.”

  “Perhaps,” I say, very much unconvinced, and I try to call again. No answer. My insides are a mix of anger at Amelia for doing something to get me so upset and scared, along with a real fear that something bad has happened to her. And my veteran cop mind has too many dark examples of what “bad” could turn out to be.