“For an agency with ‘Secret’ in its name, it’s troubling how fast gossip travels,” Cain replied, not trying to hide his annoyance. “For someone of your tenure, I would have expected better.”
“Is it gossip when there’s a picture of you and a few others out drinking the night before the president arrives?”
Cain’s head rocked back. “What are you talking about?”
“It hasn’t made the American news yet, but our intelligence branch showed us a photo this morning during roll call. It shows you, Agent Jackson, and a few others throwing darts with beers in your hands.”
Cain was blindsided. “Open the gate!” he demanded. He stomped on the throttle and skidded his government sedan into one of the first come, first served parking spots. Sunrise was still an hour away, so there were still plenty of spots. His plan had been to work out in the office gym before employees started trickling into the building. That’ll have to wait. I gotta track down this photo.
Instead of using the normal door to his office, he went straight to another entrance. The uniformed officer allowed him to pass. Cain strode through the hallway adorned with portraits of past presidents. The red carpet beneath his feet was about an inch thick. He made a left turn and went toward some downward stairs. A chain blocked the entrance and a sign said RESTRICTED ACCESS. He unhooked the chain and proceeded to the intelligence branch, which occupied a secure command center in the basement of the White House. They monitored everything from CCTV cameras: the airspace around the White House, even the air quality the president breathed.
The analyst was managing two computer screens on her desk.
“The officer outside told me you had a picture of agents out drinking.”
“Good morning to you, too, Agent Lemaire.”
“I’m sorry, Annie. I just got the news dumped on me from the guard outside.”
“Bad news travels fast.”
“You’re telling me.”
“Give me a second and I’ll pull it up on the big screen.”
“Oh, no! Don’t do that. Just pull it up on your computer. I’ll look at it here with you.”
For the first time, Cain saw the picture the reporter had taken while they were at the British pub. “I was off duty and off the protective detail by that point,” he muttered under his breath. Regardless, he knew the perception would not be good. “How’d you get this picture?”
“The State Department received it from our embassy. The photo was broadcast on a news story.”
“Oh, God,” Cain said as he buried his head in his hand. “How can we squash this from spreading?”
“Cain”—she looked at him sympathetically—“you know I’d help you if I could. But it’s too late.”
“What do you mean it’s too late?”
“This picture came in last night when I wasn’t on shift. It was forwarded to the director. He has it now.”
“The director? What did he say about it?”
“He said he would take care of it. Whatever that means.”
“That means it ain’t good. I should’ve snagged that camera myself and shoved it up Tomcat’s ass.”
Chapter 13
Supervisory Special Agent LeRoy “the King” Hayes grew up in Harlem and had worked as a beat officer with NYPD before getting hired by the Secret Service during the Clinton administration. He liked the status that came with being a special agent but was unhappy with the agency. He believed his skin color kept him from getting promoted any higher in the organization. “The only color this agency recognizes is white,” he would often say.
“My day is just starting, and I’m having to deal with this buffoonery,” LeRoy said now in an agitated tone. A flashy dresser, he prided himself on his fancy suits and silk ties, designer ones he’d get his academy classmate, now stationed at the US embassy in Rome, to ship him. Cain’s well-manicured supervisor had a thin mustache and a bald head, and he puffed on a purple e-cigarette with gold leaf clusters. “Tell me what happened, and don’t lie to me.”
“I wouldn’t lie to you, and you know that,” Cain fired back.
“Hell, I know. But those bastards in the ivory tower are crawling up my ass. The brass wants blood on this one. It’s bad.”
“You can’t get blood from a turnip, or from me, on this one,” Cain said, wondering if that was true.
“Just explain the situation and leave all that Southern talk out of it.”
Cain looked beyond LeRoy’s mahogany desk and at the wall displaying a black-and-white photo of Dr. King giving his famous “I Have a Dream” speech. Next to it was LeRoy’s Columbia University degree. Despite his resentment of the perceived racism in the Service, LeRoy never forgot how far he had come in life. “From the slums to the show,” he would remark proudly. Cain knew of LeRoy’s sacrifices and had a great deal of respect for his life journey.
Cain was describing his security preparations in very specific terms and being very thorough when LeRoy cut him off.
“I get all that. I’d expect nothing less from you. Get to the fucked-up part—the real reason we’re sitting here staring at each other.”
As he had promised LeRoy and himself, Cain didn’t lie. He spoke only about the events he experienced firsthand, and he was rather broad in his explanations. He concluded, “I don’t even know her name. But I gave her some money so she’d leave the hotel and not cause any problems for POTUS’s visit.”
“That’s where you went off the rails,” the King barked. “You are a good agent, but God, you’re blind. You paid a prostitute you didn’t even fornicate with. If this weren’t so asinine, dragging this agency through a scandal, I might be laughing.”
“This isn’t a scandal,” Cain said defensively.
“The police notified the American embassy. Twelve agents had to be recalled to DC, and the president—don’t even get me started on that issue. He’s at an international summit, having to defend those entrusted to defend him. That is what we, a collective society of like-minded people, call a scandal. Even your kin in Mississippi would agree.”
“Louisiana,” Cain interjected. He had worked for LeRoy for a year and knew his boss liked to tease him about his Southern roots.
“Same difference! Listen up! Bottom line is you’re on paid leave pending the outcome of this investigation.”
“You’re suspending me?”
“You get the best of both worlds. You get to suckle off the government’s teat, and you don’t have to stand duty.”
“I don’t mind the duty, though. You know I’m passionate about my work,” Cain said.
“Don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining. I like my job, too. But I’d rather be at home watching Judge Judy and getting paid for it.”
Hold your tongue, Cain. Don’t make this worse.
“Also, you’ve got a meeting with the doc tomorrow at nine.”
“I already knocked out my physical for the year,” Cain said. “Scored excellent in every category except flexibility.”
“I’m talking about Dr. Anna Spencer, the Service’s psychologist. She’s been ordered by the director to meet with each of the Dirty Dozen to determine your suitability for this line of work.”
“You gotta be kidding me.” Cain knew he was raising his voice. “Sometimes I think I’m the only sane one here.”
LeRoy tilted his head and widened his eyes. “Go home. Get some rest. Just be prepared for tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.” Cain stood and turned to leave.
“Slow your roll.”
Cain stopped midstep.
“Because you’re on administrative leave pending the outcome of this investigation, I’m going to need to hold on to your badge and gun.”
“Boss!” Cain exclaimed. “You can’t take my badge and gun. This is just an administrative inquiry.”
“My hands are tied,” the King replied apologetically. “This is coming down from higher up.”
“How high?”
“Nosebleed high,” LeRoy replied.
Cain reluctantly handed over the tools of his trade. His identity was tied up in his job. He searched for a loophole. “DC is a violent place. You leave me nothing to defend myself with.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. Nobody is desperate enough to rob a man in a Sears suit and a Walmart tie.”
“Hey! This might not be a hundred-dollar tie like yours, but it’s nice. My sister sent this from Japan.”
“Let’s not waste time talking about Japanese fashion. I got more knuckleheads to deal with. Now, don’t forget. Tomorrow at zero nine hundred. Answer her questions right so I can get you back on POTUS’s detail.”
“Gladly,” Cain replied.
“And one last thing. Your keys. Turn ’em over. You can’t drive a government car while you’re on administrative leave pending a”—the King used air quotes—“‘management-directed inquiry.’”
“A management-directed inquiry?” Cain repeated in disbelief. “Sounds more like a witch hunt. And history showed us how that ended.”
“Then you better get rid of your broom and black hat, because they’re getting the matches and piling up the straw.”
Chapter 14
The day passed slowly. Cain’s family called to wish him a happy birthday, but it didn’t feel like his birthday. There was no cause for celebration. His thoughts had huddled around his psychological evaluation. If I can just get this test over with, I’ll be reinstated, he reasoned.
The next morning he faced the bathroom mirror. The sunlight peered through the window, brightening the small room. “Let’s go with the half Windsor knot,” he said aloud. “Gotta look extra sharp today.”
Cain exited his house. He felt the crisp, cool morning air. He loved Arlington in April. He intended to get into his sedan, and then remembered that he had been ordered to leave it at the office. That’s embarrassing, he thought, regarding his lapse in memory. Maybe my work life is becoming as muddled as my personal life.
Given that he was clad in a suit and tie, he had to rethink his commute to the shrink’s office. It had been several months since he had ridden his motorcycle, but he put the question of whether he had lost any of his riding skills out of his mind. His concern was the inch of dust on the cover. It may have been waterproof, but it wasn’t dustproof.
Last time he rode the motorcycle was in winter. When he’d yanked off the cover, the neighbor’s cat, which had been sleeping on his seat, snarled and darted off. Tigger probably scared me more than I scared him, Cain recalled. “All right, let’s see if Tigger is underneath. Here, kitty kitty.” He carefully removed the cover to give Tigger enough notice and so that the dust wouldn’t dirty his suit. Second by second, the shiny Harley-Davidson with lots of chrome came into view. It still looks as beautiful as the day you gave it to me, Claire Bear. It was a Road King from 2003—the year Harley celebrated its hundredth anniversary—and his wife, with financial help from her father, had gifted it to him to commemorate his service in the United States Navy. Claire had wanted to buy it in fire truck red, but her father, a prominent defense attorney in New Orleans, had persuaded her to pick blue to symbolize the oceans that the navy sails. Cain loved the classic look of the motorcycle, with its leather saddlebags and whitewall tires. He was beyond thankful for the gift and never held it against his father-in-law that he defended the same types of drug criminals that Cain helped put behind bars as a counter-narcotics pilot.
The Harley hemmed and hawed as it cranked and spit out bluish-gray smoke from its exhaust before finally settling into a rhythmic rumble. The entire motorcycle gyrated, and Cain rolled the throttle a few times to warm it up. He threw on his brown aviator jacket, put on a pair of riding glasses, snapped the button on his low-profile helmet, donned his leather gloves, and cruised toward the White House.
The wind blew past his ears and the cold stung his face. His feet shifted the gears as his hands pressed the clutch. He and the motorcycle operated as one—man and machine linked together. When he arrived at the shrink’s office, he noticed a fancy BMW with vanity plates but no other motorcycles in the lot. You never see a bike outside a shrink’s office, he observed. I don’t need a shrink; I just need to ride more.
He walked into the lobby and checked in with the receptionist.
“You’re all checked in. Please help yourself to one of our magazines and the doctor will see you as soon as she can.”
Cain looked at his Omega Seamaster. “I had an appointment for nine.”
“Yes, sir. I see that. Dr. Spencer is usually really great about time, but today she seems to be going a bit over with her eight o’clock patient.”
“Who is that?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t disclose that. You know: patient privacy rules and laws.”
“I understand that. I just thought I might know the person.”
“It’s certainly possible. Your agency has kept us very busy lately.”
Cain nodded before he took a seat and perused a few magazines on the coffee table. He skipped the celebrity news and went straight to a Time magazine. The cover’s headline caught his attention: TEN IDEAS THAT ARE CHANGING YOUR LIFE. Above that, in smaller print, was a caption about Japan’s unity after disaster. He tried to follow Japanese current events so he could have a better understanding of his sister’s life in the Far East.
He flipped open the magazine and started reading about Japan. The article was about the extraordinary resilience and unity of the Japanese people; it allowed them to cope with the previous year’s 9.0 magnitude earthquake, tsunami waves, and breakdown of the nuclear reactors. Seeing the devastating pictures and reading the traumatic story of how twenty thousand people perished caused his heart to pump faster. The words and pictures made him feel as though he was there—right in the middle of it all. He heard their screams. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and drops started plopping on the pages as he thought of the rushing waves of water.
A door creaked as it opened. One of his colleagues was walking out of the psychologist’s office.
“Mike,” Cain said, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“She’s good, Cain. Really good,” Mike said in an exhausted tone. “You’re going into the lion’s den. Be careful.”
Before Cain could respond, Dr. Anna Spencer appeared at the doorway. Her pale-blue eyes pierced right into Cain’s.
“You must be my next victim,” she said with a disarming smile.
Chapter 15
She looks as though she’s in her late thirties, at most forty. Cain began creating a baseline profile of Dr. Spencer. She’s single—no ring. Attractive, keeps herself in great shape. Not surprising: one of the unwritten rules of the Secret Service is to hire only pretty women and athletic men. The Service knew that politicians were always concerned about who surrounded them, and how that would impact their public image. The agents groaned and, with self-deprecating humor, referred to themselves as “window dressing” and “expensive chauffeurs.”
“If I’m one of your victims,” Cain replied with a smile, “I’m a victim of circumstances.”
“Oh.” Dr. Spencer smiled back. “I like you already. We’re going to have a lot of work to accomplish in a short amount of time. Please, come in.” She invited Cain into her office with a wave of her palm.
“It’s just what I would have imagined a shrink’s office to look like,” Cain said once he was inside and she’d shut the door.
“Please explain,” she said. He detected a faint European accent, possibly German.
“Everything’s black leather—the chair and couch. Probably faux, but still leatherlike. In that corner is a healthy spathiphyllum plant that stretches toward the ceiling. That’s very relaxing, and I’m sure the oxygen it produces helps aerate this room when it gets stuffy.” He smiled again. “And I’m sure a lot of hot air gets blown around in here.”
She listened but didn’t reply.
“The only thing missing,” he continued, “is a minibar. In vino veritas.”
“Yes! In wi
ne there is truth,” she said. “But I’d probably lose my license if I gave alcohol to my clients.”
“The irony,” he said. “You might lose your license, but you’d probably help some of your patients.”
She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Oh, we better get started. We’re already behind schedule. Your time is important, so I apologize for that, Mr. Le Mayor.” Cain winced as she mispronounced his surname. “But I’m glad you came.”
He cleared his throat. “I had no choice, doctor. My boss ordered me here. But I’m quite confident you’ll quickly determine that I’m perfectly fine and not in need of any further psychological evaluations.”
“You’d be amazed at how many of my clients tell me that,” she said, and smiled that disarming smile again. “Nevertheless, I think you will find some benefit in our session, Mr. Le Mayor.”
“It’s actually pronounced Le Mare,” Cain said with a smile.
“Pardon?” she said.
“It’s French,” he replied. “It means ‘the sea.’ But I’m pretty informal. You can just call me Cain if you’d like.”
“Perfect. I prefer being on a first-name basis with my clients.”
Cain chuckled nervously. “Well, I’m not really a client. I’m just in here for this one session, and once you sign me off as capable of protecting the president, I’ll be back to work.”
“You seem very confident you’ll pass my evaluation,” she said.
“My colleague, who just left sweating bullets, said you are really good. I’m trusting his confidence in your skills.”
She smiled, obviously pleased at the compliment. “Your accent—I’ve been trying to place it as you speak. I’m pretty sure it’s from the South, but I’m not quite sure where.”
“I’ll give you a hint,” Cain said. “Thank God for Mississippi.”
She put her pen to her mouth, still thinking.
“How about, ‘We’re not all drunk Cajuns’?”
“Louisiana?” She grinned and wagged her pen at him.
“You got it, doctor.”
Cajun Justice Page 5
