“Faith, what is it?” he asked, but before he could get to her, Faith squeezed herself next to the bookcase outside Charlotte’s bedroom, stood up on her tippy-toes, and slapped her hand against the red panic button, sounding the silent alarm.
CHAPTER 2
Paul Wilcox gazed out his window at the view of downtown Arlington. It was a clear, crisp evening—or at least it looked like one from behind the thick window glass of the high-rise. Behind him, the flat-screen television played one of those fishing shows in which he had tried to take an interest over the past few years. Although once a favorite pastime, fishing no longer calmed and captivated him in the way it had. Not since the spring of 2014 when arguably Wilcox’s biggest fish had gotten away.
That was Wilcox’s theory, anyway. Everyone else—his colleagues at the FBI, the Grands, the Carters, the media—believed that Don Bailino was dead, and they had moved on to more pressing and exciting matters. And why wouldn’t they, Wilcox thought, grabbing the remote control from the coffee table and turning off the television. Jamie Carter’s own eyewitness account placed Bailino in a burning building that had collapsed before her very eyes. Wilcox’s FBI team had discovered Bailino’s severed hand, one of many body parts found in the old Barbara farmhouse in upstate New York that spring. Italian organized crime had gone quiet. Who was Wilcox to argue with the facts?
He grabbed a sparkling water from the fridge, crossed the living room, and set his drink on the ring-stained desk in his home office. All around him, on every wall, photos of organized crime members, from the Barbaras to the Cataldis, hung like fruit on family trees. He had gotten shit from his brother for rehanging all these mug shots after he had moved into the apartment, but the truth was, after decades in the Bureau, he probably felt more at home with these thugs than he did with members of his own family.
“What do you need all this crap for?” his brother Randy had asked. “Aren’t you retired?”
Of course, yes was the official answer to that question.
Far from it was the unofficial one.
The men on the walls seemed to smile at him—even Gino Cataldi, who notoriously never smiled in photos because his younger brother Paolo used to torture him mercilessly about the space between his two front teeth. Wilcox tapped the side of his water bottle with his thumb. He had scrawled a giant X across every one of those faces except for one: Don Bailino, who stared back at him in defiance.
In what had become a daily ritual, Wilcox reached across his desk and retrieved one of the files from the Bailino case that he had copied from the Albany field office. He also pulled out several stacks of collated papers and copies of the photos taken at the Barbara farmhouse that night in 2014 and sat down. Wilcox didn’t know why he went through the trouble of photographing the materials. Most of them mysteriously had become available on the Internet. These days, the FBI had more leaks than an old garden hose.
At the top of the pile was an image of Bailino’s severed hand, hairy-knuckled and bloody. Although his team had pieced together the rest of the bodies discovered in the old farmhouse, like paleontologists reassembling a family of T. rexes, no other body part could be found belonging to Don Bailino. Wilcox picked up his loupe and scrutinized the hand, from wrist to fingertips, as he had done hundreds of times, each time leading to the same conclusion: The cut had been clean, like the others, and was likely to have been committed with the sword found on the premises.
However, Wilcox believed that the cut had been a little too clean. Whoever had sliced off Bailino’s hand, right where the ulna and radius met the wrist, had been a bit too careful about it, whereas Paolo Cataldi had been sliced and diced like a side of beef. Wilcox leaned back in his chair and returned the photo to the pile. What this meant he still wasn’t sure, but he knew that the photo represented what should have been the government’s Exhibit A in an ongoing investigation of United States v. Don Bailino instead of what it was: a bookmark. After all, wouldn’t it have been easy—at least, for a man like Bailino—to cauterize his wound in a burning building and use the farmhouse’s large storm drains, as he had done before, to escape?
Yet, there was no evidence to prove that, and the Bureau’s arson experts believed that the rest of Bailino had likely burned in the gas fire, which also ate up quite a bit of the farmhouse and the bodies that his team did find. Still, for Wilcox, no body meant no closure. Therefore, despite the DNA gumbo that was the Barbara crime scene and the racketeering radio silence, Wilcox believed that a dangerous psychopath was on the loose somewhere in the United States, and he didn’t much care if he was the only one who did.
His cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and swiped the screen.
“Wilcox,” he said.
“Do you really have to answer the phone that way if you know it’s me?” his brother asked.
“What can I say? Old habits die hard.”
“You ever hear what they say about all work and no play?”
“What’s up, Randy?” Wilcox said, impatiently.
“Against my better judgment, Ry asked me to call. She wants to know if you can make it for dinner tonight.”
“Not tonight,” Wilcox said.
“You said that last night, Paul. And the night before.”
“I’ve got work.”
“You’re on the clock? Now? You’re retired, remember?”
“Side work. Some consulting,” Wilcox lied. “Thank Ry, and let her know I’ll try for next week.”
“All right, but, you know, we thought when you moved back we’d see some more of you.”
“Tell Ry I’ll make it up to her.”
“Sure … Actually, I know how you can make it up to her,” Randy said. “Ry’s friend Bev is in town next week. It might be nice if we could schedule a dinner party. When’s the last time you were within two feet of a real girl?”
“Very funny.”
“I’m not being funny. Come. You’ll have a good time.”
“Is that all?” Wilcox said.
Randy sighed. “Yeah, I guess so. Get some air, man. You looked like shit the last time I saw you, whenever that was.”
“I’ll call you next week.”
Wilcox clicked off the call and slipped the phone into his pocket. He had always assumed that environmental engineers like Randy were as busy as FBI agents, but his brother managed to spend quite a bit of time at his second job—trying to get Wilcox laid.
He pulled a box labeled Organized Crime TD-1031 off a pile in the corner of the room, placed it on his desk, and opened the flaps. Wilcox often had remarked to FBI trainees that he could tell how long he had been in the organized crime game by the types of surveillance materials he had amassed over the years. This particular box was decades in the making; inside was an assortment of floppy disks, DVDs, digital recording devices, microfilm, Polaroid photos, and old cassette and VHS tapes. He spent a few minutes rummaging through it and picked up the DVD of the interview he had done with Paolo Cataldi at the FBI field office in Albany back in the spring of 2014. How smug Cataldi had seemed. Wilcox had watched it more than thirty times, and he always had the feeling that he had missed something. What, he didn’t know, but he decided he would re-watch it later that evening.
Before shutting down his laptop, Wilcox logged onto his secure email client and browsed his in-box. Since his retirement, his emails—which used to number in the hundreds on any given day—had dwindled to a few Viagra ads and a bunch from Match.com, for which his brother had signed him up. This evening, however, one email stood out from the rest, and Wilcox was distracted by the sight of a familiar name: Phillip Grand. He clicked on the email:
Agent Wilcox—
Technically, Wilcox was no longer an agent, since he was retired, but he found that didn’t matter much to any of his former colleagues and associates.
I have it on good authority that, should you accept the nomination, you will have the majority vote in the Senate when Director Randall’s tenure ends next month. Still awaiting your an
swer. I need your decision.
Signed, Phillip Grand
Ten years earlier, there wouldn’t have been a decision at all. Wilcox would have jumped at the chance to serve as director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the highest ranking member of the national security organization. What was stopping him now? He wasn’t sure.
He shut down his laptop and leaned back in his chair. Phillip Grand was a good man. Wilcox believed that, as did the rest of the country—a whopping 80 percent of the voting population, including Democrats and Republicans, had voted for him in the last presidential election. However, Wilcox wasn’t entirely convinced that Grand had come clean about what had transpired that night at the Barbara farmhouse, the night he managed to rescue Jamie and Faith Carter. The timing seemed off, his story too convenient.
Wilcox reached inside a manila folder on his desk and pulled out a photo of an antique bullet, the one that had been found inside Paolo Cataldi’s eye socket, wedged against his cranium. The large, odd-shaped bullet was believed to have been fired by the antique pistol stolen, presumably by Bailino, from Phillip Grand’s office at the Executive Mansion. And yet how did Bailino manage to get the pistol? Wilcox’s thoughts again turned to Phillip Grand.
He pulled out the copies he had made of Phillip Grand’s military records, which he had practically memorized. There was nothing remarkable about the president’s military service other than his relationship with Bailino, whom he had met in army boot camp, the two of them older than most of the other cadets. Despite their many differences, the pair had become fast friends by virtually all accounts, and Bailino had even saved Phillip Grand’s life in Iraq. Could Phillip Grand have known that Bailino would be in the farmhouse that night? Or had he, as was the official record, stumbled upon the burning building on his way to his housekeeper’s?
Wilcox chugged the rest of his water and went into the kitchen, where the city was growing dark outside the windows. He tossed the bottle into the recycling bin as, one by one, street lights blinked on, illuminating the traffic below. He gazed at the men and women scrambling in and out of taxis and buildings. Apparently, nearly half of Arlington’s population was single—or so his brother had told him practically every time he called. His brother also told him that it was impossible to meet anyone when he was fifteen stories aboveground. He had a point.
When his cell phone rang again, Wilcox had a good mind to let it go to voice mail. His brother and sister-in-law had a habit of tag-teaming him into submission, but the caller ID showed the call was Agent Brandon Fuller. Wilcox had been happy for the kid when he became a part of Grand’s security detail. He was a smart agent who would serve the president well. Wilcox swiped the screen.
“Agent Fuller?” he said.
“Hello, sir.”
Sir. As Wilcox told Randy, old habits die hard.
“What can I do for you?” Wilcox asked.
“Sir, the president asked me to contact you and ask if you might come to the White House.” Brandon paused, which, Wilcox knew, meant that the young agent was about to deliver troubling news.
Wilcox felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. “What is it, Fuller?”
“Sir, we found an improvised explosive device in the White House.”
“What?” Instinctively, Wilcox stepped away from the window and stood in the center of his living room. “Where?”
“Jamie Carter’s daughter found it during a game of hide-and-seek with Charlotte Grand. It was in the president’s private residence. It’s been disarmed, and everyone is safe.”
“Where is the president?”
“He and his family are in the PEOC. We’re running a sweep of the White House now.”
“When did this happen?” Wilcox’s questions were coming fast and furious, and although Agent Fuller no longer reported to him, he answered every one.
“About two hours ago, sir. They’re keeping it quiet right now, but word will—”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Wilcox said. “Tell the president I’m on my way.”
Wilcox grabbed his car keys from the kitchen counter and was about to leave his apartment when he had a thought and hurried back into his office. Without really knowing why, he reached onto his desk and stuck the grisly photo of Bailino’s hand into his coat pocket. As Wilcox made his way to his apartment door, his long-honed FBI sense was shooting information across his brain’s synapses like a pinball, trying to make connections, trying to retrieve memories, and he couldn’t help but wonder:
Was this the break he had been waiting for?
CHAPTER 3
Phillip Grand sat with his head in his hands in the Presidential Emergency Operations Center beneath the East Wing of the White House. At the other end of the long conference table, his children were sitting next to their grandmother eating cookies and milk and playing on their iPads, trying to disregard the men in bulletproof vests with guns standing behind them.
Faith Carter’s discovery of the explosive device in his private residence had sent the White House into what he could only describe as a subdued frenzy—Secret Service agents funneling onto every floor like insects, ushering staff out the door and he and his family downstairs to safety. In all the commotion, Phillip hadn’t had time to think, but once everything quieted down it didn’t take long for old fears to come roaring back.
Somebody wanted to do him and his family harm.
Again.
It was a lot to process. He looked around him at the familiar and unfamiliar faces of the joint-service military and noncommissioned officers whose job it was to protect him, and he was reminded of Charlotte’s abduction and of Maddox’s betrayal five years ago. He and Katherine had been vigilant about keeping a tight circle of trusted colleagues around them. Had they once again inadvertently exposed their family to harm?
“Daddy?”
Charlotte ran toward him, her curls bouncing around her face. His daughter had emerged from the abduction unscathed—she didn’t remember it at all—but now that she was older and more cognizant of the dangers surrounding her family, Phillip worried that something might trigger a memory and how she would process what was happening now. She sat on his lap and looked up at him with her big blue eyes.
“When can we go back home, Daddy?” she asked.
“I don’t know, pumpkin, but I need you to know you are safe. See all the men here?” He pointed to the security staff around them. “They’re all here so that we can all be safe.” He hoped his daughter didn’t notice the uncertainty in his voice. There was a very real chance that the person who had placed the explosive device in the White House was standing in that very room. He pushed the thought aside. He had to.
“I know, Daddy,” she said.
He touched her cheeks. “Are you taking care of your brother for me?”
She nodded. “He was scared, but Grandmother is reading him his favorite story.” She pointed to the two across the table. “Where’s Faith? The men didn’t take her with us.”
“She’s not here right now, Charlie, but she’s safe. She’s with her mother.”
“But why? Why doesn’t she want to stay here with us?”
Phillip had wanted to know the same thing, but Jamie had been rattled—understandably so. Whatever Phillip thought he and his family had been through in the past five years, Jamie had been through far worse, and he wasn’t about to put any demands on her. He trusted her judgment. “I asked, but her mother wanted to go someplace else.”
“But Mommy said that this is the safest place to be,” Charlotte insisted. “It’s just not fair. Is it because I said it was Opposite Day?”
“Mr. President, a word?”
Josef Clark stood before him and smiled awkwardly at Charlotte, who stiffened on Phillip’s lap. Charlotte had never taken to his chief of staff, which, normally, wouldn’t set off any alarm bells for Phillip, but with the attempted bombing, Charlotte’s small aversion suddenly seemed like a big deal. Had Clark been in the private residence, he wondered a
nd then stopped himself. Why would Clark have reason to hurt Phillip? After all, hadn’t he reclaimed the presidency for the Republican Party? Hadn’t he brought Clark to the White House as part of his team? But did violence need a reason? He brushed the nagging fears aside.
“All right, button, go to Grandmother. I need to talk to Mr. Clark.” He kissed his daughter’s head, and Charlotte scampered toward Phillip Jr., running her hand along the smooth onyx of the conference table.
“Yes, Joe,” Phillip said, standing up.
“Mr. President,” Clark said, putting a hand on Phillip’s shoulder. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine. Considering …” Clark’s eyes were tired and puffy, as if he hadn’t slept, which wasn’t unusual. Clark was a night owl. Phillip had spent many a night burning the midnight oil with his chief of staff, who could outwork just about all of the White House employees, except Katherine.
Clark rubbed his stubbled chin and glanced around the Center. “It looks like everyone is all right,” Clark said.
“Thank God,” Phillip said. More than three thousand people worked full-time in the White House—people Phillip had brought with him from New York, people who had supported him throughout his presidential candidacy, all of whom had placed their trust in him. A good chunk of them were in this room. He had a responsibility to keep them safe as well. “How are you, Joe?” he asked.
“Me?” Clark shrugged. “I’m fine. Unfortunately, this isn’t my first rodeo, Mr. President. These days, the Republican National Committee has experienced more than its fair share of bomb threats. It’s what you might call the new normal.”
Phillip shook his head. “Once upon a time, people could disagree without having to worry about getting into their cars—or into their beds.”
“Times change, Mr. President.” Clark leaned in closer. “But that doesn’t mean our resolve has to. Whatever son of a bitch got to your private residence will get what’s coming to ’em. I promise you that. We’ll string him up old-school-like,” he said with a wink.
Baby Carter (Baby Grand Trilogy, Book 3) Page 2
