“Where you running off to?” she asked.
“Errands,” Bailino said. “I told you, I gotta go.”
“What kind of errands?”
“Does it matter?”
“Well, maybe I want to come.”
“That’s not a good idea,” he said.
ToniAnne ran her hand across the top of her dresser, grabbed her hairbrush, and began running it through her knotty hair. “Are you coming back?” she asked.
“Does it matter?”
She slammed the brush down on the dresser. “Of course, it matters.”
“Ton, you got a nice life here.” He slipped on his shoes. “You’ve got the grandkid, you’ve got Anna, you’ve got the putz down at Walmart, you don’t need me. In fact, I’m the last thing you need.”
She walked toward him, jiggling her large breasts. “So why did you come here? To tell me to lay off Grand? That was it?”
“How many more of those explosive device parts do you have lying around?”
“Why? What am I, a supply store now?”
“Do you have any of the parts or not?”
“Maybe.”
He pulled the strap of the duffel bag over his head and plucked one of her father’s old flat caps from a pile next to her Communion photo.
ToniAnne folded her arms. “Apparently, that’s all I’m good for—food, clothing, and a quick fuck.”
Bailino slipped the cap onto his head. “C’mon, where’s the stuff?”
ToniAnne sighed. “Basement. Back room.”
He nodded. “I’m going to take Gino’s old Corolla,” he said and ducked out the bedroom door.
“Knock yourself out.” She watched him go down the stairs. “So that’s it? Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am?” she called as he disappeared around the bend. She heard a set of keys jingle, the door to the basement unlatch, and his footsteps on the wooden basement steps.
She pulled on a T-shirt, thong, and jeans and stood by the bedroom window. Something was up. She could feel it. Maybe he was in some kind of trouble, and not with the Feds, and he didn’t want her to know—typical Donny, wanting to take care of things by himself.
Outside the window, Bailino emerged from the house, zipping up his duffel bag. She buzzed the gate open for him using the bedroom remote control and waited for him to look up and wave, but he kept on walking. He strode straight through the open gate and around the fence toward the Corolla parked on the street, the iron bars making him disappear and reappear like a character on a film strip. When he was out of sight, ToniAnne picked up her cell phone and wrote a quick text:
You got him?
The reply was immediate.
Yeah.
CHAPTER 26
Bob rang the top doorbell of the brownstone and took one last assessment of his wardrobe. It had taken a visit to three vintage clothing stores to find just the right tweed jacket with elbow patches to go with his jeans and loafers. He imagined the jacket was worn by some unknown but prolific author or professor from the late 1970s.
An inside door opened and then the front door, and Nadia appeared. She was wearing a peasant blouse that was off the shoulders and tight skinny jeans.
“You’re here!” she said, her perfect smile wide. “At my house. I can’t believe it.”
“Well, believe it,” Bob said, turning on the charm. “Here, this is for you.” He handed her the small bouquet of flowers he was holding.
“Oh, they’re beautiful. Come in!” Nadia said. “Everybody’s here, so it’s perfect timing.”
As the door closed behind them, she hurried up the stairs, tiny hops on the balls of her bare feet, and the strings of her blouse flapped onto her butt as if she were being spanked.
She led him inside a second-floor apartment and into a large living room that was filled with women of all ages and sizes, just about all of them wearing those peekaboo-shoulder tops that had become popular in the middle-aged-mom clothing stores. A half-circle of chairs had been arranged to line up with a sofa, love seat, and armchair, and several of the women were seated.
“Everybody, this is Robert Scott, the author,” Nadia said as a way of introduction. “Mr. Scott, this is everybody.” She fanned her arms out.
“Please,” Bob said, “call me Bob.”
“Oh, okay.” Nadia giggled like a schoolgirl who had been told to call her principal by his first name. “Bob.”
The women stared at him admiringly, as Nadia offered him something to drink.
“I’ll have whatever you ladies are having,” he said, and the women laughed for no reason.
Oh, this is going to be a piece of cake, Bob thought. “Is that seat taken?” he asked, pointing to the armchair.
“Oh, not at all,” said an older woman who looked like Mrs. Doubtfire and was sitting on one of the chairs. “That is the seat of honor. For you.”
“That’s my mother,” Nadia said, handing him a glass of wine. “She’s a big fan.”
“Ah, I thought it was your sister,” Bob said, and the old woman blushed.
“Ladies, ladies, let’s find our seats,” Nadia said, clapping her hands, and a group of women who had been standing near a spread of cakes that was bigger than most of the bakeries Bob had been to moseyed over to the living room area.
As the ladies took their seats, arranging glasses, plates, and purses, Nadia stood in the center of the room. “Thank you all for coming,” she said, “and a special thank you to our guest of honor, author Robert Scott.”
A round of applause, and Bob smiled with gratitude. He could get used to this.
“I know we read a different book this month, but,” she said with that delightful smile, “it was just serendipity that I ran into … Bob,” she smiled wider, “and I knew it was just meant to be, so … We’re all familiar with Bob’s book, A Lust for Lies: The True Story Behind the Kidnapping of Charlotte Grand …” She held up the book, turning to Bob. “We read it when it came out in paperback, but I know some of us, me included, read it again, special for tonight.” She beamed. “Oh, and, ladies, our guest of honor has offered to sign our books at the end of the discussion!”
“This way, you can make more money off them on eBay once I’m gone,” Bob said, and the ladies chirped with laughter.
“All right, let’s get started.” Nadia took her seat on the sofa, next to Bob’s armchair. “Normally,” she explained to him, “the host will facilitate the meeting, but so many of us have lots of questions that I thought we would just do a Q&A format. We can go around the room, if that’s all right with you … Bob.”
“Sure, that’s fine by me,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “Fire away.”
“Mom, do you want to start?” Nadia asked.
Mrs. Doubtfire appeared flustered but gathered herself and unfolded a piece of paper that was on her lap.
“Gosh, I have so many questions,” she said. “I don’t know where to start.”
“That’s all right. I have all night,” Bob said with a smile.
“Well, I guess my first question is … What is Don Bailino like in real life?”
Bob’s smile was on the verge of collapse as all eyes focused on him. “Well … as I say in my introduction, I didn’t really ever meet Don Bailino. I—”
“He’s just so dreamy,” said a woman sitting on one of the dining room chairs, waving at her face with a paper plate.
“You think everyone is dreamy, Brigid,” Nadia said, and the women laughed.
“He reminds me of a young Robert De Niro, doesn’t he?” said another woman, a schoolteacher type with heavy black bangs and large-framed eyeglasses.
“Definitely,” said an Asian girl who looked college-age. “I’m not into old guys, but I would do that guy in a heartbeat.”
“Honey, when you’re my age,” Brigid said, “you’ll do anyone,” and the women laughed again.
“Do you think he’s alive?” someone asked, and all eyes were on Bob again.
“Honestly, I really don’t think so. I mean
, how could the guy survive a burning building? That shit … I mean, stuff, excuse me … only happens in books. He would have to—”
“I don’t know,” said Asian girl. “I think that guy could do anything.”
“And to protect the woman he loved?” Mrs. Doubtfire added, her eyes aglow. “Certainly.”
The conversation continued bubbling until it reached a boiling point and finally splintered into two- and three-person chats. Bob downed his glass of wine.
“Would you like another?” Nadia asked, and Bob nodded, handing her his glass. “Isn’t this great?” she added. “It’s always such a lively discussion.”
“Yes, great.” Bob suddenly had the urge to knock out one of Nadia’s perfectly white teeth. “Ladies, ladies …” he said as Nadia handed him his freshened glass of wine. “You all do realize that this guy—Don Bailino—is, you know, a psycho.”
They all stared at him in silence.
“I mean, he’s killed people,” Bob said. “A lot of people.”
“Yeah, but that’s the world he was born into,” the schoolmarm said.
“He can’t help it if his father dragged him into that business,” said another, and several women nodded.
“A cop, though?” Bob asked. “He killed a cop.”
“That’s true,” Nadia said with a nod, and Bob wanted to kiss her right then and there.
“That’s the way life was back then …” Mrs. Doubtfire said with authority. “It was us versus them.”
“Do we know for a fact that he killed a cop?” asked the Asian girl, looking skeptical.
“Yes, and then some,” Bob said. “It’s been docu—”
“I don’t know if I believe it,” offered a wrinkly woman with blond hair sitting next to Mrs. Doubtfire. “They mess up those DNA things all the time.”
“Ladies, is anyone interested in the actual writing of the book?” Bob asked, hoping to change the subject. He chugged the rest of his wine and placed his glass on the coffee table, his head already becoming a bit cloudy.
“Yes, yes, enough about that,” Nadia said. “Let’s talk about you, Bob. Tell us, when did you decide to write the book?”
“Well, I—”
“Yeah, were you ever afraid?” Asian girl asked. “Of Don Bailino, I mean.”
“Yeah, like, that he would come and get you for spilling all his secrets,” schoolmarm asked, and the women nodded.
“Afraid?” Bob rolled his eyes. He didn’t know if he was feeling the effects of the wine or of their undivided attention. “The guy’s a paper tiger. Really, I’m not sure what the big deal is about him. All that stuff has really been blown out of proportion.”
“Well, your ex-wife fell for him, right?” Asian girl said. “At least, that’s what you wrote in your book.”
“He must have had something,” said the girl next to her, and Bob didn’t realize until that moment that the two women were holding hands.
“How did you feel about the baby?” Doubtfire wanted to know.
“That must have hurt,” schoolmarm said.
“Had you tried before?” asked a woman eating a large piece of chocolate cake at the far end of the circle. “Did you want kids?”
Nadia picked up his glass for another round as Bob settled into the armchair. He didn’t know how long book clubs were supposed to last, but even if it was only an hour, he knew it was going to be a long night.
CHAPTER 27
Phillip sat in the darkened White House kitchen, a half-eaten package of Oreo cookies on the counter in front of him. He had promised Katherine that he would go right back upstairs after his meeting with Jamie; she was probably in the bedroom suite waiting for him. He had also promised her that he would cut down on the late-night cookie binging after his first presidential physical showed an uptick in his cholesterol—the bad kind. He was killing two promises with one Oreo.
Cholesterol was the least of his problems. Phillip popped another cookie into his mouth. Wilcox had been upset, and Phillip couldn’t blame him. Over the course of twenty-four hours, the longtime agent had found out that two of the people he trusted the most had been in cahoots with the one man he had spent most of his professional life trying to bring down. That certainly didn’t bode well for Phillip’s chances of Wilcox taking the position of FBI director once all of this was over—if it ever was over. As much as Phillip feared for the bomber’s next target, he was also afraid that whoever it was might go underground, popping up one day when everyone least expected it. Like Bailino.
He scanned the still-unfamiliar kitchen, which somehow, despite all the foot traffic and constant eating by the kids, appeared showroom-new at the end of each day. He missed his late-night walks through the Albany Executive Mansion. Even after ten months, the White House wasn’t quite home for him yet, and he wondered if it ever would be, when he could look upon the men in the presidential portraits as a peer rather than as an interloper.
He reached for another cookie and wiped the crumbs from his mouth and the kitchen counter, returning the box to the pantry. He hid it under some granola bars, even though Katherine knew all of his hiding spots. When the family first moved in, Charlotte and Philly had marveled at the size of the walk-in pantry—which was about three times bigger than the one they had at the Albany Executive Mansion. Phillip fingered the tiny signs his daughter made designating which shelves belonged to which members of the family, including a small area for Faith Carter. Charlotte was organized like her mother.
Still feeling hungry, Phillip took a small apple from a fruit basket, rubbed it on his pants until it was good and shiny, and placed it on the kitchen counter. He fumbled through a few drawers, the implements and utensils all resembling one another in the dark, until he found an apple slicer and then two others. Why anyone, even the president of the United States, needed three apple slicers, he didn’t know. He pulled one of them out and pushed it through the apple, quickly eating a slice and then finishing the rest. Then he lingered over the kiwi and the bananas in the fruit basket but soon found himself back in the pantry, eyeing the box of cookies. Just one more, he thought and reached for the box when something rattled in the next room.
Phillip immediately shut the pantry door, closing himself off from the kitchen. He wasn’t sure why, only that the sound seemed muted and isolated—a noise made by someone trying not to make any noise. His first thought was that it was an intruder. The bomber?
He peeked through the levered pantry door and scanned the kitchen. No one was there, although the apple slicer on the counter caught his eye.
Dammit, he thought. If it was Katherine, she would know he had been there. How will the children learn to clean up after themselves if their own father doesn’t, she always asked when he left paperwork on the bed and empty cereal bowls on the nightstand. It was a question that Phillip would probably never be able to answer.
He stood there, watching and waiting, but the longer he did, the more foolish he felt. Perhaps it was a rodent. Or the building settling. Certainly, a house as old and big as the White House would have its share of creaks. He imagined the next episode of Saturday Night Live parodying a U.S. president trying to stand up to terrorists when he couldn’t even stand up to his wife or a White House mouse—the sketch practically wrote itself.
He was about to open the pantry doors when there was a flicker of movement. Then the kitchen door swung open, and a Secret Service agent began walking through the room. Even in the dark, Phillip could make out the precise cut of the federal agent’s suit, but it was not light enough to identify who it was. Because the agents rotated the round-the-clock security detail, it could have been any one of them.
At this point, Phillip feared he had waited too long to make himself known—if he made any noise at all the agent might accidentally shoot him, since the bombings had the entire White House on high alert. He stayed perfectly still as the agent picked up the apple slicer, and that’s when Phillip saw it—the pink plastic ring on the agent’s finger.
; Agent Summers.
Phillip hadn’t seen him since the day of the attempted assassination in Bethesda. Summers had gotten Phillip back to the White House in record time and then returned to the command center to work with the agents on the scene. Phillip never got the chance to thank him for helping to save his life. He was about to call out when, to his astonishment, Agent Summers placed the apple slicer in his jacket pocket and promptly left the kitchen.
Phillip remained perfectly still inside the pantry, Brandon’s words returning to him: The IED was composed of found objects. An apple slicer—something ordinary, not likely to be missed. A cold sweat broke out across his skin. Had this happened a week ago, Phillip would have thought nothing of it, but now he knew that with time, patience, and the right know-how, an apple slicer could be as lethal as a Hello Kitty watch.
CHAPTER 28
Bob inserted the coffee pod into the Nespresso machine when what he probably should have been having was a Bloody Mary. That was the first and last book club he would ever do, a decision he made after the three-hour mark of last night’s Q&A marathon. It was like those ladies didn’t want to ever go home.
He pressed the button, causing the machine to whirl, and sat down on the sofa, putting his feet on the coffee table beside a pile of consulting work, which he pushed to the side with his leg, and turned on the television. That rinky-dink side work he was doing was taking up more time than it was worth, and that didn’t even include the invoicing and re-invoicing he needed to do—prying money from some of these slobs was like getting blood from a stone. At least when he worked at Worcester, Payne & Leach he could let accounts receivable handle that crap. He surfed the Sunday morning political shows, but not one of them was talking politics—they were all consumed with Don Bailino.
What the hell is going on, he wondered. It’s like an epidemic.
He muted the set and took out his cell phone, but it wasn’t any better. Bailino features and opinion pieces were clogging up his news feeds. Rogue accounts and Bailino hashtags were sucking up all the chatter on Twitter. With only three scrolls, he had spotted at least three T-shirts that read Save Bailino. And the FBI hadn’t even confirmed that the guy was alive yet.
Baby Carter (Baby Grand Trilogy, Book 3) Page 19
