Just as they reached the top of the steps, a pair of middle-aged men—low-level executives from the quality of their suits—brushed through the open door one after the other, each dragging his own battered suitcase on wheels, which clattered along behind them like noisy, overweight black dogs.
“Can I take those for you?” the bellman asked. The businessmen brushed him off with curt shakes of the head and began lugging the suitcases up the steps themselves while the doorman, deprived of his hoped-for tip, scowled after them. Hugging the paneled wall on the opposite side of the stairs, Jess and Mrs. Cooper hurried on down. As far as Jess could tell, neither the businessmen nor the doorman even so much as glanced their way.
I’m not qualified for this. Scandal Quashing 101 wasn’t even on the course list in law school.
“Where’s the car?” On the last step now, Mrs. Cooper looked out at the street through the plate-glass doors that were just ahead. She seemed tense, on edge—just about as tense and on edge as Jess felt.
“Out front.” Jess hadn’t thought to tell the driver to wait anywhere else. A screwup, probably, she realized now. She probably should have looked for a side entrance, but she had been in such a hurry at the time that she had just told the driver to stop at the entrance and scrambled out. She could only hope that in the end it wouldn’t matter.
“We need to hurry. They’ll be looking for me.”
“Who?” Jess asked before she thought, although the answer was almost instantly clear: most of official Washington. The press corps. Her husband.
“The Secret Service.”
Oh, yeah. Them, too. Although, come to think of it, Mrs. Cooper could probably use a bodyguard about now. And I could certainly use some backup.
As she pushed through the thick glass door at the far end of the trio from the one the businessmen had used, the knot in Jess’s stomach twisted tighter. For the first time it really registered what she was doing: spiriting away an unprotected, emotionally overwrought, on-the-lam First Lady. On Davenport’s instructions, she reminded herself, but the sensation that she was getting in way over her head here persisted.
Next time the phone rings at midnight, I don’t answer it, she promised herself grimly as the cold, fresh air of the early April night blew her hair back from her face and plastered her jacket against her body. The smell of car exhaust notwithstanding, its briskness was a welcome antidote to the overly warm mustiness of the aging hotel. You don’t have to be at Davenport’s beck and call twenty-four hours a day, you know.
But the sad truth was that she did, if she wanted to keep collecting her nice fat paycheck. Which, thanks to her always-good-for-a-complication family, she now needed more than ever.
“So, where is it?” Mrs. Cooper meant the car. She stopped on the sidewalk beside Jess, who had paused, too, briefly taken aback. The car was not parked where it had been when she had exited it some ten minutes before, which was just to the left of the front entrance, mere steps from where they now looked for it in vain.
Good question, Jess thought as she glanced swiftly around. The white glow of the hotel’s marquee was too bright for comfort. She felt like they were standing under a spotlight. Other nearby businesses—a sushi bar, a liquor store, a pharmacy—spilled light out over the sidewalk, too. A steady stream of vehicles cruised the street in both directions, their headlights providing even more illumination. There were people everywhere, strolling the sidewalk, entering and leaving stores, exiting a car that had just parked in front of the sushi bar. Their noise rose over the steady hum of the traffic. Anyone could glance their way and . . .
“Can I get you ladies a cab?” the doorman asked, making Jess jump. He was right at her shoulder, and she hadn’t heard him approach at all.
“N-no, we’re fine, thanks.” With a shake of her head she fobbed him off, then, without thinking about the whole breach of protocol such a gesture probably constituted until it was too late, caught Mrs. Cooper firmly by the arm. Heart thudding, desperately scanning both sides of the street for the errant car, she pulled the First Lady away from the bright lights of the hotel. Please let it be here some . . . Hallelujah. There it is. Her breath expelled in a sigh of relief. “The car’s right up there.”
The black Lincoln that Davenport had sent waited at the end of the line of cars parked bumper to bumper at meters almost to the intersection. It had pulled over to the curb in the no-man’s-land between the legally parked cars and the traffic light. Red parking lights glowing at them through the darkness told Jess that the driver had, as instructed, kept the engine running.
“Oh, shit, there’s Prescott.” Ducking her head, Mrs.
Cooper picked up the pace. She moved quickly between Jess and the buildings on her right, her shoulders hunched now as she sought to deflect the casual glances of passersby.
“Who’s Prescott?” Voice hushed, Jess cast a hunted look over her shoulder.
“One of my detail.”
“Secret Service?” Jess perked up. At least the responsibility for keeping this woman safe would no longer be hers alone. Yes, there he was: a tall, well-built man in a tailored dark suit talking to the doorman in front of the hotel. White shirt, dark tie. Short, neat, dark hair. Handsome, clean-shaven face. Lifting his hand to his mouth to say something into his fist. He might as well have been wearing a flashing neon sign.
Reinforcements at last. Thank God.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Cooper grabbed her hand when Jess started to wave at Prescott to signal their location.
“You need protection and . . .”
“Protection?” Mrs. Cooper’s laugh was bitter. The hand holding Jess’s tightened until Jess’s fingers hurt. “They’re more like wardens.” Her eyes blazed into Jess’s. “Don’t you understand, you stupid little girl? I’m a fucking prisoner.” Her gaze shot past Jess’s shoulder. “Get back in the car.”
By this time they had reached the Lincoln. Mrs. Cooper’s fierce command was hurled at the driver, a burly redhead in a black chauffeur’s uniform, who was at that moment coming around the front of the car, presumably to open the door for his passengers.
As she spoke, Mrs. Cooper jerked open the rear passenger door and ducked inside. With one hand on the open door, Jess exchanged glances with the startled driver. He shrugged and obediently reversed directions. Her gaze slid toward the Secret Service agent, who was looking their way.
Jess hesitated. The First Lady was way more upset than a simple fight with her husband should dictate, and . . .
“Get in,” Mrs. Cooper barked.
The driver was already sliding behind the wheel.
His eyes fixed on the Lincoln, now clearly suspecting that his principal was inside, the Secret Service agent turned, waved, and started to jog their way.
“Go. Now,” Mrs. Cooper shrieked. Jess looked down just in time to watch as the First Lady’s hand slapped the back of the front seat hard.
There was no time. The driver put the car in gear. Heart thudding, Jess flung one more doubtful glance back at the man who was now racing toward them. Then, throwing herself into the backseat with the woman she’d been sent to collect, she slammed the door just as the Lincoln screeched away from the curb.
Guilty Page 38
