by Brad Meltzer
I look at my watch and realize I’m late. Hopping out of my seat, I reply, “When I get back.”
“Where’re you going?”
“Adenauer wants to see me.”
“The guy from the FBI? What’s he want?”
“I don’t know,” I say as I head for the door. “But if the FBI finds out what’s going on and this thing goes public, Edgar Simon’s going to be the least of my worries.”
• • •
I walk into the West Wing with my mind focused on Mrs. Sherman’s school trip. It’s a cerebral dodge that I hope’ll keep me from panicking about Adenauer and whether or not it’s a heart attack. The problem is, the more I think about sixth-graders, the more I worry I won’t be here to give the tour.
Approaching the guard’s desk at the first security checkpoint, I’m dying for a friendly face. “Hey, Phil.”
He looks up and nods. Nothing else to say.
I watch him as I pass, but he still doesn’t give me a syllable. It’s like the guard outside the parking lot. The more the FBI gets involved, the more strange looks I get. Trying not to think about it, I pass Phil, make a sharp right, and head down a short flight of stairs. After another quick right, I find myself standing outside the Sit Room.
The regular haunt of National Security Council bigwigs, the Situation Room is the most secure location in the White House complex. One rumor holds that as you pass through the door, you’re bathed in a thin band of invisible laser light that scans your body for chemical weaponry. Stepping inside, I don’t believe a word of it. We’re good, but we’re not that good.
“I’m looking for Randall Adenauer,” I explain to the first receptionist I see.
“And your name?” she asks, checking her scheduling book.
“Michael Garrick.”
She looks up, startled. “Oh . . . Mr. Garrick . . . right this way.”
My stomach drops out from under me. I lock my jaw to slow my breathing and follow the receptionist to what I assume will be one of the small peripheral offices. Instead, we stop at the closed door of the main conference room. Another bad sign. Rather than bringing me to the FBI’s fifth-floor office in the OEOB, he’s got me in the most secure room in the complex. It’s where Kennedy’s staff weighed in on the Cuban Missile Crisis, and where Reagan’s staff fought viciously over who should be running the country when the President was shot. Set up in here, Adenauer has something serious to hide.
The click of a magnetic lock grants me access to the room. I open the door and step inside. Visually, it’s an ordinary conference room: long mahogany table, leather chairs, a few pitchers of water. Technologically speaking, it’s much more. The lining of the room is rumored to keep out everything from infrared spy satellites to electromagnetic surveillance systems that measure telephone, serial, network, or power cable emanations. Whatever’s about to happen, there aren’t going to be any witnesses.
When the door closes behind me, I notice the soft humming that pervades the room. Sounds like sitting next to a copier, but it’s actually a white noise generator. If I’m wearing a wiretap or I’m bugged, the noise drowns it out. He’s not taking any chances.
“Thanks for coming down,” Adenauer says. He looks different than the last time I saw him. His sandy hair, his slightly off-center jaw—without Caroline’s body in the background, both somehow seem softer. Like before, the top button of his shirt is opened. His tie’s slightly loose. Nothing intimidating. He’s got a red file folder in front of him, but as he sits across the table, his right hand is palm-up and wide open. An outstretched offer to help.
“Is something bothering you, Michael?”
“I’m just wondering why you’re doing this here. You could’ve had me come up to your office.”
“Someone’s already using it, and if I had you come down to the main office, you would’ve been seen by every reporter who stakes out our building. At least here, I can keep you safe.”
It’s a good point.
“I’m not here to accuse you, Michael. I don’t believe in scapegoats,” he promises in his soft Virginia accent. Unlike last time, he doesn’t try to reach out and touch my shoulder, which is one of the real reasons I think he’s serious. As he speaks, he’s got a fussy professionalism to his voice. It matches his tweed suit—and reminds me of an old high school English teacher. No, not just a teacher. A friend.
“Why don’t you take a seat?” Adenauer asks. He points to the chair at the corner of the conference table and I follow his lead. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll make it quick.”
He’s certainly taking it easy. When I’m seated, he opens the red file folder. Down to business. “So, Michael, do you still maintain that all you did was find the body?”
My head jerks up before he even finishes the question. “What’re you—”
“It’s just a formality,” he promises. “No need to get upset.”
I force a smile and take his word for it. But in his eyes . . . the way they narrow . . . he’s looking a little too amused.
“All I did was find her,” I insist.
“Terrific,” he replies, his expression unchanged. All around me, the humming white noise is getting irritating. “Now tell me what you know about Patrick Vaughn,” he says, once again relying on old interrogation tricks. Rather than asking if I know Vaughn, he bluffs it into the question. But my guard’s up. P. Vaughn. First name Patrick. The guy who slipped the note under my door. Hoping for more, I tell Adenauer the truth.
“Don’t know the guy.”
“Patrick Vaughn,” he repeats.
“I heard you the first time. I have no idea who he is.”
“C’mon, Michael, don’t do it like this. You’re smarter than that.”
I don’t like the sound of that one—it’s not a trick—there’s real concern in his voice. Which means he has a good reason to believe that I should know this guy Vaughn. Time to fish. “I swear, I’m trying my best. Help me out a little. What’s he look like?”
Adenauer reaches into the folder and pulls out a black-and-white mug shot. Vaughn’s a short guy with a thin, gang-TV-movie mustache, and slicked-back greasy hair. The identification card he’s holding in front of his chest lists a police arrest number and his date of birth. The last line of the card reads “Wayne County,” which tells me he’s spent some time in Detroit.
“Ringing any bells?” Adenauer asks.
I think back to my neighbor’s description of the guy with the gold chains.
“I asked you a question, Michael.”
My brain’s still stuck on the note under my door. If the guy with the chains . . . if he was Vaughn, why’s he asking my neighbor questions? Is he trying to help? Or is he trying to set me up? Until I know the answer, I’m not taking the risk. “I’m telling you, I have no idea who this guy is. Never seen him in my life.” It’s a lawyer’s answer, but it’s still the truth. I stare at the mug shot and cast another line. “What was he arrested for?”
Adenauer doesn’t move a muscle. “Don’t piss on my shoes, boy.”
“I’m not . . . I don’t know what you want me to say. What’d he do?”
The leather crackles as he leans forward in his seat. He’s moving in for the kill. “Take a wild guess . . . I mean, you were first on the scene.”
Oh, God. “He’s a murderer? This is the guy you think killed Caroline?”
He snatches the photo from my hands. “I gave you your chance, Michael.”
“What? You think I know him?”
“I’m not answering that question.”
Now I’m starting to sweat. There’s something he’s not saying. Is this the guy Simon hired? Maybe Simon’s using him to point a finger at me. The white noise is making it harder to think. “Did someone tell you something?”
“Forget it, Michael. Let’s move on.”
“I don’t want to move on. Tell me what’s making you think that? My father? Is it something with him? Is it because this guy’s from Detroit? That we’re both from
Michi—?”
“What if I told you he’s been bagged twice in D.C. for selling drugs?” Adenauer interrupts. “That ring any bells?”
I already don’t like where this one’s going. “Should it?”
“You tell me—two drug arrests here, and a murder trial two years ago in Michigan. That sound like anyone you know?”
Focused on the drugs, I try not to think about the answer.
“By the way,” Adenauer says with a grin. “Did you see that article about Nora in the Herald this morning? What’d you think about them calling her the First Freeloader?”
I try to keep it calm. “Excuse me?”
“Y’know, I just figured with you guys dating and all—is it hard having to always share her with the world like that?”
I’m tempted to say something, but decide to wait it out.
“I mean, going out with the First Daughter—you must have some interesting stories to tell.” Crossing his arms, he waits for me to react. I give him a roomful of dead air. The dating’s one thing, but I’m not going to let him toss me around about Vaughn and rumors of Nora’s drugs. For all I know, it’s a bluff based on the Rolling Stone story. Or just their old vendetta against Hartson.
“So how long you two been together?” he finally adds.
“We’re not together,” I growl. “We’re just friends.”
“Oh. My mistake.”
“And what does that have to do with anything anyway?”
“Nothing—nothing at all,” Adenauer says. “I’m just talking some current events with a White House employee. This isn’t even in my log as an interrogation.” Watching me carefully, he puts the picture of Vaughn away and shuts the folder. “Now let’s get back to your story. You were fighting with Caroline before you found the body?”
“Yeah, she was—” I cut myself short. Son of a bitch. I never told Adenauer that Caroline and I were fighting. He’s walking all over me.
A true Virginian, though, he doesn’t gloat about it. “I meant what I said—I’m not here to accuse you,” he explains. “Someone in the hallway heard you yelling. I just want to know what it was about.” Before I can answer, he adds, “The truth this time, Michael.”
There’s no way around it. My eyes are locked on Adenauer’s red folder. Like before, he doesn’t take notes, he just reads my word balloons. Hoping to drown out the white noise with a deep breath, I tell him about my father, his criminal record, and the conflict with his benefits.
Adenauer listens without interrupting.
“I didn’t think I did anything illegal, but Caroline thought I should’ve recused myself. She saw it as a conflict of interest.”
He studies me, looking for a hole in the story. “And that’s all that happened? When she wouldn’t listen, you walked out and went back to your office?”
“That’s it. When I came back, she was dead.”
“How long were you gone?”
“Ten minutes—fifteen, max.”
“Any stops in between?”
I shake my head.
“Are you sure?” he asks suspiciously. Again, I get the feeling he knows something.
“That’s all that happened,” I insist.
He shoots me a long look, giving me every opportunity to change my story. When I don’t, he picks up his file and stands from his seat.
“I swear, I’m not lying—that’s the tru—”
“Michael, were you being blackmailed by Caroline?”
“What?” I ask, forcing a laugh. “Is that what you think?”
“You don’t want to know what I think,” he says. “Now help me out with this one. This wasn’t the first time she pulled your file, was it?”
My body’s frozen. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s right here!” he shouts, pointing to the file. He flips it open and shows me the Request Log stapled to the inside cover. From the two signatures in the Out column, I can see Caroline’s pulled mine twice: Last week. And six months after I started work. “Care to tell what the first one’s about?”
“I have no idea.”
“The more you lie, the more it’s going to hurt.”
“I’m telling you, I have no idea.”
“Do you really expect me to believe that?”
“Believe what you want—I’m giving you the truth. I mean, if I killed her, why didn’t I remove my own file? Or at least take the money?”
“Listen, son, I once had a suspect shove a kitchen knife through his own lung—twice—just to take the suspicion off himself. There’re no boundaries when it comes to covering up.”
“I’m not covering anything up!” I shout. “She had a heart attack! Why can’t you just accept that?”
“Because she died with thirty thousand dollars in her safe. And more important, because it wasn’t a heart attack.”
“Excuse me?”
“I saw the autopsy myself. She had a stroke.”
I tighten my jaw and put on my bravest face. “That doesn’t mean she was murdered.”
“But it does mean it wasn’t a heart attack,” Adenauer points out, studying my reaction. “Don’t worry, Michael—when the tox reports come back, we’ll know what caused it. Now it’s just a matter of time.”
That’s what Adenauer was hiding; waiting to see what I’d give up. He’s not sure it’s a murder, but he’s not sure it’s not. “What about the press?” I ask.
“That depends on you. Of course, I’m not letting them trample this investigation—especially considering how close we are.” He throws me another of his concerned glances. “Wouldn’t you and your girlfriend agree?”
I look at him, but I’m lost in the white noise. My head’s throbbing. If the reports come back with bad news, and this gets out . . . All this time, I was worried they were going to try and nail me for murder . . . but the way he was teasing me about Nora . . . and linking her to Vaughn . . . I can’t help but think he’s got his sights on something bigger.
Doing my best not to panic, I go with my best alternative—the one thing I know can’t be traced back to me. “Have you checked Simon’s bank accounts?”
“Why would we want to do that?”
“Just check ’em,” I say, hoping it’ll buy some time.
“Anything else you want to tell me?” Adenauer asks.
“No, that’s it.” I have to get out of here. Leaving Adenauer where he is, I climb to my feet and stagger toward the door.
“I’ll call you when we get the tox reports,” he says, finally starting to gloat. He brought me here to test my reaction. And now that he’s got it, he wants to see what I’ll do. “It shouldn’t be too long,” he adds.
I don’t even pause to turn around. The less I see of him, the better. The only thing I want to do now is find out if there’s a connection between Nora and Patrick Vaughn.
CHAPTER 13
So how do you think the FBI found out?” Trey asks from the chair opposite my desk.
“About me and Nora? I have no idea. I’m guessing through the Service. To be honest, though, I’m more concerned with what he implied about her and Vaughn.”
“I don’t blame you—if they’ve got something tying him to Nora, the two of them could potentially be—”
“Don’t even say it.”
“Why?” Trey asks. “You’ve thought it yourself—she’s never spent all her time on the side of the angels.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s out to get me.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes. I am.” Shaking my head, I add, “And even if I weren’t, what am I supposed to do—assume she’s the enemy just because the FBI mentions her in the same sentence as some killer named Vaughn?”
“But the drugs . . .”
“Trey, I’m not doing anything until we get some more facts. Besides, you should’ve heard Adenauer. The way he was talking, it’s like he’s got something tying me to this guy.”
“You think that’s why Vaughn’s contacting you?�
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“I’m not sure what to think. For all we know, Simon left the note, signed it from Vaughn, and is trying to link me up with a killer.”
“Sounds a little much,” Trey says. Leaning back in his chair, he stretches his arms in the air and lets out an enormous yawn. As his jaw juts side to side, he drops his chair back to the upright position. “Now what about Vaughn’s murder trial?” he asks. “Any idea what happened?”
“Not yet. Pam should—”
“I’ll have it by tomorrow morning,” Pam says, walking into my office.
“Have what?” Trey asks.
“Vaughn’s FBI file.”
“I don’t understand. Since when do you—”
“Until Simon hires a replacement, Pam’s taken over Caroline’s responsibilities,” I explain. “Which means she’s the new mistress of the files.”
“And guess who I saw on my way to the FBI’s office?”
“Simon?” I ask nervously.
“Think deranged girlfriend . . .”
“You saw Nora?”
“She was headed to some function in the Indian Treaty Room—I stepped in the elevator and she was there.”
“Did she recognize you?”
“I assume so—she asked me if we were going to the same place. I couldn’t help but tell her the FBI wasn’t exactly a meet-and-greet. And then—I couldn’t believe it—she looks straight at me, and in the softest, sweetest voice says, ‘Thanks for helping him.’ I swear, I almost hit the Emergency Stop right there.”
It’s not hard to read the surprise in Pam’s voice. “You actually liked her, didn’t you?” I ask.
“No, no—now you’re just fantasizing. Deep down, I still think she needs a swift kick in her privileged little ass—but face-to-face . . . I certainly didn’t like her . . . it’s just . . . she’s not what I thought either.”
“You felt bad for her, huh?”
“I don’t pity her, if that’s what you’re asking . . . but she’s not as simple as she looks.”
“Of course she’s not simple—she’s a lunatic,” Trey shoots back. “What the hell is wrong with you two? You’d think she’s the friggin’ Pied Piper. Big deal—she’s complex. Welcome to reality. Thomas Jefferson cried freedom, then had an affair with one of his slaves.”
