by Brad Meltzer
“I should take this,” I say.
“Is there another phone I can call Barbara on?”
“In the anteroom,” I say as I point to the small desk that Pam’s been using. Answering the phone, I add, “This is Michael.”
“Michael, it’s Lawrence.”
I mouth “Lamb” to Trey. He nods and heads for the phone in the anteroom.
“Find anything out?” I ask Lamb.
“I spoke to the FBI,” he begins in his slow, methodical voice. I can practically hear the starch in his French-cuffed shirt. “They still won’t release their list of the last five files . . .”
My whole body deflates.
“However,” he continues, “I told them we were having some security concerns in assigning new cases, and that we would therefore appreciate—at minimum—a list of all the people in our office whose files Caroline had in her possession. As we discussed, I think that’s the best way to figure out who she was blackmailing—and who else would therefore want her dead.”
“And were they helpful?”
“They gave me the list.”
“That’s great,” I say, my voice cracking.
“It certainly is,” Lamb replies. Even with a breakthrough, he’s too careful to be excited. “The first two names were exactly what we expected. She had your file and Simon’s.”
“I knew it. I told you he—”
“But it was the third name on the list that caught me by surprise.”
“Third? Who?”
He’s about to answer when I hear the loud touch-tone beeps of someone calling on the line. Looking up, I see Trey punching in a phone number in the anteroom. “Ooops—sorry,” he says as his voice comes through the earpiece on my phone. I look up, astounded. The phone in the anteroom is supposed to be on a separate line.
“Michael, is everything okay?” Lamb asks.
“Yeah. I just leaned on the keypad.” Trying to stay focused, I can’t stop thinking that the phone in the anteroom could’ve been used to listen in on my conversations.
“Back to Caroline’s files,” Lamb begins. “The third name on the list . . .”
There’s only one person who uses that phone. A sharp pain rips through the back of my neck. My legs are already numb. Please don’t let it be her.
Lamb voices my fear as succinctly as possible. “The last file . . . was Pam Cooper’s.”
CHAPTER 26
What’d he say?” Trey asks as I hang up the phone.
“I don’t believe it,” I say, collapsing in my seat.
“What? Tell me.”
“You heard him—we were all on the same line.”
“I meant after I hung up.”
“What else is there to say? Caroline had Pam’s file.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“You think he’s making it up?”
“Maybe he—Did he say what was in it?”
All I can do is shake my head. “FBI wouldn’t give it to him.”
“You really think Pam was being blackmailed by Caroline?”
“Can you think of any other reason why Caroline would need her file?”
“What about if Pam had an ethics question? Didn’t Caroline do those?”
“It doesn’t matter what she did—you saw the phone—Pam’s been listening on my line.”
“Just because you shared a line doesn’t mean—”
“Trey, in all the time we’ve been in this office, Pam’s never once used the phone in the anteroom. Then, as soon as I start sniffing around for Caroline’s killer, she’s on it full time.”
“But if she were listening in, don’t you think you would’ve heard her by now?”
“Not if she hit the mute button. She could pick up and I wouldn’t hear a thing.” Jumping out of my seat, I head for the door. “I bet she even turned off the ringer so I couldn’t hear when someone—”
“It’s off,” Trey whispers, turning away.
“What?”
“I checked it when I hung up. The ringer’s off.”
• • •
“This better be good,” Nora says, bursting into my office. She blows past the couch, but my eyes are still on the door.
She doesn’t even have to ask—she knows who I’m looking for. The Service.
“They’re not coming,” she says.
“Are you sure?”
“What do you think?”
“So they—”
“They only follow if I leave the grounds. Otherwise, in here, they leave me . . .” Her voice trails off. She notices something behind my desk. The ego wall. Damn. Charging toward it, she goes straight to the photo of me and her dad. It’s the same one I gave to my dad, but this one’s signed.
“What?” I ask.
Studying the photo, she doesn’t answer.
“Nora, can’t you—”
“He must’ve been in a good mood . . . the signature’s real.”
“I’m thrilled—now can you stop for a second?”
Ignoring the request, she’s too busy checking out the rest of my office. The crazy part is, most people get intimidated when they’re not on their own turf. Nora thrives. “So this is where it all happens, huh? This is where you bust your ass for a signature on a glossy prin—”
“Nora!”
She looks up and grins, enjoying the outburst. “I’m just joshing with you, Michael.”
“Now’s not the time.”
She knows that tone. “Listen, I’m sorry . . . just tell me what the big deal is. Who’s on fire?”
I quickly relay everything that’s happened with Pam and the files. As always, Nora’s judgment comes quick.
“I told you,” she says, taking a seat on the corner of my desk. “I said it from the start. That’s how it always is in this place. It’s all about competition.”
“It has nothing to do with competition.”
“Oh, so now you’re going to ignore the fact that Caroline’s death meant a huge promotion for Pam?”
“That’s only for the interim. They’ll hire someone new after the election.”
“So you think she was being blackmailed? That she killed Caroline to hide whatever’s in her file?”
I don’t answer.
“And Jill came tumbling after,” Nora says. “And let’s not forget Vaughn’s file. Didn’t Pam promise she was going to pull that for you? Last I checked, you still don’t have it.”
“I don’t need it. Lamb gave me most of it; Vaughn told me the rest.”
“That still doesn’t change the facts. Pam promised it and never delivered.”
“Can you please just drop it?”
She crosses her legs and shakes her head. “So when you accuse her, it’s fine; and when I accuse her, it’s bad? Is that how it—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I interrupt, raising my voice. For the next few seconds, we sit in awkward silence. I eye the envelope that’s resting on her lap. Finally, I say, “Did you get the information?”
“What do you think?” she asks, dangling it from her fingertips.
I snatch it away and rip it open. Inside is a four-page photocopy from the President’s Oval Office appointment book. When Trey put in a request for the same information, he got nothing but goose-egg. Undeterred, we pulled out the big gun. Ten minutes later, Barbara was more than happy to fulfill Nora’s request.
“What’d you tell her?” I ask, flipping through the pages.
“I told her we thought Simon was a killer, and we wanted to see if he was really in the Oval when Caroline died.”
“That’s cute.”
“I didn’t have to say anything—I told her it was personal. Before I could get another verb out of my mouth, she had copies in my hand.”
The four pages of photocopies cover the four hours from eight A.M. until noon on the day Caroline died. One page for each hour. Looking at it, it’s a true marathon.
8:06—Terrill enters. 8:09—Pratt enters. 8:10—McNider enters. 8:16—Terrill leaves. 8:19—Pratt a
nd McNider leave. 8:20 to 8:28—phone calls. 8:29 — Alan S. enters. 8:41—Alan S. leaves. The meetings run through the entire morning. Hartson doesn’t have to go anywhere. They all come to him.
Flipping to the next page, I quickly find what I’m looking for.
9:27—Simon enters.
My finger scrolls through the rest of the list, looking for its match. My heart drops as soon as I see it. 10:32—Simon leaves. Damn. I didn’t find the body until at least 10:30. That means he’s got it. The perfect alibi.
There’s a sad look on Nora’s face. “I’m sorry,” she says. When I don’t answer, her voice starts to race. “Though it sure puts a hell of a finger on Pam, don’t you think?”
“For once in your life, can you just stop?”
She doesn’t appreciate that one. “Listen, Archie, just because you got dicked over by Betty doesn’t mean you have to be an ass to Veronica.” Before I can respond, she’s on her way to the door.
“Nora, I’m sorry for snapping like that.”
She doesn’t care.
“Please, Veronica, don’t leave. I can’t do it without you.”
She stops in her tracks.
“You mean that?” she asks, surprisingly serious.
I nod. “I could really use your help.”
Hesitantly, she heads back to my desk. Her fingers stroll along the photocopied pages. Studying them, she eventually says, “Do you have any idea what they were meeting about? An hour’s a long time to have in there.”
I smile a thank-you. “I checked the old schedule—the first twenty minutes were for a briefing with some National Security folks. The last forty were listed as a leadership ceremony for some bar association hotshots. Probably some kind of schmoozefest for big donors—show them around the Oval, send them an autographed picture; a week later, ask them for a donation.”
“Whatever it was, it tied Simon up for an hour.”
“I don’t know. There’re plenty of other doors to the office. Maybe Simon snuck out and Barbara never noticed.”
“Or maybe Pam—” She cuts herself off, learning from before. Even so, Nora knows what I’m thinking. “Have you asked her about it yet?”
“Who? Pam?”
“No, Nancy Reagan. Of course, Pam.”
“Not yet. I checked her office, but she’s not there.”
“Then get off your ass and find her. Beep her, send an e-mail. You need to figure out what’s going on.”
“I tried. She won’t answer.”
“I bet she’s at the party.”
“What party?”
“Six o’clock in the Rose Garden. For my mom. Trey put together the event.”
I almost forgot. Today’s the First Lady’s fiftieth birthday—and the live Dateline interview. “You really think Pam’ll be there?”
“Are you kidding? Every clutch in the building’ll be there. Pam’ll be right at home.” Nora looks down at her watch and adds, “Speaking of which, I should get going.”
There’s a moment of hesitation in her voice. “Is everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. Fine.”
I know that tone. “Say what you’re thinking, Nora.”
She stays quiet.
I reach over and take her hand. As softly as possible, I pry open her fist. This can’t be about the party—she’s a pro at the staged stuff. “You nervous about the interview?”
“No, Michael, I love being judged by the whole damn country. I love when ten thousand letters flood in telling me I don’t wear enough makeup and that my lipstick sucks. And the fact it’s live? Ain’t that the rotten cherry on top—one bad answer away from my very own Saturday Night Live sketch. I mean, my parents asked for this crap—I was just born into it.”
She stops to catch her breath and I don’t say a word.
“You have to understand,” she adds. “I mean . . . I can live with all the other bullshit—I just don’t like being the issue.”
“Who says you’re the—”
“Please, Michael, they send me the poll numbers too. There’s a reason they want the whole family there.”
“Nora, that doesn’t mean you—”
“Whatever you’re about to say, Romeo, I got a hundred million voters who disagree with you. And every vote counts.”
“It may count, but it doesn’t matter. There’s a difference.”
She looks up and stops. “You really think that, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Yeah, well, that’s you.” With one last glance at her watch, she pushes herself away from my desk and heads for the door. “Torturous or not, I gotta be there. Press Office asked me to wear a dress; they’re lucky they’re getting underwear.”
In a blur, Hurricane Nora blows out of the office and leaves me alone in the wake of silence. Still, I know where I am. I’ve been here plenty of times before. The roar of absolute quiet. The calm before the storm.
• • •
“Anyone here?” I call out as I step into the anteroom. No one answers. I tap a loud knuckle on Julian’s door. “Julian, you in there?” Still nothing. At Pam’s door, I knock even louder. “Pam, you there?” No response.
Convinced I’m alone, I move toward the main door that leads to the hallway. With a flick of my wrist, I twist the lock above the doorknob. A loud deadbolt thunks into place. All three of us have the key, but it should buy me at least a few seconds of warning time.
As I head toward Pam’s office, I tell myself this isn’t a violation of trust; it’s just a necessary precaution. It’s not a great rationalization, but it’s all I’ve got. “Pam, are you there?” I call out one last time. Again, no one answers. I press my sweaty palm against the cold doorknob and slowly push open her office door. “Pam? Hello?” The door swings into the wall with a dull thud. The scent of her apricot shampoo still lingers in the air.
All I have to do is step in. The thing is . . . I can’t. It’s not right. Pam deserves better than that. She’d never do anything to hurt me. Of course, if she did . . . if she was being blackmailed and then realized my Nora stuff gave her an alibi and an easy out . . . I’d be in trouble. End-of-my-life kind of trouble. In truth, that’s the best reason to get in there. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to take anything. I just want to look around. For Caroline to have her file, Pam must’ve had something big to hide. Leaving hesitation at the door, I step into her office. My eyes go right to the red, white, and blue flag over her desk. Saving my own ass. It’s the American way.
Approaching her desk, I take a quick look over my shoulder and recheck the anteroom, just to be safe. I’m still alone.
I turn back to the desk and feel my heart pound against my rib cage. The silence is overwhelming. I hear the ebb and flow of my own labored breathing. It’s a steady ocean tide. In . . . and always out. Just like that first night watching Simon. Across the hall, my phone starts ringing. I spin around in a panic, thinking it’s someone at the door. It’s okay, I tell myself as it continues to ring. Just stay on course.
Trying to be systematic, I ignore the pile of files on her desk. She’s too smart to leave anything in the open. Luckily, there’re some things you can’t hide. Heading straight for her phone, I hit the Call Log button and keep my eyes on the digital screen. In an instant, I have the names and phone numbers of the last twenty-two people who called her.
Scrolling through the list, the first thing that jumps out is how many Outside Calls she has. She’s either getting called from a lot of pay phones or a lot of bigshots. Neither one is good. When I’m done with the list, there’re at least five people I can’t identify. I search around for a pad and pen to jot them down. But before I can even get near her “Ask Me About My Grandchildren” pencil cup, I hear a key in the main door of the anteroom. Someone’s there.
I race out of Pam’s office as fast as I can, bounding into the anteroom just as the main door swings open.
“What the hell’s going on?” Julian asks. “Why’d you lock the door?”
&nbs
p; “Nuh . . . Nothing,” I say, out of breath. “Just straightening the anteroom.”
“I get it,” he says with a laugh. “Straightening the anteroom.”
I refuse to acknowledge what’s got to be Julian’s oldest joke. Adding an “-ing” to create euphemisms for masturbation. Straightening the anteroom. Faxing the document. Filing my memo. It really does work, but I’ll never give him the pleasure of knowing it.
“Have you seen Pam?” I ask, in no mood to play around.
“Yeah, she was headed over to the First Lady’s party.”
I move toward the door without another word.
“Where you going?” Julian asks.
“To check out the Rose Garden—I have to speak to her.”
“I’m sure you do, Garrick,” he says with a wink. “You do what you have to.”
“Huh?”
“Checking out the Rose Garden.”
• • •
It’s a five-minute walk from my office to the Rose Garden. Or a two-minute run. Cutting through the West Wing and looking at my watch, I’m already twenty minutes late. Accounting for the First Family’s guaranteed lag time, that should put me there right on time. As I push open the doors to the West Colonnade, I expect to see a crowd. I find a mob.
There must be at least a couple hundred people—all of them angling toward the podium at the far end of the Rose Garden. Instinctively, I start glancing at ID badges. Most people have orange backgrounds—limited to the OEOB. A few have blue. And the ones who’re hiding their badges in their shirt pockets—those’re the interns. That’s why the garden’s so full. Everyone’s invited. The odd part is, even young staffers don’t usually get this excited by an event.
Behind me, I hear a man’s voice say, “I been standing in lines like this my entire life.”
I stand on my tiptoes and crane my neck to see over the crowd. That’s when I realize this isn’t your standard event. With the President’s lead shrinking, they need the next few hours to be back-to-back grand slams. First the family party; then the live interview. They’re putting on the ultimate pretty face for America—and sparing no expense to pull it off.
Next to the podium is the object of everyone’s attention: an enormous vanilla-frosted sheet cake with an uncanny likeness of the First Lady drawn in different colored icings. To the right of the cake, behind a long velvet rope, is the Dateline team, collecting footage for tonight’s intro. In front of them are two men with cameras. White House photographers. Damn, Trey’s ruthless. Get a slice of cake; have your picture taken with Mickey and Minnie. In the final months before the election, they want us all to look like family. Family first.
