Dutch said this and stared intensely at Christian, to gauge whether or not the young man understood. And on some level Dutch could see that he did get it. He did understand the significance of having a smart, savvy, attractive former drug dealer like Marcus Rance all up in his wife’s face. But on that deeper, I’d better do something about this level, Dutch could see that the poor kid was completely out to sea.
Which meant, Dutch knew, that he would eventually have to intervene.
His desk intercom buzzed again. Dutch pressed the button again. “Yes?” he said with more than a little impatience in his voice.
“I hate to disturb you again, sir, but the Vice President would like a word.”
Dutch exhaled. Forget any prep work before his press conference, he thought. “Send him through,” he said.
“I’d better get back to the First Lady’s office, sir,” Christian said. He was an aide in the First Lady’s office. “I hate to keep bothering you about my personal life.”
“No bother, Chris. Not at all. But I do expect you to pay attention, son, and to keep control of your home.”
“Keep control of it, sir?”
“Yes, Christian.” Dutch actually thought of a proverb from the Holy Bible: he that troubleth his own house, shall inherit the wind. “Keep control of your home,” he warned him again.
Christian understood. And was about to say so, but the vice president entered the room. Christian spoke to Crader, and then left.
“Crader, my man,” Dutch said as he gave up any chance of reviewing notes this morning. Crader McKenzie rarely did casual visits. If he came, he usually had a darn good reason.
He, in fact, walked around the desk to Dutch’s side and sat on the desk’s edge, next to the president, facing him. Like Dutch, he wore expensive Italian suits. But unlike Dutch, his suit already looked rumpled.
He handed Dutch the newspaper clipping Allison Shearer had received in the mail.
“What’s this?” Dutch asked.
“Read it.”
Dutch looked at the picture of Jim and Elvelyn Rosenthal. He read the entire article. Then he looked at Crader. “What’s this?” he asked again. “Beyond a tragic plane crash?”
“The woman,” Crader said. “She look familiar to you?”
Dutch looked at the woman again. “Can’t say that she does. Who is she?”
“Remember Vegas 2000?”
Dutch had to think about it. “The millennium.”
“Right.”
Dutch thought harder. “We were in Vegas for some congressional meeting or whatever it was called. And you were the committee chairman.”
“Right. But what do you remember about that weekend, Dutch?”
Dutch leaned back. “I’m sure we boozed and partied. That’s usually what we did at those so-called getaways.”
“Remember the woman that boozed and partied with us, Dutch? With you and me together?”
Dutch stared at Crader.
“As in the three of us together. You, me, and her.” Crader said this and placed his finger on Elvelyn’s picture.
Dutch looked at the woman again. Still didn’t ring a bell. But that weekend did. He’d done a lot of shameful things in his bachelor days, and that boozy weekend was near the top of his list.
“So we banged her twelve years ago,” Dutch said, tossing the article aside. “And now, unfortunately, twelve years later, she’s perished. I hate to be callous here, but she wasn’t the only one we banged, not even that weekend was she the only one.”
“No, Dutch, that’s where you’ve got it wrong. She was the only one. We screwed around a lot that weekend, you’ve got that part right. But with her every time. Sometimes together, sometimes individually. But it was always only her. Elvelyn.”
Dutch looked at the photo again. Poor girl. She was just a plaything to them back then. A sex toy. He thought how he would feel today if some man treated his own daughter the way they treated this woman. Or the idea of some man treating Gina that way. Geez. He’d want to kill the guy. He looked again at Crader.
“Somebody sent you this?”
“Sent it to Allison with a note for her to show it to me.”
“To you?”
“Right.”
“Did Allison see anybody or---”
“Nope. It was delivered to her residence as regular mail.”
“To her home?” This surprised Dutch. “Then that would suggest somebody with familiarity with her.”
“Right,” Crader agreed.
“Which suggests the person had to have some very intimate knowledge of that weekend, and they also had to know Ally pretty well.”
Crader stared at Dutch.
“Max?” Dutch asked.
“It has to be,” Crader said. “He was the only other person there. He was the guy who coordinated her visit to our hotel room.”
“Because we trusted him to be discreet,” Dutch was remembering, “and to find a woman with a lot to lose, too, if our little get together was ever exposed. Yeah, you’re right. She was some rich college student---”
“---whose father was a prominent banker or something in Vegas,” Crader continued. “But she liked to get down and dirty, as long as the guys were hot. And I’m not bragging,” Crader went on, “but they didn’t get any hotter back then than Harber and McKenzie.”
“You’re bragging,” Dutch said, “but I get your point.”
“But it has to be Max,” Crader went on. “Only four people knew exactly what went on in that hotel room: me, you, Max, and Elvelyn. Elv’s dead. You and I are you and I. It has to be Max.”
“But the timing is curious too, Cray. She just died a week ago. And now this clipping comes in the mail. Maybe she told a family member or friend and after her death they decided to send it to us.”
“Maybe,” Crader said. “It’s a remote possibility. But my money’s on Max Brennan. He’s a snake in the grass. This clipping has that bitter, broken down old Max written all over it.”
“Did you have the envelope and this clipping tested?” Dutch asked.
“Of course. I had it privately handled. But nothing’s there. No unknown fingerprints or smears, nothing. The sender was meticulous. He knew what he was doing.”
“Damn,” Dutch said. This was all he needed. “So what is it this time? Some extortion scheme, what?”
“He wants something all right,” Crader agreed. “But damn if I know what. I’m just concerned, that’s all. Did that fucker record that shit?”
“Oh, come on, Cray.”
“I wouldn’t put it past him! We thought Max was loyal back then, somebody we could trust. We didn’t know how low down and dirty he really was until here recently, Dutch. Think about it.”
Dutch did think about it. “I understand what you’re saying. And I wouldn’t put it past Max to have recorded us, either. But what would it really prove? That we banged some female?”
“In our capacity as United States Senators at a retreat paid for by taxpayer dollars. And if he recorded both of us with her, at the same time, Dutch . . .” Crader stared at Dutch to make sure he fully understood the implications of such a video.
Dutch looked at his friend. He was only now getting the message. “You’re going to run for president when my term ends, aren’t you, Cray?”
Crader hesitated. Had to admit the truth. “I’ve been approached by more than a few wealthy donors and yes, I’m considering it.”
“This video, if it exists,” Dutch went on, “would end any chance you have of ever being elected.”
“Hell, Dutch, this video could end any chance of my remaining vice president, or of you completing your own term! The American people may take a look at what we did with that young lady twelve years ago and conclude we’re too morally corrupt to lead this nation.”
“We were morally corrupt back then,” Dutch said with bite. “That’s for damn sure.” Then he exhaled. “Okay,” he said. “Keep trying to locate Max. Get an FBI assist if necessary. But quietly.
”
Max stood erect. He was glad to know that Dutch was taking this with the seriousness it deserved. “I’m on it,” he said.
“And if they do locate him, we’ll take it from there,” Dutch continued. “We’ll see if Max was as twisted then as he is now. But I don’t think it’s as dire as you’re making it out to be, Cray. Just chill. Enjoy your wife. Enjoy your new baby. Find Max.” He said this with that icy look in his eyes Crader was well familiar with. “And then we’ll handle it.”
Crader wanted desperately to tell the other side of the story, but he couldn’t bring himself to go there. Besides, that newspaper clipping could be all about that weekend in Vegas twelve years ago, as he was hoping it would be, and nothing more. It seemed the only logical conclusion, since Max would know about that weekend too.
Nobody, not even Dutch, was supposed to know the rest of the story.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Gina sipped from her scalding hot coffee as she sat sideways, legs folded, at her conference table. Christian, LaLa, and three of her additional top staffers were also seated with her, their respective coffees in front of them. This marked LaLa’s first day back to visit Gina’s office, since she gave birth to Nicole.
“How does it feel to be completely back to normal again?” Gina asked her.
“Like new money,” LaLa said with a smile.
“I’m glad you decided to bring baby Nicole to the Nursery over here rather than keeping her all by herself at Blair House.”
“I want to be able to peep in on her all hours of the day. I wouldn’t be able to do that at Blair, and do my job. I prefer to have my office here anyway, away from home.”
Gina understood that. Little Walt was no newborn any longer, but she was still peeping in on him all times of the day too.
“Considering all you’ve gone through,” Christian said, “you look great, La.”
LaLa looked at him. She was still hurt that Jade had had a miscarriage. Christian, she felt, would have made an excellent father. But then again when it came to Christian, LaLa was always his biggest supporter. “You make it sound as if having a baby is a tortuous thing,” she said to him.
“Well, isn’t it?” he said to her with that innocent look on his face.
She smiled. “Hell to the yeah it is!” she said, and everybody laughed.
Madge, one of Gina’s top aides, interrupted the gaiety. “Are we still on for the DC Rotary Club, Mrs. Harber? I need to give them an answer by this afternoon.”
“Only if I can get in and out,” Gina said. “Those gatherings tend to go on and on. And I still want to put in some volunteer hours at Bridge Gap. See if my brother cares to join me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Madge said, writing furiously.
“How’s that working out?” LaLa asked. “With Marcus going with you I mean?”
“Beautifully,” Gina said. “In fact, they’ve asked him to become their community outreach leader.”
This astounded LaLa. “Really? Wow, G, that’s great. Marcus does have a way with the ladies.” They both laughed. Christian turned slightly in his seat. Then LaLa asked: “How does Marcus feel about it?”
“He loves the idea,” Gina said. “He told them yes immediately. Of course their board would have to agree, given his less than stellar background, but the executive director has every confidence. But Marcus loves the idea.”
“Especially since the president had nothing to do with it,” Christian said and LaLa looked at him.
“What do you mean?”
“He just doesn’t like people doing things for him, especially the president. He feels his hard work got him the job.”
“Oh, that’s nonsense!” LaLa said. “If he wasn’t the half-brother of the First Lady of the United States and if his brother-in-law wasn’t the president, Bridge Gap wouldn’t have allowed him to be a janitor in their center. I mean, let’s be real here. The fact that he has these powerful connections, and could raise awareness about their organization, had everything to do with them making him their outreach director. Surely he realizes that.”
Christian looked at Gina. He wasn’t sure if Marcus realized it at all. And, in truth, Gina wasn’t sure either. After that incident where Dutch decided to bar him from residing inside the White House with the rest of the family, he seemed to have developed a powerful grudge against Dutch. Gina fought behind closed doors on his behalf, she fought fiercely, but when Dutch made it clear that no way was he staying there and they told Marcus, they presented a united front. And although Gina still disagreed mightily with Dutch’s decision, that was and always would be between her and Dutch.
The door to the office of the First Lady flew open and Allison Shearer, the president’s chief of staff, came hurrying in.
“Turn on the TV,” she ordered.
“What is it?” Gina asked.
“The president is getting brutalized.”
“At the press conference?” LaLa asked.
“Yes! I mean he has been blindsided!”
Gina’s heart began to pound. “About the summit?”
“Yes. They’re calling his entire presidency a failure just because he couldn’t broker an agreement on Europe’s debt crisis. It’s painful to watch, Gina. It’s painful to watch!”
Christian quickly grabbed the remote and turned on the flat screen against the back wall. They all watched. And there was Dutch Harber, standing by the podium in the East Room of the White House. The press corps was packed in like sardines. And they were letting Dutch have it. It was as if Dutch was single-handedly responsible for the economic woes in Europe simply because he couldn’t get the Europeans to agree to terms. Dutch remained cool, but Gina could see that Allison was right: he was under siege.
And it went on like this for a good twenty minutes. Question after question was an indictment of his leadership abilities. But then finally the subject matter switched from the Helsinki Summit. But it switched to an even greater potential blindside. And Dutch’s cool exterior began to show some signs of cracking.
“Mr. President, what about Stephanie Mitchell?” a report from the AP casually asked.
“What about her?” Dutch asked, although he’d never heard of the woman. But he knew that the first rule in politics for a sitting president was never to admit total ignorance.
“According to our sources, sir, she says that her recently deceased sister, Elvelyn Rosenthal, knew you.”
Gina looked at Allison. “Who’s Elvelyn Rosenthal?”
“I don’t know her,” Allison said coyly, although she certainly knew of her from that newspaper clipping someone had mailed to her home.
Dutch, however, smiled, attempted to downplay his growing concern. “I know lots of people, Ed,” he said to laughter. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
“How many people do you know intimately, sir?” Ed of the AP asked the president. This provoked murmurs.
“Before I was married,” Dutch admitted honestly, “I knew many women. And I knew many of them intimately,” he added.
“What about their children?” the reporter asked.
This stumped Dutch. And many others in the room. “Excuse me?”
“Stephanie Mitchell also asserts that you should be asked about Elvelyn Rosenthal’s child.”
Gina stared at the screen when a child was mentioned. Dutch’s heart began to pound. A child? What child? Did he impregnate this Elvelyn person when he had her twelve years ago? But he wore protection back then. Didn’t he?
“I’m sure I don’t know anything about her child,” Dutch said, his voice not as steady any longer.
“I’ll be blunt, sir,” a Reuters reporter chimed in. “Are you the father of Elvelyn Rosenthal’s son?”
Dutch’s heart began to pound. “I am not,” he made clear.
“What makes you so certain, sir? Have you taken a DNA test?”
“Of course I have not taken any DNA test.”
“Then what makes you so certain, sir?”
“I’
m certain that I would know if I had a son out there,” he said.
“You didn’t know you had a daughter out there for twenty-three years, sir,” the reporter pointed out. “And Mrs. Rosenthal’s child is only eight months old.”
Dutch was confounded. Eight months old? What the fuck?
“Did you cheat on your wife with Elvelyn Rosenthal, sir?” yet another reporter chimed in.
“No,” Dutch chimed back.
“Are you certain, sir?”
“It’s something that I would know, yes. I’m certain.”
“Will you take a DNA test, sir?”
“No, I will not,” Dutch said to murmurings from the press. “I do not have an eight month of child. That is a fact.”
“Then why would Stephanie Mitchell suggest that you do? Why did she suggest we ask you about her deceased sister’s child?”
“You’ll have to ask her those questions,” Dutch said. “Now are there any additional questions on the Helsinki Summit?” Although that Summit was a disaster too, it was far more appealing a topic than this minefield that he felt had just ambushed him.
“So you’re telling us, sir,” the reporter from Reuters said, “that you’ve never cheated on the First Lady, not one time during your entire marriage?”
“Have a nice day, guys,” Dutch said, refusing to continue this madness.
But the questions about Stephanie Mitchell’s allegations and Elvelyn Rosenthal’s child and Dutch’s alleged adultery were still flying, fast and furious, as he hurried away from the podium, and out of the East Room.
He burst through the doors so angrily and swiftly that his staffers could not keep up. He believed in preparation, that was always his calling card at these pressers, but even he wasn’t prepared for this. Who the hell was Stephanie Mitchell, he wondered, and what was all of this talk about some gotdamn eight month old child? Only one man, he had a sneaking suspicion, could answer that question.
He made his way down the West Wing corridors toward that man’s office: the Office of the Vice President. Staffers who were caught in the halls, not expecting to see the president in all of his fury, squeezed their backs against the walls as he stormed past. Crader was hurrying out of his office, putting on his suit coat, having just seen the press conference on television himself, before Dutch and his entourage made it anywhere near his suite.
DUTCH AND GINA: THE SINS OF THE FATHERS Page 9
