Born to Run js-7

by James Grippando

  “Jack?”

  He heard her, but he didn’t answer. He took her hand, and they didn’t stop walking until they approached the south portico, where the lighting was better.

  “Something wrong?” said Andie.

  He showed her the screen, and they read the message together.

  I can make your father president. No bullshit. Meet me.

  Suddenly the fact that they were standing in the White House mansion, just a short walk away from the Oval Office, was even more surreal.

  “It’s officially started,” said Andie.

  “What?” said Jack.

  “The wackos have arrived.”

  Paulette Sparks staked out a strategic position in the State Dining Room beneath the watchful eye of Abraham Lincoln. Harry Swyteck didn’t know it, but for the past ten minutes, he’d been in Paulette’s journalistic crosshairs. He hadn’t moved in over an hour, a steady stream of reporters plying the nominee.

  “Good luck getting near him.”

  Paulette looked away from her target just long enough to respond to her friend.

  “Watch me.”

  “You really are working tonight, aren’t you?”

  “Isn’t everybody?”

  Paulette covered the White House for CNN International, and by all accounts a soon-to-be-announced transfer would land her on the fast track toward White House correspondent-one of the youngest in the press corps. Seven years earlier she’d been an engineering student at Northwestern University. Much to the dismay of her honors physics professor, Paulette burned one of her electives in broadcast journalism-and loved it. She changed her major and never looked back. Internships more than class work led to a job as a general correspondent with a network affiliate, and she was quickly promoted to Washington. A “going home” piece she did on Vietnam-the village where her American GI father had met Paulette’s mother before the fall of Saigon-won her a Peabody Award and triggered a slew of job offers that took her national. Her hard-hitting but poised and professional style during a ten-month assignment to the Keyes-Grayson campaign earned her even more respect and credibility-not to mention an invitation to the White House Christmas party.

  “One more glass of holiday cheer should loosen the governor’s tongue,” said Paulette. “And then I move in.”

  Her friend smiled. “You can always tell the first-timers. They’re the ones who don’t know the White House eggnog has even more kick than calories.”

  Paulette’s BlackBerry vibrated. She would have liked to ignore the thing, but her day never ended, and she was hopelessly addicted. The number on the display screen was a bit of a shocker, one she hadn’t seen in almost ten months. It was her younger sister.

  Paulette followed a server into the pantry, away from the noise of the crowd, and took the call.

  “Chloe, is that you?”

  “Paulette! Listen to me!”

  The frantic tone concerned her. It sounded like the bad old days. “Calm down, okay? Just breathe in and out. Did you take something?”

  “No-no!”

  The call was breaking up. Paulette could only imagine where her sister was calling from. The last time they’d spoken, Chloe was on the verge of passing out in the backseat of a taxi at 3:00 A.M., no money to pay the fare. She only called when she was in real trouble. Seven years apart, Chloe the offspring of their father’s second marriage, they had never been as close as Paulette would have liked. Still, it had been heartbreaking to watch Chloe’s decline after getting fired from her White House internship for suspected substance abuse. Chloe denied any drug use, of course, and she refused rehab. Paulette had done her best to help her land on her feet, but it was no easy task when Chloe hated her for being everything she would never be.

  “Are you in trouble?” said Paulette. “I’m at the White House party, but just let me know if I need to come get you.”

  “No, you don’t-just…listen!”

  She sounded out of breath, on the verge of hyperventilation.

  “Chloe, what are you doing?”

  “Working. A story. A really big one.”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  There was no reply.

  “Chloe, are you still there?”

  Paulette heard a scream.

  “Chloe!”

  The line was silent.

  “Shit!” said Paulette, as she punched 911.

  Chapter 8

  Chloe tucked her cell into the pocket of her blue jeans, angry at herself for the way the call had gone. Paulette was such a bitch. She zipped up her jacket and started walking.

  Chloe had agreed to meet her source at the covered bus stop on Georgia Avenue at ten o’clock. It would have been a pleasant walk past Howard University in daylight, but nighttime made it a long, cold mile. Her breath was steaming and her hands were freezing. Driving, however, was out of the question. She’d lost her license after the DUI conviction, and her old Sebring had been collecting white pocks of bird shit in the alley behind her apartment since June.

  Did you take something, Chloe?

  It had taken her sister all of ten seconds to accuse Chloe of drug use. Chloe couldn’t even brag to perfect Paulette without her heart racing and throat tightening. It was pointless trying to explain that she was about to break the biggest story in the country-bigger than anything “Paulette Sparks reporting live from the White House” had ever dreamed of. And of course Paulette had to tell Chloe-the fallen intern-that she was at the White House Christmas party. What a joke. The stupid member of the Sparks family-the one who was way too dumb for print journalism-was drinking eggnog with the president and First Lady. It was enough to make Chloe gag. She wanted to scream. Again.

  Get control, girl.

  Screaming in Paulette’s ear had been a big mistake. She was probably on the phone right now telling their father how Chloe had snapped again. But so what? Chloe’s source was about to make her-not Paulette-the Washington reporter on the move.

  The blinking bank marquee at the corner said it was 9:57 P.M. and twenty degrees Fahrenheit. The wind made it feel colder. Chloe pulled her jacket tighter. Gloves would have helped, but she’d lost her only pair on the subway yesterday. She blew on her hands to warm them and-whoa-even she could smell the vodka. It seemed weird that something so odorless in the bottle could stink so badly on the breath, but alcohol was alcohol. She’d learned that lesson when she lost her internship at the White House, too. She dug a mint from her pocket and popped it into her mouth. Cool. Just like Chloe. Way cool.

  Definitely too cool for this fool.

  The wind gusted as Chloe reached the bus stop. The covered shelter was protected on three sides with Plexiglas, which provided welcome relief from the cold. Down the street, the traffic light changed from red to green. A cluster of cars rolled past the bus stop, and then the street was quiet again. Chloe took a seat on the wooden bench, folded her arms tightly, and looked out toward the empty street.

  Nineteen degrees according to the bank marquee. The temperature was literally dropping by the minute, and the minutes were passing like frozen molasses. She’d agreed to meet her source at the bus stop, thinking it would be a safe, public place with plenty of people around. She hadn’t planned on an unusually brisk cold front keeping everyone but her off the street.

  At exactly 10:00 P.M., her cell rang.

  “This is Chloe.”

  “Hello, Chloe,” the man said. “It’s me.”

  It was the first time she’d heard his voice. Until now, they’d communicated only by e-mail and the accent threw her. The h in hello sounded more like the German ch in Ich or Nacht.

  Chloe said, “I’m here, just like I said I would be. Where are you?”

  “Watching.”

  An uneasy feeling came over her, as if she were suddenly in a fishbowl.

  “You owe me,” he said.

  “I know, but it’s-here’s the thing about that,” she said, unable to steady her voice. It was so much easier to play it cool by e-mail. She was
quaking like a schoolgirl in the principal’s office.

  Pull yourself together, damn it!

  He said, “Don’t get cheap on me,” but it took Chloe a moment to realize that tsip was cheap.

  “We have to talk.”

  “Talk, my ass,” he said. “I done enough talking.”

  She swallowed hard. “You need to be patient.”

  “No,” he said. “You work for a rag sheet. The rag sheet pays its source.”

  Rag sit? What is that accent?

  “I e-mailed you copies of the wire-transfer instructions. Didn’t you see?”

  “You think I’m stupid, Chloe?”

  Her heart sank. She’d thought the documents were convincing fakes. “Transferring that much money to an offshore account takes time,” she said.

  “You bitch, I see what you’re doing. Make me think the money is right around the corner, get me to give up the story for free, bit by bit. I could have sold this story to any of the tabloids. I picked yours.”

  “It was the right choice.”

  “Until your editor put a newbie on the assignment. A story like this, I expected him to take it straight up to the owner. Guess your boss only wants pictures of celebrity party girls in short skirts and no underpants.”

  “A White House story is a more complicated negotiation. I have to flesh out the gist of it, at least, and then I can get the money.”

  “And I believed that crap at first. You seemed smart. Hungry. Primed to stick it to President Keyes, after the way they fired your ass from the White House. But you know what, Chloe? I don’t think you intend to pay me a dime. It’s like you changed on me. What happened-all of a sudden you decided you don’t like being a checkbook journalist?”

  She didn’t dare tell him how true that was. What was the point in landing a story this big if the world-led by Princess Paulette-was going to accuse her of sleazy tactics?

  And, of course, a quarter million dollars was simply way over budget.

  “Please,” she said, “just-”

  “Shut up!”

  Chloe gripped the phone, afraid that he was going to hang up. Suddenly, his tone took on an even sharper edge.

  “Do you have any clue who you’re dealing with? Do you?”

  “Just calm down, all right?”

  “I calm down when people pay. And if they don’t pay, I make them pay.”

  Chloe froze, unaware of the approaching car on the street.

  “We can work this out,” she said.

  “I already told you too much,” he said. “I know better than to trust a reporter. You aren’t going to pay. Period.”

  “Let’s be reasonable adults here.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Hello?” she said, but the line was silent.

  Her source was gone-and so was her story of the century.

  Chloe closed her flip phone and held her head in her hands, staring down at the sidewalk-until she noticed a car pull up to the bus stop.

  The night was suddenly a blur, and everything seemed to happen at once. Instinct took over, warning her that the same car had passed by the bus stop just a few minutes earlier, that someone had been circling the Plexiglas fishbowl, that the driver’s side window was open despite the cold night air, that the silhouette behind the wheel was the face of her informant, that she was staring into a marksman’s tunnel of death. She braced herself for the flash of gunpowder in the darkness, the crack of a pistol, the sound of her own scream-but there was none of that. Or perhaps she’d simply blinked and missed that final split second of her young life.

  Chloe felt the hot explosion between her eyes-and nothing more-as the car pulled away. Her body slumped forward and dropped, face-first, onto the sidewalk.

  Chapter 9

  Jack and Andie went straight from the White House Christmas party to the FBI Headquarters.

  Initially, Jack had agreed with Andie’s gut reaction: the message was from some wacko who’d gotten hold of Jack’s cell number. That all changed when Andie forwarded it to Stan White, the assistant special agent in charge (ASAC) of the Washington field office. White immediately summoned Jack for a debriefing, and Andie came along. Something about that message made the FBI treat it as a serious and credible threat.

  Jack and Andie were seated on one side of the conference table. Around the table with them were the ASAC, two supervisory special agents from the FBI, a criminal profiler from the FBI Academy in Quantico, and two special agents from the Secret Service presidential protection detail. Each had a printed copy of the message:

  “Congratulations to your old man. How would he like to be president? I can make it happen, guaranteed. Meet me. Monday. Two P.M. Wait outside the mall-side entrance to the National Museum of Natural History. Alone.”

  “Clearly he’s talking about assassination,” said White. “How else could someone ‘guarantee’ that a vice presidential nominee will become president?”

  White was in his fifth year as the Washington ASAC, bumping right up against the FBI’s mandatory retirement age of fifty-five. He struck Jack as the anti-G-man. Had they allowed smoking in the building, he probably would have lit up. If neckties were optional for a man of his position, he wouldn’t have owned one.

  White glanced toward the profiler, inviting her comments.

  “Very similar to the previous message,” she said.

  “Previous message?” said Jack. “I didn’t get a previous message.”

  “No, you didn’t,” said White. “Someone else did.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s a detail the FBI can’t share with you.”

  “Do you have a suspect?” said Jack.

  “We’ve constructed a profile,” said the ASAC. He glanced again at the profiler, as if to say “Give him a little.”

  “In general terms,” she said, “a self-deluded loner who fancies himself an assassin who works for hire.”

  Jack said, “Why would he contact me instead of my father directly?”

  Another agent jumped in. “Between a lawyer and a politician, maybe he thought the lawyer was more open to murder for hire.”

  That brought a few smiles from law enforcement-even Andie.

  “Traitor,” Jack said beneath his breath.

  “Sorry,” said Andie.

  White said, “More likely, he fears that every communication to Harry is being screened by law enforcement. You’re a criminal defense lawyer with privileged communications. Surely someone like you isn’t going to allow law enforcement to monitor his incoming e-mails.”

  “He had to know I’d run to the FBI. He’s probably just a nut who gets off by broadcasting his intentions. I saw plenty of that doing death penalty work.”

  “I don’t think he’s broadcasting anything,” said the profiler. “He’s negotiating.”

  “Let me get this straight,” said Jack. “You truly think that this guy wants to meet with me tomorrow morning outside the Smithsonian and talk about killing the president for money?”

  “We did say ‘self-deluded loner,’” said White.

  Jack said, “So if I show up at two P.M. tomorrow, he’ll be there?”

  The ASAC shrugged. “One way to find out.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Andie. “I’ve been quiet because of my relationship with Jack, but this is starting to sound dangerous.”

  “What Andie’s trying to say is that I’m a great catch but I make lousy bait.”

  “Cut the cornball, Jack, or I’ll switch sides.”

  The ASAC raised a hand, as if to step between prizefighters. “Let’s break this down. One, we have a threat against the president. Two, we believe it’s credible.”

  “For reasons you won’t share with me,” said Jack.

  “Three,” said the ASAC, “we know where he’ll be and when he’s going to be there. The Washington Mall, especially around the Smithsonian, is a very public place at two o’clock in the afternoon. All we need is Jack to hang out in the crowd and wait for him.”


  “No,” said Andie.

  “I suppose you’re right,” said White. “It takes a pretty courageous civilian to step up and help the FBI apprehend a would-be presidential assassin.”

  “I’m courageous,” said Jack.

  “No you’re not,” said Andie.

  “I date you.”

  The ASAC raised a hand again. “We’re not going to take chances here, Jack. You’ll wear a Kevlar overcoat. Undercover agents will be posted all around. You’ll be linked to the command center by surveillance electronics.”

  “I’ll do it,” he said.

  “What?” said Andie.

  “But I want Andie talking me through it. Appearances notwithstanding, she’s probably the least likely to get me killed.”

  “You sure about this?” said Andie.

  “You mean about doing this, or the part about you not getting me killed?”

  “Both.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Good man,” said White. “It’s a go.”

  Chapter 10

  It was Paulette’s first visit to her sister’s apartment.

  The phone call had come Sunday at 3:12 A.M. As a White House correspondent, Paulette was accustomed to breaking news and ringing telephones at all hours of the night. The detective’s tone of voice, however, made it immediately clear that this call had nothing to do with world peace, a terrorist bombing, or the latest Washington scandal. She drove straight from her Georgetown town house to the medical examiner’s office, and in a split second, she knew: “That’s Chloe,” she’d told the assistant ME.

  Seven hours later, Paulette still felt numb.

  The sun had yet to poke through the gray morning sky, and last night’s nip had yet to burn off. The apartment door was open, but Paulette watched from the outside, behind a taut line of yellow police tape. Inside, a photographer captured the efficiency apartment exactly the way Chloe had left it, from the notebook computer on the loveseat to the can of diet soda on the table. Investigators searched for drops of blood, evidence of a struggle, indicators of a violent boyfriend, or any other details that might tell Chloe’s story.