A smattering of Secret Service agents were spread out across the garden. While looking deceptively relaxed and slightly bored with the entire affair, they kept a close watch on every movement.
Seth Donahue stood watch near the back of the group. He kept his hands clasped behind him as he bounced nervously on the balls of his feet.
I don’t know what he had to worry about. The pink, yellow, and white tulips were in their peak of bloom. The rosebushes looked healthy and ready to burst forth with an impressive show within a month or so. And there wasn’t a weed in sight.
I weaved through the West Wing staff members who had gathered on the colonnade that connected the West Wing to the White House to watch the proceedings. Gordon stood next to a column with his arms crossed, smiling like a proud papa.
Everyone clapped when President Bradley reached down and shook the paw of the star of the show.
“Just think, a week ago he was locked in a cage in an animal shelter with a bleak future. Now he’s living in the White House as the nation’s First Dog, the Commander in Leash,” President Bradley mused, much to the delight of the reporters. “I’d say this little guy is the epitome of the American dream.”
When the President opened the press conference up for questions, a lanky man with leathery tanned skin was the first person to jump up.
His stark black hair had obviously been dyed. His narrowed gaze made him look as if he was too proud to admit that he needed glasses. “Griffon Parker with Media Today.”
So this was the weasel who’d been writing all those critical articles about my organic gardening program? I stopped to watch.
“Mr. President, is it not true that your puppy was a gift from your friend, the banking CEO, Richard Templeton?” the reporter demanded. “How can you stand up there and say that you support stringent banking regulations when you not only accept campaign contributions from Wall Street but also welcome top executives to the White House, call them your friends, and accept their gifts and bribes?”
Everyone in the audience seemed to hold their breaths, waiting to see how President Bradley would respond to such a pointed attack.
Relaxed and looking completely in control of the situation, President Bradley placed his arm on the podium and leaned forward slightly. “I’m glad you asked that, Parker. You raise a very good point. What is the role of friendship in government? We’ve seen friendships abused so often in politics that the very idea has become tainted. To say that someone is friends with a politician often is code for them receiving special favors. And that may be true for some people.
“To some, friendship may merely mean helping out the other person, no matter the cost. For others, friendship may mean being supportive and not speaking up even if he believes his friend is doing something wrong.
“For me, friendship is about honesty. It’s about speaking the hard truth, especially when no one else around you is brave enough to speak it. I’m sure plenty of people out there know what I’m talking about. Whether your friend is addicted to drugs or alcohol, is engaged in some sort of unethical behavior, or is simply acting like a jerk, it’s the mark of a true friend to pull the offender aside and say, ‘Hey, what you’re doing is stupid and wrong. You need to stop. And if you don’t stop, I will do everything in my power to stop this for you.’
“So in answer to your question, can I have friends in the banking industry and still support strong regulations on how banks conduct their business? Absolutely, I can. I wouldn’t consider myself a very good friend if I didn’t.”
“Do you have any more magic tricks up your sleeve?” a man standing behind me whispered.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I recognized Richard’s voice.
I turned and spotted him walking with another of the banking CEOs. Led by the young White House staffer—who crinkled his nose when he spotted me—and three Secret Service agents, nearly all of the banking CEOs who’d been attending the summit spread out along the colonnade to watch the Q&A portion of the press conference. Noticeably absent were the Wonder Twins.
“Come on now, Richard, you can’t tell me that you’re not using your friendship with the President to your own benefit. I know you better than that. You gave him a dog? The PR value of that alone is priceless. I wish I’d thought of that. With Senator Pendergast acting like she’s on a holy mission to get this new and improved financial reform bill of hers passed, you’ve got to be up to something,” the other man whispered.
“Believe what you want,” Richard said with a shrug. He spotted me and smiled. “I see you’ve been busy this morning, Casey,” he said, giving my muddy outfit a once-over.
“Occupational hazard.” I picked at some of the worst of the clumps. They dropped to the pavers and shattered into piles of gray dust. “It looks as if the Bradleys are enjoying your gift.”
One reporter asked whether the President was going to handle the middle-of-the-night walks. Another asked about the rescue organization that had saved Milo. But quickly, the questions returned to the appropriateness of the First Family accepting a gift from a banker at this point in time.
“You do one nice thing for someone, and everyone gets suspicious,” Richard said with a sigh.
“Yeah, I heard you talking to that guy.”
“I was afraid of that. He’s an idiot.”
“Do you know where Brooks and Lillian Keller are?”
Richard shook his head. “Haven’t seen them all morning. No one has.”
“That’s odd. I wonder where they could be.”
“They might be busy with damage control. The news won’t let go of the reports that Brooks dated the murdered Treasury official. It looks bad for him. Speaking of bad things, there’s a Wildlife Diversity Preservation League charity dinner tomorrow night. It’ll be a bunch of boring business executives, stuffy old society mavens, and even stuffier members of Congress all trying to impress each other. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in going with me?”
“Are you kidding? I’d love to go.”
“Wonderful. I’ll call later today and let you know what time I’ll be by to pick you up.”
The thought of a second date with Richard Templeton didn’t excite me as much as the first time. Still, it was enough of a thrill that for the rest of the day I didn’t think once about Pauline’s murder or where Brooks and Lillian might have gone or why the Secret Service was so certain that someone involved with Joanna Lovell’s group was plotting to kill the President.
Chapter Twenty-three
AT around five that evening my cell phone chirped out the hip-hop beats to “Stronger.” I was sitting at my desk at the time, half-buried under Wilson Fisher’s forms, determined to get them off my desk—and Fisher off my back—before heading home for the evening.
“Hello, this is Casey.”
I didn’t recognize the incoming number on the caller ID, and I’d given Senator Pendergast’s office my cell number, hoping beyond hope that hell would freeze over and the senator would agree to meet with me so I could explain to her the merits of organic gardening. This could be her. Please be her.
“Casey.” It wasn’t the senator or even her cheery secretary.
“Jack Turner?” Why was he calling me?
“What time do you plan to walk home tonight? I’m going to accompany you,” he said.
“I thought it was your day off.”
“It is.”
I waited for him to clarify. Silly me. Turner never gave out useful information.
“If I had the day off, I’m not sure I’d spend it thinking about the White House.” A lie. With my work on the organic gardening proposal, I’d thought of little else these past several months.
There was silence on the line again.
“Look,” he said, “after what happened yesterday, I’m worried. I don’t think you should be walking anywhere alone.”
“You’re right. I was already planning to ask Gordon if he’d drive me home.”
“Oh. Well
, in that case—”
“Wait. If you don’t mind coming in on your day off, I would appreciate a member of the Secret Service’s elite military arm protecting my back.” And I wouldn’t mind taking advantage of the opportunity to try to wring some small tidbit of information out of Turner.
“Good. What time do you plan to leave for the day?”
I checked my watch. Gordon, Lorenzo, and I had managed to check off several important items from our task list. I just had Fisher’s forms to finish. “How about in a half hour?”
“I’ll meet you in Lafayette Square,” he said and hung up.
I stared at the cell phone for a moment, wondering how he got this number. Sure, he was Secret Service, but still. It wasn’t as if I handed out my cell phone number to everyone. No one at the White House other than Ambrose, Gordon, and Lorenzo had access to it.
Apparently, the Secret Service had done a thorough job poking into every aspect of my life.
I didn’t like it. Not one bit.
Turner knew too much about me already.
I’d long ago pushed those memories of my mom and my past deep into the recesses of my mind. What had happened to my mother had no bearing on my life today. That was ancient history. It had nothing to do with—
I gripped the edge of the desk with both hands as a wave of panic hit me.
Breathe in. One. Two.
Breathe out. One. Two.
The panic attacks would go away as soon as I helped bring Pauline’s murderer to justice. Thatch had said that the FBI was getting close to making an arrest.
Once that happened, I’d feel whole again. Safe.
I did a few more breathing exercises. My heart still beat a bit too fast. I ignored it and turned my attention back to the towering stack of forms. I needed to get them done and off my desk.
A half hour later I dropped the forms off at the usher’s office on the first floor of the residence and headed outside to meet Jack Turner.
The cool spring air felt crisp against my face. After sunset, the temperatures were forecasted to drop into the thirties. I shivered as I crossed Pennsylvania Avenue on my way to Lafayette Square.
With the President’s banking summit reaching its end and the intrigue surrounding Pauline’s involvement with Brooks, Joanna’s protesters had drawn the attention of the press. Bright camera lights shone on the face of Joanna’s curly-haired assistant as he spoke animatedly with a reporter.
Except for a higher than normal number of uniformed Secret Service agents on hand, everything seemed to be normal in the park.
Ever since the murder, my shoulders tensed up every time I entered Lafayette Square. My gaze never rested but remained on constant lookout for danger.
There was nothing suspicious to find, just Joanna as she rushed toward the Treasury Building. Still dressed in her skirt and suit, she’d exchanged her heels for running shoes.
She passed the front gate of the Treasury without slowing down. Once she reached 15th Street, she glanced over her shoulder several times before hurrying toward the Washington Monument.
Honey, if you don’t want to be followed, you shouldn’t act so suspiciously.
I had to find out where she was headed. I’d be wrong not to. Chewing on my bottom lip, I chased after her.
She went about a hundred yards, stopped, and glanced behind her again.
I quickly turned around. After a few moments, I resumed my pursuit, hanging back about a block to keep her from noticing me. I kept my stride casual, my hands jammed into my pockets. Joanna led me down the gently sloping hill that led past the Washington Monument and to the famous Tidal Basin located on the banks of the Potomac River.
The cherry trees coated with their pale pink-and-white blossoms formed a colorful canopy over the walking trails that wound around the basin. Petals floated on the wind in delicate spirals, much to the delight of the tourists that flocked to the basin in great numbers like migratory geese.
Several rows of bright blue paddleboats bobbed lightly on the water as they sat docked at the boathouse. The Jefferson Memorial stood watch on the far side of the basin. Its stately columns looked as if they reached deep into the evening shadows draped across the water.
With her head down and her body slightly hunched inward, Joanna skirted around a tour group of about fifty, each snapping away with their cameras, pointing, and talking excitedly. She was moving so quickly, I nearly lost sight of her as the tour group swallowed her up.
I rose up on my tiptoes, searching. When I spotted her, I picked up my pace, weaving through the tourists with the deft skill that would have made a native Washingtonian proud.
She’d stopped in a heavily treed pocket of the park. I watched from a distance as she pulled out her cell phone. Her lips moved too fast for me to try to read them. Before I knew it, she returned the phone to her purse and started to pace.
Several minutes later, a man wearing a black baseball cap low on his head, large sunglasses, a black windbreaker zipped up to his neck, and dark blue jeans approached Joanna. As soon as she saw him, she crossed the distance between them and grabbed his arm.
He looked vaguely familiar all the way down to his black-and-white leather shoes with a lightning bolt shooting down the side.
Those shoes.
The breath caught in my throat. I ripped my backpack off my shoulders and dug around in the bag for my cell phone. It was on the bottom, of course.
My fingers trembled so much that I had to dial Turner’s number three times to get it right.
“Where are you?” he demanded. “You were supposed to meet me at—”
“H-He’s here,” I whispered.
“Where are you?” he repeated. The aggravation in his voice was replaced with a cool detachment.
“The man. Lafayette Square. Mr. Baseball Cap. He’s here.” I couldn’t catch my breath, couldn’t form a sentence. I wanted to run, but I didn’t dare take my eyes off him.
“Did he follow you?”
“No.”
“Is he watching you?”
“No . . . I’m watching him. With Joanna.”
“Casey, listen to me.” Turner’s voice grew even quieter and more detached. “Tell me where you are right now.”
“Tidal Basin,” I answered, still unable to utter a coherent sentence.
Joanna and the man, whose face I couldn’t see—was that Brooks?—had moved farther away from me. They moved to stand deep among the trees, where the growing evening shadows were the darkest.
Large groups of tourists kept wandering in front of me, blocking my view, but I didn’t dare move closer for fear that either Joanna or Mr. Baseball Cap would notice they were being watched.
“Okay,” Turner said after a long pause. “I’m going to hang up for a minute. I want you to stay out of sight. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
Joanna made a sharp gesture with her hand. Mr. Baseball Cap backed up a step. I wished I could hear what they were saying.
“Casey?” Turner asked.
I nodded again. I wasn’t going to move from the safety of this crowded spot, even though it meant the tourists would have to flow around me like water around a stone in a stream.
I wondered what Joanna was doing meeting with a murderer.
Was she in danger, or had she been involved with Pauline’s murder all along?
Or had she been involved with the murder plot, but was now in danger?
The few times I’d spoken with her, she’d seemed so efficient, so helpful. Bitter, yes. But Brooks had ruined her career. Of course she’d be bitter.
“Casey!” Turner shouted into the phone.
I jumped. “I’m here,” I whispered. I held the phone so tightly my fingers ached.
“Good.” Turner sounded out of breath. “Stay put. I’m going to hang up for a second.”
I continued to clutch the phone to my ear. The silence on the other end seemed to push away the roar of rush-hour traffic and the excited conversations of the tourists.
At this time of year, more than half a million people poured into the Tidal Basin to admire the spectacle of thousands of trees exploding with color and perfuming the air with their light almond scent.
With so many people milling around, I seriously didn’t think there was any way either Joanna or Mr. Baseball Cap would notice me.
Even so, when Joanna looked suddenly in my direction, I held my breath, waiting. She shrugged and turned back to her dangerous companion. Her brow wrinkled with consternation. She gestured passionately with her hands as she spoke.
Unnerved that I might be spotted, I moved a few feet off the sidewalk to stand in the shadow of one of the original 1912 Yoshino cherry trees on the north bank of the Tidal Basin. It had been a gift from the Japanese ambassador to President and Mrs. Taft. Although the tree with its snowy white blossoms had long outlived its forty-year lifespan, it looked as healthy as its younger counterparts.
From this viewpoint, I could still watch Joanna and her companion. The man grew dangerously still while Joanna continued to gesture and argue. Her voice rose louder and louder until I could make out bits and pieces of what she was saying.
“. . . betrayal . . . revenge . . . mistake.”
The man raised a hand. I couldn’t see his face, but I assumed he was talking, since Joanna had pressed her lips together.
She shook her head.
That only seemed to anger Mr. Baseball Cap. With a jerking motion, he reached into an inside pocket of his windbreaker jacket.
My muscles tensed. Was he reaching for a gun?
Should I shout a warning?
Before I could react, he thrust a lunch-sized brown paper bag toward Joanna.
She stepped back.
“Excuse me,” I said to the couple who stopped directly in front of me to kiss, blocking my view completely. The lovers didn’t hear me.
Flowerbed of State Page 22
