Jimmie looked both ways and, still finding that he was alone, pressed the handle down. Amazingly, it wasn’t locked. He pushed the door open.
Or he tried to. Its hinges were rusted. He tried again, this time throwing his shoulder into it. The door didn’t budge, but his spinal column folded like an accordion. Needless to say, the pain was excruciating.
Jimmie stretched his back out. He was about ready to ram the door again when something hit him: The cartoon’s subject and placement weren’t incidental.
He pressed down on the handle and pulled.
The door opened without difficulty, and he was inside.
Chapter Twenty
Close Enough for Government Work
With the flip of a switch, a long, single-bulb fluorescent light hanging from the ceiling flickered on. The room was set up as an office—the world’s smallest office, but an office nonetheless. There was barely enough room for two people to stand side by side in front of the metal desk, which stretched from bare wall to bare wall. There was a filing cabinet on the other side of the desk, but there didn’t appear to be any way to get to it. A chair back poked up from behind the desk. It wasn’t ergonomic; it was a torture device.
“I see you’ve found your new office.”
Jimmie spun around. Emma was standing in the doorway, arms folded.
“Thought I’d do a little snooping around,” he stammered.
“You’re free to go wherever you please,” she said. “Sorry that the office is a little on the small side, but it’s all we have left.”
“I used to live in Manhattan,” Jimmie said. “This looks like a penthouse suite compared to some of my old apartments.”
“Fascinating,” she said.
“You think I’m exaggerating?”
“No,” she said. “It’s fascinating that you think I care.”
It was taking her a while to warm up to him. The president had probably chewed her ear off regarding the elevator incident yesterday, so Jimmie couldn’t exactly blame her for being so chilly. At least he still had a job. That was really all that mattered. He was beyond caring what beautiful women thought of him.
Emma asked, “Do you have your tux for the State Dinner this evening?”
“The steak dinner?”
“State Dinner,” she said, obviously annoyed he hadn’t read the e-mail with the president’s schedule. Hey, at least he hadn’t deleted it. “The president and Putin are out hunting together right now. Festivities start at six.”
“Tux. Already rented. Gotta pick it up after lunch.”
She stared at him for a beat, seeing through his lie but not calling him on it. He appreciated that in a boss. He figured he could trust her. He was going to have to trust somebody around here, and she hadn’t batted an eye when she’d found him snooping downstairs.
“The first biographer,” he blurted out. “The man who had this office before me . . . Lester Dorset. He’s not backpacking the Pacific Crest Trail, is he?”
She shook her head. “He’s never even read Wild. This isn’t public knowledge, but . . . he took his own life. It was a great shock to everyone,” she said, her voice no more than a hushed whisper. “Climbed onto the roof and jumped . . . right into the Rose Garden.”
“Jesus.” Jimmie couldn’t say much else. Because what do you say when you hear something like that? A coworker kills themselves on the job? In the springtime, when you saw the fake flowers blooming, how could you not think about a body lying there?
And yet . . . Jimmie had to press further.
“You sure he jumped? He wasn’t . . . pushed?”
“I was right about you,” Emma said.
“That I’ve got a nose for a story?”
“That you’re still living in your dirt-sheet fantasy world,” she said. “It’s just your second day on the job, and you’re already snooping around for scandals. This is one story you can forget about, though. Not many people have roof access. Who was going to push him off? Surely not the president or the first lady, who were in Mar-a-Lago for the Fourth of July. There’s no story here.”
Except there is a body, Jimmie thought. And where there’s a body, there’s a story. If somebody kills themselves, you don’t just dig a hole in the backyard and throw them in. That’s what you do if somebody is murdered.
He remembered from that boring Watergate movie how upset people got when Nixon lied about the break-in at the Democratic National headquarters. The Washington Post had won a Pulitzer for that dull bit of reporting!
Imagine, now, if there’d been a dead body involved.
Whoever reported that story wouldn’t just win a Pulitzer—they’d win an Edgar from the Mystery Writers of America. They’d win their girl back. If that was something they were theoretically hoping to do, which he wasn’t.
Lester was dead, but somebody was lying. Too bad the dog had made off with the evidence, but he guessed there was more where that came from. Jimmie Bernwood was going to find out the killer’s identity . . . if he lived long enough.
If anyone lived long enough, he thought, remembering what Connor had said about the war with the United Kingdom—and the potentially looming threat of World War III.
Chapter Twenty-One
Candy Is Dandy, but Liquor Is Quicker
After Emma left, Jimmie pulled his White House–issued phone out to find a tux rental shop nearby. “Find men’s wear stores,” he instructed his phone.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” his phone said in that bitchy voice of hers. “Please speak up.”
He cleared his throat. “FIND MEN’S WEAR STORES!”
There was a click above his head. Jimmie looked up. There was nothing above him but the ceiling. Rats? Not in the Trump White House. That click sounded familiar, he thought, climbing onto his desk. He pushed aside a tile and reached around until—
There. He pulled the device out. A Tascam DR-08 Portable Digital Recorder. It was voice activated, which explained why it had clicked on when he’d shouted. It wouldn’t record conversations very well through the tile, though, so he doubted someone had placed it up there to record him. Chris Christie and whomever else was in charge of eavesdropping at the White House probably had much more advanced ways of bugging rooms. No, this had been hidden in the ceiling. He was as sure of it as he’d been sure of anything in his life. Which is to say, not a hundred percent sure. But, as he’d heard around the West Wing, “close enough for government work.”
Jimmie turned his phone off and pressed PLAY on the recorder.
Let’s start at the beginning. You were born in 19—
That’s not how you’re going to begin the book, is it? With my head poking out of my mother’s wherever?
With your birth? Not necessarily, but that’s basically how Dickens started David Copperfield.
Even more reason not to do it. I hate magicians.
The first voice was Lester’s. The second was Trump’s. The interview sessions recorded by Lester Dorset existed after all. They weren’t tapes, however—they were on a hard drive embedded into the recorder. The security measure Emma had talked about. Connor Brent’s insane story about evidence that would lead to Trump’s downfall was no Bernie bro fantasy.
Jimmie was tempted to listen to the recordings now, but he couldn’t. He returned the recorder to its hiding spot. Right now, he had to find a fly tux. His afternoon was booked already, too—the bathroom attendant had invited him to play Cards Against Humility with some of the blue-collar staff in the breakroom.
After that, it would be time to hit the State Dinner. Where they might not have steak, but they would sure as shit have some booze. Anything less would be a middle finger to the Russian president. Perhaps someone would drop a few more hints about what really happened to Lester Dorset. Cash was great for getting people to cough up information, but alcohol was better.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Strawberry and Cinnamon
Trump and Putin descended the Grand Staircase, preceded by a phalanx of
flag-bearing Marines. The crowd, including Jimmie, clapped enthusiastically at the president’s arrival. “The President’s Own” US Marine Band segued from “America the Beautiful” into a brass rendition of Twisted Sister’s “We’re Not Gonna Take It.”
The world leaders waved from the first step as the flashbulbs went off.
Putin stepped to the microphone. “I thank the Donald for his invitation and affirm that we, Russia, stand by our friend, America, against her enemies around the world . . . especially if they have limp wrists and posh accents.”
When Trump took the mic, Jimmie slipped out to the State Dining Room. He wanted to get a good seat. Someplace close to the buffet, so he could load up his plate before John Kasich hit it. Kasich was already creeping toward the door in the most wrinkled tuxedo Jimmie had ever seen. Rumor had it the poor guy was living in his car.
Not only wasn’t there a buffet, however, but it turned out he hadn’t needed to rush: The seating was assigned. Emma had put Jimmie at the head-of-state table right next to Trump and Putin.
Good. Excellent, in fact. Vladimir Putin was at the top of Jimmie’s list of suspects for Lester’s murder.
Jimmie had visited the WhiteHouse.gov website and found the list of everyone who’d been at the White House the night of July fourth. While the Trumps had indeed been out of town, three people besides Lester had clearance levels that would have given them access to the roof: Chris Christie, Corey Lewandowski, and—staying in the Lincoln Bedroom as a guest of the White House—Russian president Vladimir Putin. There’d been a handful of Secret Service agents with free rein of the family quarters and access to the roof. However, as Jimmie had seen, the Secret Service seemed to have no interest in lifting a finger for Trump. They weren’t going to kill somebody to protect his reputation. They wouldn’t even shoot somebody in the kneecaps.
After a half hour, Trump finally arrived in the dining room and took a seat next to Jimmie. “If you’re going to puke tonight, do it on the press,” the president told him.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Jimmie said, a bit too enthusiastically. He’d been back and forth to the open bar a couple of times already. He had a decent buzz going.
“Have you been to one of these things before?” Trump asked Jimmie.
“Politics isn’t my usual beat,” he said. “But I’ve had dinner before.”
“You’re going to love it. You’re going to have an amazing, amazing time. Do you know Vlad?”
Jimmie shook his head and self-consciously pulled the sleeves of his tuxedo jacket down. There hadn’t been time for alterations, so he was wearing a tux two sizes too small.
“Vlad is a riot,” Trump said. “We were out hunting today. Oh, boy. That guy, I tell you what.”
Jimmie could see it now: Trump, a big proponent of the Second Amendment, and Putin, an avid outdoorsman, marching through the Virginia woods together, blasting deer with Uzis.
“Will the first lady be joining us tonight?” Jimmie asked.
Trump snorted. “She hates Vlad. Thinks he’s a bad influence on me. Every time we get together, I end up stumbling home at four in the morning smelling like Strawberry and Cinnamon. And I’m not talking about scents. I’m talking about dancers. Those are their names: Strawberry and Cinnamon.”
“I get it,” Jimmie said.
“Good. You’re a good guy. You got a weak stomach, but you’re a good guy.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“Please—call me Trump. There’ve been how many presidents? Forty? Fifty? There’s only one Trump.”
Unless you counted his wives, or his parents, or his children. But Jimmie had a feeling Trump didn’t count them.
“We have to schedule a time to talk,” Trump continued. “You’ve got to see the Oval Office. You know that it’s really an oval?”
“I was never any good at geometry,” Jimmie said, scanning the dining room. More than a hundred guests were seated and chatting, waiting on the arrival of the Russian president. Jimmie was already starting to sweat under the opulent chandeliers, which cast so much light that it felt like he was in a tanning bed. Perhaps that was how Trump kept his luxurious glow intact.
“Which one of my hotels did Emma put you up in?” Trump asked.
“I found a place on my own. You know the Royal Linoleum?”
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Trump said. “I’ll talk to Emma. We’ll set you up in one of my properties.”
Jimmie chose his words carefully. “If there happens to be an advertised vacancy at a Trump building, of course, I’ll jump on it. I don’t want any special treatment.”
“A vacant unit in a Trump building is about as rare as a Kate Winslet movie where we don’t see her honkers,” Trump said. “But I see your point. You’re a man who likes to do things on his own. You don’t like to be dependent on others. I can respect that. Can I give you some advice, though?”
Jimmie nodded.
“Until you can move out of the shithole where you’re living, stay away from Clinton Plaza. It’s a dangerous place. A dangerous, dangerous place. All sorts of degenerates there. I’m not just talking about the homeless or the marijuana addicts, either. There are dangerous people with dangerous ideas.” Trump leaned closer. “You understand what I’m saying?”
Jimmie sipped his water. Suddenly, his throat had gone very dry.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Trump Zero
Before Jimmie could respond to what sounded an awful lot like a veiled threat, Vladimir Putin slapped Trump hard on the back.
Trump swung around, fists at the ready to defend himself. When he saw who it was, though, he jumped up to greet his buddy.
Putin put Trump in a playful headlock, and the American president threw up his arms in mock protest. The Secret Service agent with the shaved head—the one Jimmie had met the day before under very different circumstances—stood back a few feet, watching the public display of affection. Step aside, Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellen—there was a new bromance in town.
Jimmie wondered how much Trump/Putin slash fic there was out there. It wasn’t a question of whether or not it existed but a question of how many shippers had avoided legal trouble from Trump’s team.
A nervous waiter carefully poured a Miller Lite into a chilled glass for the Russian president, who had taken a seat on the other side of Trump. Putin made a hand gesture to a tuxedoed man who’d accompanied him into the dining room. KGB, Jimmie guessed. If that was still a thing.
The KGB agent swished a light swig of the beer around in his mouth. He had an intense look of concentration, which was made all the more intense by the scar bisecting his right eye. He swallowed and gave Putin a sharp nod. The Russian president shot a perplexed Trump a look that said, You can never be too careful.
The waiter poured a Trump Zero for the president, who then held his glass out to the Secret Service agent behind him.
The agent made no move for the glass. Jimmie imagined he was rolling his eyes behind his shades, which he was wearing indoors simply to hide his annoyance with Trump.
Not wishing to be outdone on his own turf, Trump swung the glass around to Jimmie, who had no choice but to reluctantly accept it.
Jimmie cradled the glass with two hands and put it to his own lips, as if he were about to drink from the Holy Grail. He took a healthy swig and tried to repeat the KGB agent’s performance, swishing the carbonated liquid around like mouthwash. Had it been tampered with? How would he know? Unlike Putin’s goon, Jimmie was no poison sommelier. He tried to think back to the last time he’d even had a poisoned drink. When was that? Oh, yeah: way back in NINETEEN NINETY-NEVER.
Still, he made an attempt. What struck him at first was just how much like regular Trump Cola it tasted. Jimmie didn’t drink much pop. When he did, he usually opted for the stuff with real sugar or corn sweetener—the good stuff, in other words. Diet pop just tasted so phony, with that metallic aftertaste. He’d seen Trump Zero advertised as a better-tasting zero
-calorie beverage, but it had always seemed too good to be true.
What a fool he’d been.
What a goddamned fool.
Jimmie handed the glass back to Trump, who raised his eyebrows expectantly. Putin leaned forward, craning his neck around Trump. The room itself seemed to be holding its breath, waiting upon his pronouncement.
Jimmie finally gave a single nod, prompting a collective sigh of relief from the room.
After the taste test, Trump and Putin settled into a rowdy back-and-forth. At first, Jimmie tried leaning in to pick up as much of their conversation as he could, but Putin shot him an annoyed look. Jimmie backed off. Although he’d been seated close so that he could eavesdrop with impunity, he didn’t want to raise the Russian president’s ire. After all, Putin may have thrown the last ghostwriter off the White House roof to protect Trump.
Corey Lewandowski was seated to Jimmie’s left. Another possible suspect. Lewandowski was locked into a heated conversation with Secretary of State Omarosa over whether they should call the United Kingdom “England” or “Great Britain.” Jimmie had no interest in joining them, however. Lewandowski had already punched one waiter in the nuts for not refilling his water fast enough. And Omarosa . . . well, Jimmie remembered her from the first season of The Apprentice. He had no interest in tangling horns with her. He was referring, of course, to the literal horns that had sprouted from her forehead. Once, she’d shaved them down, but these days they grew long and curled.
Chris Christie, who was sitting directly across from Jimmie, made a gun with his hand. He pointed his index finger directly at Jimmie and pressed his thumb down. BANG. The White House janitor returned to his plate of cheese sticks, leaving Jimmie to wonder just what the hell kind of mess he’d gotten himself into this time. He was seated at a table with the most powerful men and women in the world . . . one of whom was a killer.
The Day of the Donald Page 7
