This time Dorn shook his head. “I used an alias.”
“How did you find out about Shannon in the first place?”
“Shannon’s mother called me a month before she gave birth. It was quite a shock.”
“Was she trying to get money out of you?” Baxter asked.
“No. She just said she thought I had the right to know. It was touching.”
“Do you think she’d try to extort you now that you’re the president? Do you think Shannon is in on this?”
“No,” Dorn replied firmly. “Her mother would never do that to her daughter.” He shook his head as he thought on it further. “I misspoke. Her mother wouldn’t do it for any reason. I don’t know her that well, but I believe she’s a good soul.”
Baxter was never convinced anyone was that good a soul. Not if there was enough money involved. “What if—”
“What about that woman you were going to introduce me to?” Dorn broke in as he chalked his cue. It squeaked loudly at the friction with the blue cube. “The one you thought could lead the cell I mentioned last night.”
Dorn was finished talking about Shannon. Despite his ability to compartmentalize, it was an emotional issue for him. Baxter could clearly see that. And he didn’t want to talk about it anymore right now.
“I still can’t believe you think a woman would be a good candidate for this,” Dorn continued, “but hey, I guess I’ll humor you. I’m sure she’ll be just great,” he said sarcastically.
“She has been contacted, sir. I took care of that last night.” Baxter arranged the colorful balls inside the triangle, dropping them loudly into place to display his irritation at Dorn’s sarcasm. “And I do think she’s a good candidate,” he whispered as he straightened up and his mouth fell slightly open, “an excellent one.”
“No disrespect, Stewart, but how in the hell do you think a woman would have any chance against Shane Maddux, the Jensens, and all the other badasses that cell overflows with?”
Baxter’s eyes narrowed as he looked up from the pool balls.
“Well, Stewart?” Dorn demanded. “Answer me.”
“Why don’t you ask her yourself, sir?”
“What?”
Baxter nodded over the president’s shoulder.
Dorn spun around. “Jesus Christ!”
Standing a few feet away was an attractive young woman. She had dark hair that was pulled together at the back of her head in a tight ponytail. She was wearing a maroon Stanford sweatshirt, dark jeans, and muddy black boots.
“Mr. President, meet Commander Skylar McCoy.”
Dorn ran his fingers through his hair and exhaled heavily, trying to compose himself after the shock of seeing her in the room. “Hello, Skylar.”
“Hello.”
“Why didn’t you tell me Commander McCoy was going to be here, Stewart?” The president was still rattled. His voice was shaking slightly. “I hate surprises. You know that.”
Baxter shook his head. “I didn’t know.”
“What do you mean, you didn’t know? I pay you to know.”
“I asked her superior to have her in Washington early next week.”
“So you didn’t—” Dorn interrupted himself, then gestured at Skylar. “How did you get in here? Do you have friends in the Secret Service?”
“I don’t know anyone in the Secret Service,” she answered, “and judging by their incompetence, I wouldn’t want to.”
“You mean you—”
“I mean, sir, that there are several agents on the grounds who’ll wake up with raging headaches in a few hours.” She nodded at the room’s door. “Two of them are right outside. Does that answer your question?”
Dorn nodded deliberately, never taking his eyes from Skylar. “Yes, it does, Commander. Yes, it does.”
CHAPTER 22
Early morning, and Chief Justice Warren Bolger steered his brand-new BMW toward the Supreme Court building and through the thick fog drifting in off the Potomac River, which was shrouding the streets of downtown Washington. He loved this sleek, black 7 Series, and the hell with bloggers who ridiculed him for having such expensive tastes. And thank the Lord the car was all they’d found out about. His family’s investment income dwarfed the $231,000 salary he earned as chief justice.
If you really looked at the situation analytically, he was as powerful as the president, maybe more so. Every day Bolger made critically important decisions that would guide the country’s social and economic paths and policies for centuries to come. He never had to worry about reelection or Congress overriding him, so he made those momentous decisions free and clear of any childish whining by constituents. Therefore, he voted with his conscience, not for his campaign manager, the way the president had to, especially at reelection time.
Finally and most important, he stayed in power as long as he wanted to. There were no silly term limits to fret about. A Supreme Court justice might rule for fifty years, while the president was lucky to hold office for eight. Obviously, the Founding Fathers considered the Supreme Court a more important piece to the government than the executive branch.
Well, the head of the executive branch rode around in armored limousines and flying fortresses. Why shouldn’t the chief justice of the Supreme Court ride around in nice vehicles?
Bolger laughed harshly. He no more wanted to ride around in an armored limousine than he did on the back of a flea-bitten mule. He didn’t need a limousine to justify his self-worth. He needed a 7 Series.
He took a deep breath of the rich leather scent permeating the inside of the car. No, driving this car was a much better plan. This was a little piece of heaven on earth, the ultimate driving experience.
President Dorn had asked him several times to start using a limousine, to start being more safety-conscious in general in these days of heightened terrorism. But Bolger wasn’t about to give up his personal freedom or be told what to do in any facet of his life, even by the president of the United States.
Besides, in his opinion, limousines would only attract terrorist attention. And the 140-member Supreme Court Police did a fine job of protecting him while he was on the bench or in his office outside the most important courtroom in the world.
“David Dorn,” Bolger muttered sarcastically as he pulled to stop at a red light on Constitution Avenue. He liked the way the radio’s volume automatically softened as the car decelerated. “What an arrogant bastard. You’d think he could have called me directly.” The president hadn’t called Bolger personally to request that he be more security-conscious. He’d left that chore up to his lackey, Stewart Baxter. “And that worm Baxter’s even worse.”
Bolger stepped on the accelerator the instant the light turned green.
He didn’t see the truck careening through the intersection out of the fog until the vehicle’s grill was three feet from his door. Even as he screamed in mortal terror, it occurred to him that he’d never heard the truck’s horn.
Chief Justice Bolger was killed on impact.
Cheryl laughed mostly good-naturedly but a bit in frustration as she followed Little Jack, who was darting down a sidewalk of the quiet Greenwich side street. She loved the boy as if he were her own, not just her grandson, and she’d been glad to take him in when his mother, Lisa Martinez, had died last year. God knows Troy would have been lost taking care of an infant. Besides, he was always gone, off in some distant corner of the world he could never disclose. How could he possibly have taken care of Little Jack? How could he take care of anyone?
So she’d become Little Jack’s primary caregiver. And it had given her so much joy to do it, since Jack and Troy had been out of the nest for quite some time. She was being a mom again after a decade off. It was wonderful.