Landon had thought about calling Brandon during the drive from the Dirksen Building, but he decided he wasn’t in the mood for Brandon’s kind of glee, not with Senator Lightfoot’s death so heavy in his heart.
President Duncan and his chief of staff, Stuart Sheridan, both raised highball glasses toward Landon as he entered the president’s study. Duncan pointed at the buffet along the far wall where a silver tray bearing decanters of bourbon and Scotch lay next to a matching ice bucket and crystal glasses.
Landon shook his head and took the only unoccupied seat in the room, an upholstered wing chair set at one point of an equilateral triangle.
Duncan tilted his head toward Sheridan.
“The brain trust here says you’re ten points ahead of everybody else in New Hampshire, Republican or Democrat.”
Landon’s first thought wasn’t satisfaction. It was a question that had bothered him since he’d arrived in Washington: Why were taxpayers fronting the salary of a political operative like Sheridan?
“Give or take three percent,” Landon said.
Duncan smiled. “Ever the realist.”
“The Supreme Court nominations may have hurt me a little.”
“Americans have short memories. They’ll have forgotten about them in a month. But if they haven’t”-Duncan grinned-“just blame me. Everybody else does. And remember the old Nixon rule: Run to the right in the primary election and to the center in the general.” He laughed. “Not everybody can do a Bill Clinton or John McCain and run in all directions at once.”
Landon didn’t respond. It was exactly what Duncan had tried and failed at. The Supreme Court nominees were his last chance to save his presidency.
“It may help if you make yourself scarce for the swearing-in tomorrow afternoon,” Sheridan said. “A face in the crowd. Give yourself a little distance.”
Landon grasped what Sheridan was really saying: Let Duncan be seen alone planting the flag to mark his legacy.
“Won’t having the ceremony an hour after the vote seem a little rushed?” Landon said. “Maybe we should wait a day and make it look stately.”
“I want it to be more like a door slamming,” Duncan said. “You can do it your way when you live in this house.”
Landon’s peripheral vision caught Sheridan stir in his chair.
“I wanted to talk to you about the campaign,” Duncan said. “A deal is a deal.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“But instead of making some kind of explicit announcement, I’ll do it a little at a time. Each week the endorsement will get a little stronger. Sort of massage the base until it’s lined up behind you.”
“It’ll collapse if we move too quickly,” Sheridan said. “They like to see themselves as a voluntary army, not conscripts.”
Maybe a deal wasn’t a deal after all, Landon thought. It would be easy for political winds to blow away an endorsement written in sand. Impossible if it was etched in stone. He wondered what would be the quid pro quo that would bring out the chisel.
Duncan turned his body fully toward Landon. “I had a thought I’d like you to consider…”
The pause at the end of the sentence revealed Duncan’s timing at its best. It forced Landon to ask, “What’s that, Mr. President?”
“I’d like you to consider taking Sheridan on as an adviser in a couple of months. I’m the lamest of lame ducks, so there’s not much for him to do around here after tomorrow.”
Landon straightened. “I respect his abilities, Mr. President, but I’m not sure how that would play in the media.”
“That’s not a problem. His wife has been diagnosed with a medical problem. He can resign for family reasons.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Landon said, looking at Sheridan. “I hope it’s not serious.”
Sheridan shrugged. “She’ll get over it.”
Chapter 87
R osa M. dropped her dishrag as her eyes widened at the man filling her apartment doorway. It was the look on his face. She drew back, cowering.
“ No me haga dano.” Don’t hurt me.
“I’m not going to.” Gage flashed his ID. “I need some information.”
She nodded once. Slow, hesitant.
“It’s about a guy who stayed in room 527 of the Mariner Hotel a while back. A Texan.”
Rosa’s cheeks flushed.
“It’s not about that.”
G age called Casey as he drove away. “It’s somewhere South of Market. A warehouse. It was used as a marijuana grow room before it got busted by the DEA. She overheard Boots talking on the phone just before he checked out. She thought it was part of an investment deal he’d been offered. It has an inner plywood structure. Almost soundproof. Boots referred to it as cocoon. A perfect place to take a hostage. But she doesn’t know the address, or even the street.”
“We’ve already driven by a half-dozen warehouses. Nothing.”
“You have somebody in the DEA you can call to find out all the places they’ve raided?”
“I’ll have the information by the time we hook up.”
H ow many of these grows have there been in San Francisco?” Gage asked as he read Casey’s notes. They were parked under the freeway a block south of the California Supreme Court building.
“Dozens and dozens. The medical marijuana movement has been good for business.”
“How many are South of Market?”
“Eight that have been closed down in the last couple of months.”
“Map it out. I’ll drive.”
Gage climbed into the cab while Viz and Casey got into the back. Casey gave him the first stop and Gage headed south through the dark streets.
T hey hit six in the next forty minutes. They were nearly to the waterfront, four blocks from Gage’s office. And there were two left on the list.
“Maybe we missed it,” Viz said, lifting off his headphones. “I haven’t heard a thing. Maybe they found the device on Brandon.”
“We’re in big trouble if they did,” Gage said. “Joe, where’s next?”
“Near the Flower Mart on Brannan.”
Gage drove west from the bay, then south away from downtown. He hit Brannan Street just east of the deserted flower market, then drove farther west toward Gilbert. The commercial street was abandoned except for the generic homeless people curled up in doorways with their overfilled shopping carts parked next to them on the sidewalks. Gage slowed when he neared his turn, then crept along, searching the street, headset pressed tight against his ears.
Listening.
Chapter 88
Sometimes you have to take one for the team.”
The voice was faint and staticky, but recognizable.
“We got it,” Gage said. “We got it.”
Gage peered through the van’s windshield as they crept along. The voices strengthened.
“Are you listening to me?”
Gage spotted the numbers stuck on the brown-painted brick front of the second warehouse from the next corner. The streetlight reflected off a red-on-white “For Sale or Lease” sign hanging above the trailer-wide roll-up door. He scanned the unlit windows filling the prongs of the sawtooth roof, then pulled around the corner and into a parking space.
Gage slipped though the divider curtain and into the back.
“Let’s go,” Viz said, reaching to remove his headphones and turning toward the rear door.
“Wait,” Gage said. “We don’t know what we’re up against.”
“What if…?”
“Yes, I’m listening.”
Gage pointed at Viz. “Just wait.” He closed his eyes and concentrated on the voices.
“Why are you dragging this out, Brandon?”
Gage knew why. Brandon would keep talking and stalling, hoping Gage would pick up his voice in the ether. Brandon had read enough search warrants and took enough testimony to know the range of the device was at least two hundred and fifty feet, and he knew Gage was somewhere out there.