Instead, I pull out my wallet, remove my SecurID, and call the office. The size of a credit card, the SecurID resembles a tiny calculator without the numbered buttons. Utilizing a continuous-loop encryption program and a small liquid crystal display, SecurID gives you a six-digit code that changes every sixty seconds. It’s the only way to check your voice-mail from an outside line, and by constantly changing its numerical code, it ensures that no one can guess your password and listen to your messages.
Entering the SecurID code at the voice-prompt, I find out I have three messages. One from Pam, asking where I am. One from Trey, asking how I’m doing. And one forwarded from Deputy Counsel Lawrence Lamb’s assistant, announcing that the afternoon meeting with the Commerce Secretary is canceled. Nothing from Nora. I don’t like being abandoned like that.
I was eight years old the first time my mother left for her clinical trials. She was gone for three days, and my dad and I had no idea where she went. Since she was a nurse, it was easy to check the hospital, but they didn’t know where she was either. Or at least they weren’t saying. The leftovers lasted for two days, but we eventually reached the point where we needed some food. Because of my mom’s job, we weren’t poor, but my dad was in no shape to go shopping. When I volunteered to go for us, he stuffed a fistful of bills in my hand and told me to buy whatever I wanted. Beaming with the pride of newfound wealth, I marched down to the supermarket and stocked up the cart. Skippy instead of the generic peanut butter; Coca-Cola instead of the drab store brand; for once, we were going to live in style. It took me close to two hours to make my selections, filling the cart almost to the top.
One by one, the cashier rang up each item while I flipped through a TV Guide. I was Dad; all I was missing was the pipe and the smoking jacket. But when I went to pay-when I pulled the wad of crumpled-up cash from my pocket-I was told that three dollars wasn’t going to cover it. After a scolding by an assistant manager, they told me to put every item back where I found it. I did. Every item but one. I kept the peanut butter. We had to start somewhere.
Two hours later, I’m sitting in front of the TV, mentally walking through every reason that Simon would want Caroline dead. To be honest, it’s not that difficult. In her position, Caroline knew the dirt on everyone-that’s how she found out about my dad-so the most obvious answer is that she found something on Simon. Maybe it was something he wanted kept quiet. Maybe that’s why he was dropping the money. Maybe he was being blackmailed by her. That’d certainly explain how it wound up in Caroline’s safe. I mean, why else would it be there? If that’s the case, though, it should be pretty obvious that Caroline didn’t die of a simple heart attack. The problem is, if it looks like foul play, my life is over.
Panicking, I pick up the phone and start dialing. I need to know what’s going on, but neither Trey nor Pam is there. There are others I can call, but I’m not going to risk looking suspicious. If they find out Simon sent me home, there’ll be a new rumor buzzing through the halls. I hang up the phone and stare at the TV. It’s been three hours since I left the office, and I’m already locked out.
Flipping through every news program I can find, I’m searching for what is arguably the most important reaction to the crisis: the official White House press conference. I look down at my watch, and notice it’s almost five-thirty. It’s got to happen soon. The press office is focused around the six o’clock news cycle, and they’re too smart to let the evening news run with this on their own.
True to form, the announcement comes at exactly five-thirty. I hold my breath as Press Secretary Emmy Goldfarb does a quick rundown of the facts: Early this morning, Caroline Penzler was found dead in her office of a heart attack caused by coronary artery disease. As she says the words, I once again start breathing. Keeping the explanation short and sweet, Goldfarb turns it over to Dr. Leon Welp, a heart specialist from Georgetown Medical Center, who explains that Caroline had a hysterectomy a few years ago, which made her prematurely experience menopause. Combine the drop in estrogen with heavy smoking, and you’ve got a quick recipe for a heart attack.
Before anyone can ask a question, the President himself comes out to do the regrets. Its a masterstroke by the Press Office. Forget the hows and whys, let’s get to the emotion. I can practically taste the subtext: Our leader. A man who takes care of his own.
I hate election years.
As the President grasps the podium in two tight fists, I can’t help but see the resemblance to Nora. The black hair. The piercing eyes. The reckless jaw. Always in control. Before he opens his mouth, we all know what’s going to come out: “It’s a dark day; she’ll be sorely missed; our prayers go out to her family.” Nothing suspicious; nothing to worry about. He tops it all off with a quick brush of his eye-he’s not crying, but it’s just enough to make us think that if he had a moment to himself, he might.
From Goldfarb, to the doctor, to the President, they all do their specialty. All I notice is that there’s no mention of an investigation. Of course, the family has requested an autopsy, but Goldfarb spins it as a hope to help others with similar ailments. Brilliant touch. Just to be safe, though, the autopsy’s set for Sunday, which means it won’t be the topic of the weekend talk shows, and if the results show it’s a murder, it’ll be too late for the major magazines to make it a cover story. For at least two days, I’m safe. I try to tell myself that it may be over-that it’ll all go away-but like Nora said, I’m a terrible liar.
Dinnertime comes and goes, and I still don’t move from the couch. My stomach is screaming, but I can’t stop flipping through channels. I have to be sure. I need to know no one is using those words: Suspicion. Foul Play. Murder.
The thing is, there’s no mention of it anywhere. Whatever Adenauer and the FBI have found, they’re keeping it to themselves. Relieved, I lean my head back on my rent-a-couch and finally accept that it’s going to be a quiet night.
There’s a loud knock on my door.
“Who is it?” I ask.
There’s no answer. They just bang harder.
“Who is it?” I repeat, raising my voice.
Nothing.
I move quickly from the couch and head toward the door. Along the way, I pick up an umbrella that’s hanging on the knob of the coat closet. It’s a pathetically bad weapon, but it’s the best I’ve got. Slowly, I bring my eye to the peephole and get a look at my imagined enemy. Pam.
Undoing the locks, I pull open the door. She’s holding her briefcase in one hand and a blue plastic shopping bag in the other. Her eyes go right to the umbrella. “Nervous much?”
“I didn’t know who it was.”
“So that’s what you grab? You’ve got a kitchen full of steak knives and you grab an umbrella? What’re you going to do? Keep-me-dry to death?” She shoots me a warm smile and holds up the blue bag. “Now, c’mon, how about inviting me in? I brought Thai food.”
I move out of her way and she steps inside. “And you call me the Boy Scout?” I ask.
“Just hold this,” she adds, handing me her briefcase and heading for the kitchen. Before I can react, she’s rummaging through cabinets and drawers, collecting plates and silverware. When she has what she needs, she moves to the small dining area outside the kitchen and unloads three cartons of Thai food from the blue bag. Dinner is served.
Confused, I’m still standing by the door. “Pam, can I ask you a question?”
“As long as you make it quick. I’m starving.”
“What’re you doing here?”
She looks up from the Pad Thai and her expression changes. “Here?” she asks. Her voice is hurt, almost pained. “I was worried about you.”
Her answer catches me off guard. It’s almost too honest. I take a step toward the dining room table and return her smile. She really is a good friend. And we can both use the company. “I appreciate what you’re doing.”