“Hey, Michael,” he says as I walk by.
“H-Hey,” I reply. “Hi.”
“Staff meeting today?”
Before I can even answer, he reaches below his desk and returns my most favorite of privileges. On my left, the elevator door slides open and I step inside. I’m not sure what caused the turnaround, but as the door slides shut, I’m happy to take the favor.
As I step into Simon’s office, I expect to find the meeting already in progress. Instead, I see most of the staff swapping stories and sharing gossip. The empty chair at the head of the table tells me why.
I take a quick look around and notice Pam in her now regular spot on the couch. Ever since she’s moved up, she’s practically disappeared. “You’re a real honcho now, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?” she asks, feigning innocence. It’s a classic White House power-move: Never acknowledge advantages.
Shaking my head, I make my way to an open seat in the back. “I see right through you, woman-you’re not fooling anyone.”
“I’m fooling you,” she calls out. Her downplaying days are over.
I’m about to shout something back when the door to the room opens. The whole place goes silent, then picks up again. It’s not Simon-just another associate-a WASPy, expensive-shoes, Yale-tie-clip-guy who just came over after clerking at the Supreme Court. I hate him. Pam said he’s been nice.
As he steps inside, the office is packed. The only open seat is the one next to mine. He takes a quick recon, looking right at me. I move my chair over to make sure he has room. But as he heads toward the back, he passes right by me, continues toward the corner, and leans up against one of the bookcases. He’d rather stand. I glance over at Pam, but she’s caught up with her new pals on the couch. No one likes a sinking ship.
With no one to talk to, I sit and wait until the door once again swings open. Simon enters the room and everyone’s quiet. As soon as we make eye contact, I look away. He doesn’t. Instead, he heads straight toward me and smacks a thick file folder against my chest. “Welcome back,” he growls.
I look down at the folder, then back at everyone else in the room. Something’s wrong. He’s too smart to lose his temper in front of a crowd.
“You whined for it; you got it,” he adds.
“I don’t even know who-”
He turns and walks away. “They’re voting on it Wednesday. Enjoy.”
Confused, I read the tab on the folder: “Roving Wiretaps.” Inside, I see all my old research. I don’t believe it-I’m back on the case.
Looking up, I search for a friendly face to share the news with, but there’s only one person looking my way. The person who walked in right behind Simon. Lawrence Lamb. He offers a warm smile and soft nod. That’s all he needs to say. Chalk one up for Nora.
“Are you sure Simon’s okay with this?”
“He shouldn’t have taken you off the case in the first place,” Lamb says matter-of-factly as we walk back to his office. Moving with the forcefulness of a man who’s always in demand, Lamb somehow still manages to never look rushed. Like the double-Windsor knot in his tie and his cufflinked shirt, he’s permanently set on high-sheen polish; the type of man who, when he’s in the airport, still looks put together even after a four-hour flight.
Trailing behind him, I’m a complete mess. “But what if Simon-”
“Stop worrying about it, Michael. It’s yours. Celebrate.”
Passing his secretary’s desk, I realize he’s right. The thing is, old habits die hard. As we step into his office, I take a seat in front of his desk.
“I don’t know what you did, but whatever it is, Nora’s happy,” he explains. “That alone grants you three wishes.”
“Is this my first?”
“If it is, here’re the other two.” He opens a file folder on his desk and hands me two documents. The first is a single-page memo from the FBI. “They finished investigating two people on Friday, and three more over the weekend,” he explains. “All of them appointees-all of them apparently innocent-which brings the total to ten. Only five more suspects to go.”
“So they still haven’t gotten to mine?”
“Best for last,” he says as he cleans his reading glasses with a monogrammed hankie. “It shouldn’t be long now.”
“What about getting an advance look at the last five names? Is there any way to do that?”
“Why would you…? Oh, I see,” he interrupts himself. “Whoever is still on the list-that’ll tell us who else was potentially involved.”
“If Caroline had their files, she had their secrets.”
“Not a bad thought,” Lamb agrees. “Let me make a few calls. I’ll see what I can do.” As he makes a note to himself, the phone rings and he quickly picks it up. “This is Larry,” he announces. “Yes, he’s right here. I got it… I heard you the first fifteen times.” There’s a short pause. “Don’t yell at me! Did you hear me? Stop already!” After a quick goodbye, he hangs up and turns my way. “Nora says hello.”
Unreal-Nora puts the word out, and suddenly, I’m at the top of Lamb’s dance card. It’s amazing what a dozen summers splashing around together can do.
Flipping through the second document, I see that it’s a fifty-page computer printout. “Is this wish number three?”
“That depends how you define ‘wish.’ What you hold in your hands is the official WAVES record on the day Caroline was killed. According to the record, Patrick Vaughn was cleared in at exactly 9:02 A.M.”
“By me.”
“By you. And he left at 10:05. You know how it works, Michael-once he had that Appointment ID around his neck, he could’ve wandered through the OEOB for a full hour. And according to the Secret Service, the request to let him in was placed from an internal phone right after you arrived at 8:04 that morning.”
“But I never-”
“I’m not saying you made the request-I’m just telling you what the records show.”
Shifting uncomfortably in my seat, I replay the facts in my head. “So as soon as I walked in that morning, Simon placed the call.”
“They probably watched you walk in the front door. Do you remember anyone in the hallway?”
I pause to think about it. “The only one I saw was Pam, who told me about the early meeting.”
“Pam, eh? Well, I guess it is a lot for Simon to pull off by himself.”
“Wait a minute-Pam would never-”
“I’m not saying she’s involved-I’m just saying be careful. You’re dancing on dangerous ground.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He pauses a moment. There’s something he’s not saying.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“You tell me-ever heard of a Post reporter named Inez Cotigliano?”
“The one who did the FOIA request.”
Lamb shoots me a look. “How’d you know that?”
“Pam had a copy.”
Sitting up in his seat, he makes a quick note to himself.
“Is something wrong with that?”
He ignores the question.
“Was she not supposed to have one?”
“Michael, it took us four days to examine those WAVES records and realize you let Vaughn in the building. According to the Secret Service, Inez has been asking about those same records since the day after Caroline died. One day. It’s like she knew-or someone told her.”
“So you think Pam-”
“All I’m saying is pay attention. If Inez’s even half as ambitious as she seems to be, it’s not going to take her long to find Vaughn. Or you.”
My stomach drops. I’m running out of time. “How long do I have?”
“See, there’s the problem,” Lamb says, his calm voice for the first time sounding uneasy. “You keep forgetting that this isn’t just about you.” Pausing, he gives me that same anxious look from before.
“Did something happen?” I ask.
He runs his hand against the grain of his still-recent shave. “They called me, Michael. They called me twice.”
“Who did? The reporter?”
“The FBI,” he says coldly.