“Listen, man, I’ve got about three minutes before the First Lady issues her statement on this Garrick fiasco, and Mr. Powell’s the only one who has the new draft. So get your butt out of the copy room and get your heinie running down that hallway. Tell him it’s Reggie Dwight, and tell him I need to speak to him.”
I hear the door slam as Andrew Schotten-something rushes out of his office. As an intern, he’s one of the few people who’ll actually fall for that one. More important, as chairman of the Elton John Fan Club, Washington Chapter, Trey is one of the few people who will recognize the singer’s real name.
I’m counting on both as I scrutinize each car that rolls into the gas station. “C’mon, already,” I mutter, grinding my shoe against the concrete. He’s taking too long. Something’s up. To my right, a dark gray sedan pulls into the station. Maybe the kid got suspicious and called it in. Watching the sedan, I slowly lower the phone back to its cradle. The door opens and a woman gets out. The smile on her face and the snug fit of her sundress tell me she’s not FBI. Raising the phone to my ear again, I hear a door slam.
“Hello?” I ask anxiously. “Anyone there?”
“I knew it,” Trey answers. “How’re you feeling?”
“Where’s the intern?” I ask.
“I sent him to Room 152-figured you’d want to talk alone.”
I nod at the response. There is no Room 152. He’ll be searching for at least half an hour.
“Now you want to tell me how you’re doing?” Trey asks. “Where’d you sleep last night? The airport?”
As always, he knows it all. “I probably shouldn’t say-in case they ask.”
“Just tell me if you’re okay.”
“I’m fine. How’re things there?”
He doesn’t answer, which means it’s worse than I thought.
“Trey, you can-”
“Did they really shut down your bank accounts? Because I went to the ATM this morning and took out everything I could get. It’s not a lot, but I can leave three hundred for you at-”
“I spoke to Simon,” I blurt.
“You did? When?”
“Early this morning. Surprised him as he got in his car.”
“What’d he say?”
It takes me ten minutes to relay our five-minute conversation.
“Wait a minute,” Trey eventually says. “He thought you were the killer?”
“He had it all worked out in his head-all the way down to the fact that Caroline and I were blackmailing people together.”
“So why hasn’t he turned you in?”
“Hard to say. My guess is he was afraid of his own sexual activities coming out.”
“And you believe him?”
“You have any reason not to?”
“I can think of one. Starts with an N; ends with an A; her daddy’s President… ”
“I got it, Trey.”
“You sure about that? If he’s sleeping with Nora, he’ll say anything to make you-”
“He’s not sleeping with her.”
“Aw, c’mon, Michael-we’re right back where we started.”
“Trust me on this one. We’re not.”
He can hear the change in my voice. There’s a short pause on the other end. “You know who did it, don’t you?”
“It doesn’t mean anything without the proof.”
This time, Trey doesn’t pause. “Tell me what you need me to do.”
“You sure you’re up for it?” I ask. “Because it’s going to be a bitch and a half to pull off.”
CHAPTER 37
Running down my fourth flight of stairs in the concrete stairwell, I’m starting to feel sick. I don’t like being this far underground. My head’s throbbing; my balance is out of whack. At first, I assumed it was the repetitious pattern of my downward descent. But the closer I get to the final sub-basement, the more I start thinking about what’s waiting for me at the bottom. I pass the door marked B-5 wondering if it’s going to work. It all depends on her.
The stairwell ends at a metal door with a bright orange B-6 painted on it. I pull it open and step into the lowest level of the underground parking garage. Surrounded by dozens of parked cars, I check to see if she’s already here. Judging by the silence, it appears I’m first.
A quick breath fills my lungs with chalky air, but as a meeting place, the garage fits the bill. Close by, yet out of sight.
A shriek of screeching tires slices through the silence. It’s coming from a few floors above but echoes all the way down. As the car tears around the ramp’s turns, the echo gets louder. Whoever it is, they’re coming my way-and driving like a maniac. Running for a hiding spot, I dash back into the stairwell and peer through the window in the door. A forest green Saab leaps toward an open parking spot and jerks to a sudden halt. When the door opens, a parking garage attendant gets out. Finally, I exhale, wiping my face on my jacket sleeve.
The moment he leaves I hear the screeching start again-barreling down from the street level, growing louder as it goes. These guys are psychopaths. But as a black Buick careens off the ramp, it doesn’t head for a parking space. Instead, it bucks to a dead stop right in front of the stairwell. As before, the door to the car swings wide open. Ah.
“Heard you want to get into my house,” Nora says with a grin.
Already, she’s having too much fun. “Where’s the Service?”
“Don’t worry-we got fifteen minutes till they realize I’m gone.”
“Where’d you get the car?”
“Woman who does my mom’s hair. Now, you want to continue grilling me, or do you want to be nice?”
“I’m sorry,” I offer. “It’s just been a hard-”
“You don’t have to say it. I’m sorry too. Even if you wanted it, I shouldn’t have let you leave like that.” Taking a step toward me, she opens her arms.
I put a hand up and push away.
“What’re you-”
“Nora, let’s just save it for later. Right now, there’re more important things to deal with.”
“Are you still mad about Simon? I swear we-”
“I know you didn’t sleep with him. And I know you’d never hurt me.” Looking her straight in the eyes, I add, “I believe you, Nora.”
She stares at me, weighing every word. I’m not sure what she’s thinking, but she’s got to know I’m all out of options. It’s either this, or I dance for the police. At least here, she’s still in control.
Her eyes narrow and she makes her decision. Naturally, I have no idea what it is. “Get in the car,” she finally says.
Without a word, I circle around to the passenger’s side and open the door.
“What’re you doing?”
“You said to get in.”
“No, no, no,” she scolds. “Not with your face on every front page.” She pushes a button on her keychain and pops the trunk. “This time, you’re riding in back.”
Curled up in the trunk of the First Beautician’s Buick, I’m trying to ignore the damp-carpet smell. Lucky for me, there’re plenty of distractions. Besides the jumper cables that I’m nervously squeezing in each hand, there’s a full chess set-which I’ve just realized was never properly closed. As Nora ascends the circular ramp out of the garage, pawns, knights, bishops, and rooks bombard me from every direction. A knight hits me in the eye and bounces into my hand, just as a sharp right turn tells me we’re back on 17th Street.
Wrapped in darkness, I try to mentally follow the path of the car, twisting and turning its way toward the Southwest Appointment Gate. There’s no question she could be delivering me right to the authorities, but I think the last thing she wants is to be caught with the current “It” boy. At least, that’s what I’m counting on.
Including wheelchair entrances, there’re eleven different ways to get into the White House and the OEOB. The ones that involve walking require a valid ID and a stroll past at least two uniformed officers. The ones that involve driving require a bigshot and a kick-ass parking permit. I’ve got Nora. More than enough.
As the sound of traffic disappears behind us, I know we’re close. The car slows down as we approach the first checkpoint. I expect them to stop us, but for whatever reason, they don’t. Now comes the actual gate. This is the one that counts.