I pound my thumb against the call button. The indicator above the door says it’s on the first floor. Thirty more seconds-that’s all I need. Behind me, I hear the worst kind of creak. I spin around and see the doorknob starting to turn. Someone’s coming out. The elevator pings as it finally arrives, but its doors don’t open. Over my shoulder, I hear hinges squeak. A quick look shows me the uniformed agent stepping out of the room. He’s right behind me as the elevator opens. If he wanted to, he could reach out and grab me. I inch forward and calmly step into the elevator, praying he doesn’t follow. Please, please, please, please, please. Even as the doors close, he can stick his hand in at the last second. Keeping my back turned, I squint with apprehension. Finally, I hear the doors close behind me.
Alone in the rusty industrial elevator, I turn, push the button marked 5, and let my head sag back against the beat-up walls. Approaching each floor, I tense up just a bit, but one after another, we pass them without stopping. Straight to the top. Sometimes there’re benefits to being second-class.
When the doors open on the highest floor of the OEOB, I stick out my head and survey the hallway. There’re a couple young suits at the far end, but otherwise, it’s a clear path. Following Pam’s instructions, I dart straight for the door to the left of the Indian Treaty Room. Unlike most of the rooms in the building, it’s unmarked. And unlocked.
“Anyone here?” I call out as I push open the door. No answer. The room’s dark. Stepping inside, I see that it’s not even a room. It’s just a tiny closet with a metal-grated staircase leading straight up. That must be the attic. I hesitate as I put my foot on the first step. In any building with five hundred rooms, there’re always gonna be a few that inherently seem off-limits. This is one of them.
I grab the iron handrail and feel a layer of dust under the palm of my hand. As I climb higher up the stairs, I’m encased in another sauna caused by the lack of air-conditioning. I thought I was sweating before, but up here… proof positive that heat rises. Every breath in is like a full gulp of sand.
As I continue up the stairs, I notice two deflated Winnie-the-Pooh mylar balloons attached to the banister. Both of them read “Happy Birthday” on them. Whoever was up here last, it must’ve been a hell of a private party.
At the top, I turn around and get my first good look at the long, rectangular attic. With high, slanted ceilings and exposed wooden beams, it gets all its light from a few skylights and a set of miniature windows. Otherwise, it’s a dim, crowded room filled with leftovers. Discarded desks in one corner, stacked-up chairs in another, and what looks like an empty swimming pool cut into the center of the floor. As I get closer, I realize that the recessed part of the floor is actually the casing for a section of stained glass that’s surrounded by a waist-high guardrail.
As soon as my eyes hit it, I know I’ve seen it before. Then I remember where I am. Directly above the most ornate room in the building-the Indian Treaty Room. Looking down, I can see its outline through the huge sections of stained glass. The marble wall panels. The intricate marquetry floor. I was there for the AmeriCorps reception, when I first met Nora. The attic runs right over it. Their stained glass ceiling; my stained glass floor.
Deeper into the room, I finally find what I’m after. Beyond the guardrail, in the far left corner, are at least fifty file boxes. Right in the front, in a horizontal stack, are the six I’m looking for. The ones marked Penzler. My stomach constricts.
I grab the top box from the pile and rip off the cardboard lid. R through Sa. This is it. I pull out each file as I go. Racial Discrimination … Radio Addresses … Reapportionment … Request Memos.
The folder is at least three inches thick, and I tear it out with a sharp yank. Flipping it open, I see the most recent memo on top. It’s dated August 28th. A week before Caroline was killed. Addressed to the White House Security Office, the memo states that she “would like to request current FBI files for the following individual(s):” On the next line is a single name, Michael Garrick.
It’s not much in the way of news-I’ve known she requested my file since the day I saw it on her desk. Still, there’s something odd about seeing it in print. After everything that’s happened-everything I’ve been through-this is where it started.
No matter how ruthless Caroline was or how many people she blackmailed, even she knew it was impossible to get an FBI file without a request memo. Thinking about it, she probably didn’t see it as that big a deal-as Ethics Officer for the White House, she had fifty ways to justify each request. And if anyone tried to use a request against her… well, every one of us was guilty of something. So who cares about a little paper trail?
Remembering that Caroline had fifteen folders on her desk, I flip to the next memo and take a closer look at the other files she’d requested. Rick Ferguson. Gary Seward. Those are the two nominees Nora told me about in the bowling alley. Including me, that’s three. Twelve more to go. The next eight are presidential appointees. That brings it to eleven. Pam’s was requested a while back. That’s twelve. Thirteen and fourteen are both judicial nominees-people I’ve never heard of. That leaves only one more name. I turn the page and look down, expecting it to be Simon. Sure enough, he’s there. But he’s not the only one. There’s an extra name on the last sheet.
My eyes go wide. I can’t believe it. I sit down on a box, the sheet trembling in my hand. Simon was right about one thing. I had it all backwards. That’s why Simon was clueless when I quizzed him about Nora. And why I couldn’t rip a hole in his alibi. And why… all this time… I had the wrong guy. Vaughn hit it right on the money. Nora was sleeping with the old man. I just had the wrong old man.
Caroline had requested a sixteenth file-a file that must’ve been snatched from her desk-snatched by the killer-so it was never seen by the FBI. That’s why he was never a suspect. I reread his name half a dozen times. The calmest among us. Lawrence Lamb.
A fit of nausea punches me in the throat and my chest caves in. The folder I’m holding sags to the floor. I don’t… I don’t believe it. It can’t be. And yet… that’s why I-And he-
I shut my eyes and clench my teeth. He knew I’d buy it-all he had to do was open the inner circle and wave a few perks. Fudge outside the Oval. Briefing the President. The chance to be the bigshot. Lamb knew I’d lick up every last drop. Including Nora. That was the cherry on top. And the more I relied on him, the less likely it became that I’d search things out for myself. That’s all he needed. That’s all I had. Blind faith.
Bent over, I’m still struggling to digest what’s running through my head. That’s why she brought me to see him. They gave me the list of suspects; I took it as fact. Without Vaughn, I never would’ve questioned it. There’s only one problem with the picture-it’s all coming together a bit too easily. From the box being up here, to the file being in its exact place… I can’t put my finger on it, but it feels a little too force-fed. It’s almost as if someone’s trying to help me. As if they want to be found out.
“I never meant to hurt you, Michael,” a voice whispers behind me.
I spin around, recognizing it immediately. Nora. “Is that the lie of the moment? Some maudlin disclaimer?”
She walks toward me. “I wouldn’t lie to you,” she says. “Not anymore.”
“Not anymore? That’s supposed to make me feel better? The first fifty things you told me were bullshit, but from here on in, it’s all sunshine?”
“It wasn’t bullshit.”
“It was, Nora! All of it was!”