The First Lady

by James Patterson

  “But to mark our mourning,” he says quietly, “we are to use the reverse side of the shovel to show that what once was is now turned upside down.”

  There are sobs and some whispered conversations, and one by one, Ben’s friends and relatives come up, and when there’s a pause, I lead Amelia to the pile of old volumes. She picks one up and carefully places it in the open grave, and then I take the shovel and—following the lead of others—toss in three shovelfuls of dirt, the blade upside down.

  I then bring Amelia’s hands up, and with a sharp whisper she says, “I can do it by myself,” which breaks my heart again, and clumsily, but with strength I didn’t know she had, she matches my three shovelfuls of dirt with her own.

  Then we step aside.

  A dual line forms and mourners pass through, and most ignore me, although Amelia does come in for some special attention. I’m dreading going back to the synagogue, for a large meal has been prepared, and I must continue to play my part as the evil grieving widow. My sister Gwen, as loyal as ever, sticks with me as the mourners dribble away, and then Scotty comes up to me with a grim look on his face.

  “Boss … I hate to do this to you, but we need to head back to the White House.”

  “But … Amelia, I sure as hell can’t.”

  Gwen steps forward, arm around me, hugging me. My younger sister, whose hair is graying out and who has fine lines around her bright blue eyes, all from her job at the Puzzle Palace over at Fort Meade, deciphering and interpreting horrible secrets that should forever remain secret.

  “I’ll take care of Amelia,” she says.

  “Gwen … I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  “Don’t fret,” she says. “I got some time coming to me. It’ll be just me and your little firecracker, until the parental units and sister Kate show up. I’ll host ’em until things get straightened out.”

  My throat thickens and the tears come, and in the middle of this cemetery with the gravestones with Hebrew lettering and the Star of David, I give her a long, long hug. She whispers to me, “Always got your back, big sis, remember that. Always.”

  I pull away and we exchange cheek kisses, and Gwen says to my daughter, “Hey, Amelia, how about spending some time with your nutty aunt Gwen?”

  Amelia looks up to her. “You live where there’s an indoor pool, right?”

  Gwen says, “That’s right, sport.”

  “I’d like to go swimming. But I don’t have a suit.”

  Gwen takes her hand. “We’ll get you a suit, I promise.”

  The two of them start walking away, and I realize I haven’t even said good-bye to Amelia, when Scotty gets my attention.

  “What the hell’s going on?” I ask. “Have they found …”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. Take a look.”

  He flips his large iPhone on its side so I can read the screaming headline from the Washington Post:

  FIRST LADY REPORTED MISSING; MAY HAVE DROWNED AT HORSE FARM

  I swear and Scotty grabs my arm, and we start to run out of the cemetery as dirt continues to be shoveled into my husband’s grave.

  CHAPTER 50

  PARKER HOYT HEARS a burst of loud voices outside of his office, with Mrs. Glynn coming in loud and clear with, “You can’t go in there!” and sure enough, Special Agent Sally Grissom slams the door open, pushes her way through, and slams the door behind her.

  “Agent Grissom,” he says, “what a not-so-pleasant surprise. Sorry to hear about the death of your husband … shouldn’t you be with your daughter?”

  She strolls forward, face twisted with fury, and Parker has a momentary lapse into fear—after all, this crazed woman is armed—but she stops at his clean desk and slaps down a sheet of paper.

  “I just got this off the wire downstairs,” she says. “News flash from a ‘highly placed administration source,’ about the First Lady being missing and presumed drowned. That source was you, you son of a bitch.”

  Parker doesn’t even acknowledge the paper before him. “Why are you here, Agent Grissom? You should be taking the rest of the week off.”

  “Why? Why the news leak?”

  “Sit down.”

  “I like standing.”

  “My office, my rules,” he says. “Park it.”

  She slowly takes an empty chair, and Parker feels once more that little thrill, of bending someone else’s will to his own. He says, “Is there anything inaccurate in that news flash?”

  “Anything? The whole damn thing is inaccurate. You don’t know if she’s drowned or not.”

  “And neither do you,” he says. “Your agency, which managed to lose the First Lady two days ago, has come up with exactly nothing. Zero. Zip. Even when you somehow bribed Homeland Security to come in and help, all you did was find some poor drowned homeless woman a couple of miles downstream.”

  Her teeth are clenched as she says, “That’s not true. We found the note, we found the panic button, and—”

  “The note and panic button? A groom from the horse farm could have found that. Or some birdwatcher. Or fisherman. No, the great and mighty Secret Service, upon losing their protectee, hasn’t been able to do squat these past two days. Zero. So now it’s time to change the playing field and players.”

  Grissom picks up the sheet of paper with the printed news bulletin on it and crumples it in her hand. “By leaking this crap?”

  “Exactly,” he says. “Before, it was you and your agents, and Homeland Security, trying to keep it secret, trying to keep it lowkey. That approach didn’t work.”

  “That was your approach, not mine,” she protests.

  “And it didn’t work,” he says. “FDR once had a process of trying something, and if it didn’t work out, he dumped it and tried something new. That’s what I did. The quiet approach didn’t work. Now, in a few hours, the FBI will be all over this, along with thousands upon thousands of concerned citizens who will join the hunt—without even being asked—for their beloved First Lady.”

  Grissom says, “You still think she’s in hiding, trying to humiliate the President. And if you make it a big production and find her hiding someplace, then all of the bad news from Atlanta will go away.”

  Parker thinks Grissom is way too smart to stay within the Secret Service, but she’s not dark enough where it counts—in her soul—to truly figure out what’s going on. “If that happens, the President and I will be thrilled. She will be found, safe. And if she isn’t in hiding … if something else is going on, well, again, besides the full force and fury of federal investigative agencies, the American public will be helping us as well.”

  Grissom says, “And what about the Secret Service?”

  Parker smiles. “Come now, Agent Grissom, you’ve had your forty-eight hours and a chance to shine. It’s time for competent adults to step forward.”

  She says, “You … if you’re so damn competent, did you know the First Lady was …”

  The Secret Service agent stops talking. Parker waits. “Go on,” he says. “Finish your sentence. Did I know what about the First Lady?”

  Grissom sits there, stubbornly, and for God’s sake, again there are raised voices outside and Mrs. Glynn says, “You can’t go in there, he’s in a very important meeting,” and sure enough the door opens up and a man in uniform steps in, eyes wide, face pale. He has on black trousers, a white dress shirt with gold badge, and black necktie, and Parker recognizes him as one of the many faceless members of the uniformed Secret Service, out there on the perimeter of the White House grounds manning the gate booths and kiosks.

  There’s something in his hand.

  Parker says, “What’s going on? Who are you and what do you want?”

  The man ignores Parker and goes right to Grissom. “Supervisor Grissom,” he says, voice strained. “You need to see this.”

  She stands up and says, “What is it?”

  “You need to take a look,” he says, handing over the package. Parker sees it’s a large, clear plastic bag containin
g a standard business-size manila envelope. “This was dropped off at the South Gate about ten minutes ago.”

  Grissom says, “Gloves?”

  “Right here, ma’am,” he says, and from a rear pants pocket he passes over a pair of light-blue latex gloves and she snaps them on.

  “What is it?”

  The agent swallows, his voice tight with anxiety. “It’s a human finger.”

  CHAPTER 51

  I’M TIRED, EXHAUSTED, fighting tears in front of this confident and horrible man, and I realize I’ve slipped up in almost asking him if he knew what I knew—namely, that the First Lady had expressed her love to another man.

  Parker looks like he wants to fight me over that incomplete sentence, and while I’m not saved by the bell, I’m saved by the arrival of one of my Uniformed Division guys, an ex-Marine named Stephenson.

  I can barely hear what he’s saying, but I’m staring at the plastic bag marked EVIDENCE with black-and-red letters and those four words—It’s a human finger—bore into my skull like four separate high-speed drills. On the top of the envelope is a row of lines, and on the first line is Agent Stephenson’s name, and I ink in my own name below his, keeping the chain of evidence.

  Parker says, “Holy God, do you think that’s—”

  “Shut up,” I tell him. “I’m working.”

  I slowly open the adhesive flap to the plastic bag. “Who dropped it off at the South Gate?”

  “One of the homeless guys that hangs out in Lafayette Park, a character called Gregory. He’s been there for years, a regular, but we’re still interrogating him.”

  “How did he get it?”

  “Another homeless guy passed it on to Gregory, with a twenty-dollar bill, and told him to bring it to us. Gregory didn’t recognize the other guy. It was a cut-out operation.”

  “Sure was,” I say, removing the manila envelope from the plastic evidence bag. There’s the slightest lump about midway down the envelope. “Who else knows about this?”

  “Just me, ma’am,” he says. “I … opened it up and saw what was inside, and then I came straight here, looking for you.”

  Parker says, “What are you waiting for? Open the damn thing up!”

  Luckily his desk is clear. I put the evidence bag down and reopen the nine-by-twelve envelope. The adhesive hasn’t been used, which means whoever prepared this was at least smart enough not to lick it shut and leave DNA evidence behind.

  I peer into the envelope, maneuvering it so one of Parker’s office lamps is illuminating the interior. Inside there’s a single sheet of paper and there appears to be block typesetting on it.

  I ignore that for now.

  There’s a small plastic sandwich bag, and there’s something pink contained within. I take a breath and reach in and pull out the bag, rest it on top of Parker’s clean desk.

  It’s the last joint of a finger, perhaps the pinky finger. The nail is colored a light red, and there’s a bloody piece of gauze wrapped around the severed end.

  Parker seems frozen in his chair, hand held up to his mouth.

  “See, ma’am?” Stephenson says. “That’s what I saw.”

  The skin is still pink, which means the joint was severed not too long ago. I say, “Stephenson, whatever happened at the South Gate never happened. Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good,” I say. “You have another bag or container with you?” He fumbles in his pocket, takes out a small plastic bag with a pill in it. “My antacid pill,” he says with a touch of an apology in his voice. “Haven’t taken it yet.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re all pretty busy, aren’t we,” I say. With my latex-covered fingers, I pick up the severed finger, and after Stephenson swallows his pill dry, I put the joint into his bag. I dig into my handbag, pull out my business card, then scribble my name, date, and the time on it, and slip it into the bag.

  I say, “You’re to leave here, not talk to anyone, and take that to Gil Foster, over at the Technical Security Division. Not particularly in his wheelhouse, but tell him what’s going on, he’ll get it to the right person, and he’ll confirm what we suspect through our fingerprint records.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” and he’s out of Parker Hoyt’s office as fast as he came in. When he’s gone, Parker says, “What else is in the envelope?”

  I slide out the sheet of paper, and Parker gets up from his chair and walks around, and we both read the note with its ink-printed letters:

  WE HAVE THE FIRST LADY. SHE HASN’T DROWNED.

  FOR HER SAFE RELEASE

  A. DEPOSIT $100 MILLION IN CENTRAL BANK OF CARACAS, ACCOUNT HPL 0691959, ACCESS CODE B14789, WITHIN THE NEXT TWELVE HOURS

  B. HARRISON TUCKER TO MAKE PUBLIC SPEECH IN 24 HOURS TO APOLOGIZE FOR WHAT HE DID TO HER

  C. SHE WILL THEN BE RELEASED ALIVE. ANYTHING ELSE OCCURS, HER BODY WILL BE RELEASED SO THAT SHE CAN BE BURIED WITH HER FINGER.

  I sense Parker is trembling from looking at the note, and I say, “Guess she’s not in hiding, Mr. Hoyt.”

  CHAPTER 52

  HOYT GOES AROUND the desk and sits down, and damn the man, he seems to pull it all together in those five seconds and once more is in charge. “Very well, Agent Grissom, I’ll take it from here.”

  If the cold bastard had told me I had just been appointed ambassador to Iceland, I wouldn’t have been more surprised. “Take what from here? What are you talking about? We need to work this!”

  “What do you mean by we, Agent Grissom?” he says smugly. “This is a kidnapping, pure and simple. That falls under the jurisdiction of the FBI. I’ll be contacting them presently to start the investigative process.”

  “It’ll take them at least a day to get brought up to speed,” I say. “We can’t afford to wait that long. You know it, I know it … the First Lady is in extreme danger.”

  “And that’s why the FBI is going to handle the investigation. Not a handful of bumbling Secret Service agents.”

  My heart is pounding so hard with anger that I can feel it in my neck. “You slimy son of a bitch—two days ago we weren’t bumbling. Two days ago you and the President ordered me to investigate the First Lady’s disappearance, and you made it quite explicit what we were to do.”

  He leans back in his chair, hands folded quietly over his belly. “I don’t quite understand what you’re saying, Agent Grissom.”

  The hot fear that’s been coursing through me has been dizzyingly replaced with cold horror. “Don’t even say that, Mr. Hoyt.”

  He shrugs. “I seem to recall a brief meeting in the Oval Office two days ago, when you expressed concern about the First Lady’s whereabouts. I also recall you saying that you knew where she was, that it would all turn out fine, and that was that.”

  “You ordered me to look for her! You ordered me to do it quietly and without public attention!”

  He says with a cool, smooth voice, “Do you have any of that in writing, Agent Grissom? A memo? An email? A little handwritten note from the President on a slip of paper?”

  I clench my fists. “You can’t get away with this. You won’t.”

  “Let’s recap,” he says. “The past several years haven’t been good for the Secret Service, now, have they? Drunken agents. Prostitution scandals. The White House being shot up and no one noticing for a couple of days. Now we have an incompetent trio of agents who’ve lost track of the most important woman in the United States. A trio who’ve been supervised by a flighty, emotional woman who’s going through a bitter divorce … and whose husband has just been murdered.”

  I’m biting the inside of my cheek, trying to keep my self-control, and Mr. Hoyt says, “And that’s the narrative, Agent Grissom. Reporters don’t do news stories anymore. They report on details that reinforce the narrative. And which narrative are they going to believe? The President’s or yours?”

  It’s so quiet and empty in this large office that I feel like I’ve entered into some kind of tomb or mausoleum.

  “The President’s narrative migh
t not work,” I point out. “He’s had a few rough days lately.”

  “And so have you, Agent Grissom. Do you really want the extra attention you and your daughter would receive by going public?”

  Bastard, I think, cold, cold bastard.

  I say, “Are you going to pay the ransom?”

  “Up to the FBI and the President.”

  “And the televised apology?”

  “Up to me … and the President.”

  With that chilly phrase, I know there’s no way that Parker Hoyt is going to allow the President to grovel like that on national television.

  Which means the First Lady is a dead woman.

  And …

  From Parker Hoyt’s calm gaze, I have a sharp blow of understanding.

  A dead First Lady is an outcome that Parker Hoyt is hoping for, to take away from the “Ambush in Atlanta,” weeks before the election.

  He says, “I have a lot of work to do, Agent Grissom. So please show yourself out.”

  I’ve been dismissed. With Ben’s death and burial, and with this meeting, and seeing the severed finger of the First Lady, it feels like I’m slowly being filled with hydrogen, about to float away, one spark away from total destruction.

  I get up.

  I can’t think, can’t plan, can only move.

  Can only listen.

  He calls out, “Agent Grissom, a suggestion? Cash in your life insurance policy or your retirement savings and hire the best lawyer you can find. You’re going to need it.”

  I get to the door, open it, and then a thought comes to me.

  I turn and say, “Mr. Hoyt? A suggestion. Get the best Kevlar protective vest you can afford and start wearing it. You’re going to need it.”

  Then I leave.

  CHAPTER 53