“Agent Fuller,” Phillip said. “Come in. Is everything all right?”
“I was just about to leave for the day, Mr. President,” Brandon said. Phillip knew the young agent had been working through the night to tie up any loose ends of the various investigations. Although his eyes were still characteristically bright, his posture showed fatigue. “I thought I would check to make sure you’re all right.”
“That’s kind of you, Brandon, but not necessary. You should go home. Enjoy a little downtime. You’ve earned it.”
Brandon smiled and turned to go, but stopped. “For the record, Mr. President. I just want to say that, despite … well, everything … I’ve never been prouder to serve as a member of our nation’s law enforcement than I am serving your administration. I’m here for whatever you need, for as long as you need,” he said. He bowed his head and left the Oval Office, closing the door.
“Now,” Katherine said, “does that sound like someone who wants you to step down?”
Before Phillip could answer, there was another knock on the door, this one softer. Before he could say Come in, the door opened, and Charlotte’s bright face appeared.
“Daddy!” she said, running toward him, her backpack swishing behind her.
“How was school, cookie?” he asked as she jumped onto his lap.
“We learned about Thanksgiving, about the Indians and the Pilgrims. We’re doing a secret project to hang on the bulletin board for the month of November.”
“Thanksgiving? That’s one of my favorite holidays,” Phillip said.
“Mrs. Rienecker says that when the Pilgrims were really, really cold that the Indians gave them seeds and food.” Charlotte was rushing her words, as if to get all the information out in one breath. “And then the Pilgrims invited the Indians who helped them to dinner.”
“That’s right. From the start, our country was founded as a place where people could live and pray freely, and they learned how to help each other and accept each other’s differences.”
“And they had broccoli for lunch today. Ewww.” Charlotte tossed her backpack onto the floor. “Is Faith coming home soon?”
Phillip loved that Charlotte felt that the White House was Faith’s home as well as hers. He felt that way too. “Pretty soon,” Phillip said. “Where’s your brother?”
“He’s with Grandmother. When? When is Faith coming home?”
“Well, that’s hard to say.” Although Phillip hadn’t told his daughter the exact circumstances surrounding Jamie’s absence, that didn’t stop her from asking—when she woke up, during breakfast, on her way to school. She was as persistent as her mother. “It looks like she’s going to take some time off.”
“Again?” Charlotte said with a huff. She folded her arms.
Phillip smiled. “Yes, this time probably for about a month or so, so we’ll have to remember all the fun things we do so we can tell Faith when we see her again.” He kissed her cheek.
“Come, Charlotte. Let’s let your father do his job, while you do yours. Homework,” Katherine said, picking up her tablet.
“Awww!” Charlotte pouted. She picked up her backpack and reached for her mother’s hand, and the two of them left the Oval Office as Phillip returned to his desk.
The office was strangely quiet, perhaps the calm before the new storm. There was much to do—new staff to hire, postponed meetings to reschedule, briefings to study. He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out an old book he once kept in the bookcase of his office at the Executive Mansion in Albany. He opened to a middle page marked by an old Polaroid photo, taken during Family Day, of him and Bailino the day before their graduation from army boot camp. The two men had their arms around one another, their smiles wide. It was the last photo they had taken together, and one of the only.
He stared at the photo, which sparked the same memory of him and Bailino sitting in his hospital room at Walter Reed, watching Roseanne:
“Why do you like this show if you don’t think it’s funny?” Phillip had asked.
“There’s more to life than just laughs, Phil,” Bailino had said. “Why do I like it?” He shrugged. “It’s a reminder that shit ain’t perfect, but we do what we can.”
Phillip smiled at his young self and his best friend before closing them back inside the book for safekeeping and returning it to the drawer. The desk phone rang, and he answered it. “Yes, Janice.”
“Mr. President, I have the ambassador to the United Nations on the line.”
“Put her through,” Phillip said.
“And don’t forget your four o’clock with Mr. Walker from the Global Institute. He likes to arrive early.”
“I won’t, Janice, thanks,” he said, putting the phone receiver to his ear and leaning back in his chair. Shit might not be perfect, Phillip thought, but we do what we can. And, at least for now, that meant getting back to the business of being the president of the United States.
CHAPTER 42
Wilcox lifted the last box onto his desk and surveyed the walls of his home office. All that remained were a few files and the hanging mug shots of the men he had spent his life hunting down. He circled the room and, one by one, ripped them from their thumbtacks, placing them in the box. When he got to Bailino’s, he stared into the eyes of the man he had seen die before him at the assisted living facility, before removing the poster and laying it on his desk. He took a black Sharpie from the box and drew a big X through Bailino’s face. Then he put the poster inside the box with the others, taped the flaps of the box closed, and placed the box near the trash bin. Case closed.
He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He reached for a sparkling water, thought for a moment, and then opted instead for one of the bottles of beer his brother had left for him when he moved in. He twisted off the cap and took a slug, while surveying the boxes of candy and bottles of wine his colleagues at the FBI had sent him upon learning that Bailino had finally been taken down—the crowning jewel of a decades-long career and almost guaranteeing Wilcox’s unanimous confirmation by the U.S. Senate for FBI director.
He glanced out the window at Arlington’s bustling downtown. A neighboring building partially blocked the late-day sunlight, which cast a long shadow across Wilcox’s window, and he was reminded of Bailino’s dark silhouette inside the window of Room 343. Wilcox had been sure that Bailino had been taunting him, after managing to trick Phillip Grand into setting him free under the guise of saving Jamie and Faith Carter, but over the last twenty-four hours he had started to consider an alternate interpretation: that Bailino had been trying to help in some way—perhaps by maintaining visual contact with Wilcox, by helping to determine the whereabouts of ToniAnne Cataldi, or by ensuring the safety of little Faith Carter. Why else stand there, a bull’s-eye on his chest from more than a dozen rifle scopes? Wilcox tilted the bottle up, polished off the rest of the beer, and placed the bottle on the kitchen counter.
The truth was that after decades of playing psychological games with criminal minds, Wilcox didn’t know the answer. For all the hours, days, and weeks spent on surveillance, on listening in on other people’s lives, on building massive profiles for those who would harm others, the answer came down to an educated guess. And what if Bailino had been trying to help? Does one act of justice undo a lifetime of crime? Does it bring back the innocent people that Bailino had killed? Things aren’t always so black and white, Phillip Grand had told him. Maybe so, but, as a law enforcement agent, shouldn’t they have to be?
Wilcox opened his laptop on the kitchen counter. He clicked one of the icons at the bottom of the screen, which maximized his email client, clicked on Write, and started typing:
Dear Mr. President,
I am honored that you are considering me for the post of director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I have spent my professional life protecting the United States from all enemies, foreign and domestic, whether by terrorist attack, high-technology crime, or corruption at all levels. I know o
ur relationship has been complicated at times, but I have the highest regard for you both as a man and as the leader of the country that I love. However, after much deliberation, I am going to have to decline your generous offer. These responsibilities are no longer my business. They belong to the future. Simply stated, I’m going to try retirement for a while.
Sincerely, Paul Wilcox
He sent the email and closed his laptop. Then he picked up his cell phone, dialed, and placed the phone next to his ear.
“Do my eyes deceive me?” Randy said as soon as he picked up the other end of the line. “Is this the phone number of my long-lost brother, the toast of the FBI?”
“Very funny,” Wilcox said.
“What’s up, Paul?”
Wilcox hesitated. “I was wondering if the offer for dinner still stands.”
There was a pause. “Of course, it does,” Randy said. “It’s open-ended.”
Wilcox leaned against the window and looked out at the people on the ground below who were hurrying out of office buildings and getting into taxis, walking into clothing stores, and bars, people living their lives. “Great,” he said. “Now, tell me about this Bev person. Does she like fishing?”
CHAPTER 43
It took three tries for the old German lady to get her landlord key into Bob’s door before it opened. Her hands shook so much that they were rattling his patience, and he was about to ask her if she needed carpel tunnel surgery when the metal key slid into its grooved sleeve, and the lock opened. He rushed inside, pulling his wheeled luggage behind him.
“Next time, you remember your key, eh?” she said, handing him his mail. She looked around the place as if she were inspecting it. She frowned when she saw the brown, wilting leaves of the ficus tree in the corner of his living room.
“Yes, yes, I will, Mrs. Estabauer,” Bob said, dropping the mail on a side table. He couldn’t remember what he had done with his keys. He had left his apartment in such a rush after that bastard Bailino cornered him. Last he remembered, they were in his hand.
The old woman pointed to the kitchen counter. “Dere day are,” she said, with a shake of her head.
“Ah, yes, that’s right,” Bob said with a dismissive wave as if remembering they were there but actually had no recollection of putting them there. He put down the Chinese food he was holding, picked them up, and put them in his pocket, tapping them lightly with his hand. “Won’t forget ’em next time … Oh, and before you go …” He dug his hand into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “I have this month’s rent.”
“’Bout time,” the old woman said, holding out her palm.
Bob had the urge to throw the money at her pinched expression, but now that he was back in the news and the money would be rolling in again, he planned on leaving this rent-controlled shithole and buying something in Manhattan. Until then, he needed this rent-controlled shithole, so he placed the bills gently into her palm. When he was finished, the old bat had the nerve to start counting them.
“It’s all there, no worries,” he said, ushering her out the door and closing it with a soft click. The old kraut would probably be out there for another twenty minutes with those arthritic fingers of hers.
Bob stood with his back against the door as if bracing for impact and glanced around his apartment. The last few days had been a whirlwind, and if he played his cards right the days ahead would continue to be. Heading down to D.C. on Sunday had been an even better idea than he thought. He opened the brown paper bag he put on the table with the chicken lo mein from the Chinese place down the block, and his cell phone rang. Bob looked at the caller ID and picked up on the second ring. He cleared his throat.
“Robert Scott,” he said, adding, “Esquire.”
He held the phone to his ear with his shoulder and locked the apartment door, before Ms. Estabauer had any thoughts about coming back in.
“Yes, I was with the FBI when the arrest was made of Jamie Carter …Yes, I would be happy to speak to that …Yes … A bestseller … Yes, it was … I am thinking about it … Yes, I was on the inaugural roundtable. How did you get my number again?”
Bob listened as the woman on the other end of the line detailed their first meeting nearly five years before, when his first book had gone to auction. “Ah, yes, I do remember,” he said, even though he didn’t. “The roundtable? Yes, the president and I are very close … Shaped lots of new legislation together … Yes, that would be an interesting perspective … All right, when would you need me? … Let me check my calendar. Would you mind emailing me the request so I have it in writing? … Perfect. Thank you … And I look forward to seeing you again as well.”
He hung up the phone and pumped his fist into the air. That had been the third call that day alone from a large publisher looking to work with him on another book. What a bunch of sheep these publishers were—all of them scouring the same news feeds for the latest natural disaster or murder spree. Not that Bob cared. Things couldn’t have gone better if he had planned them—the consultation with Wilcox, the arrest of Jamie, the arrest of Bailino, the kidnapping, and, finally, the death of Don Bailino, the pièce de résistance. And with Bailino out of the way, Bob could really write whatever the hell he wanted in the next book about their interaction—who would dispute it?
He reached for a fork from the dishrack, twirled it into a lump of lo mein, and smiled. He had managed to outfox one of the most wanted criminals in American organized crime. After the book tour, Bob was sure he’d be asked to lecture and even teach a course. He imagined an entire wall devoted to him at the Mob Museum in Vegas, right next to Eliot Ness.
“Thank you, you fuckin’ prick,” he said, hoisting his fork into the air. He remembered the way Bailino had barged into his apartment, thinking he had the upper hand, the smug look on his face, the damn bully. “May you rot in hell, you son of a bitch.” He shoved the loaded fork into his mouth.
He wolfed down the rest of the lo mein, threw the container into the garbage, picked up his carry-on, and wheeled his suitcase into the bedroom. He unzipped the suitcase, swooped up his dirty clothing with his hands, and dumped it into a pile onto the floor, making a note to himself to start interviewing for assistants. He rummaged through his closet, found his lucky purple suit, which still had the dry cleaning plastic over it, and laid it over a chair. He pulled out a pair of shoes, clean socks and underwear, and placed them neatly beside the suit. He had to be at the Good Morning America offices at the crack of dawn for hair and makeup—the car that the producers were sending for him was supposed to arrive at 4:00 a.m. He looked at his watch; he had exactly four hours to get some sleep before he had to take a shower.
He ran into the bathroom, turned on the cold-water faucet, and looked in the mirror. Damn, he looked good. That’s what triumph did for a guy. He felt so good that he thought he might even give Jamie a call this week, maybe give her a chance to get back with him. That was the last thing he wanted, but the pairing would make for a great story: Two heroes reunited following the death of the villain. The publicity might be worth the boredom, and plus her kid needed some kind of male role model. Edward was too much of a dud. He would think it over.
He took off the clothes he was wearing and tossed them on the floor with the rest of his laundry and stood naked in the center of the room, wondering if he had time to call the book club chick for a quick romp in the hay. He decided against it—he didn’t want to look flushed for the cameras—and turned on the television, thinking maybe he could catch the replay of his CNN appearance. A commercial was playing. He reached into his carry-on, set a 3:30 alarm on his cell phone, and placed the phone on his nightstand. He sat on the bed just as the news anchor appeared on screen and began talking about the end of the American organized crime scene, a photo of Bailino appearing on screen.
“Good riddance, you son of a bitch,” Bob said with a satisfied smile and threw his head back onto his pillow, setting off the explosive device stowed under his bed.
CHAPTER 44
Jamie placed the shovel and gardening gloves into her tote bag. She rotated her shoulder, which ached, and rubbed the bandage with her hand.
“I think this needs more water, Momma!” Faith called. The little girl was pawing at the dirt where Jamie had planted the daffodil bulbs.
“Okay, you can give it a tiny bit of water, Faithy, but not too much.”
The little girl grabbed the handle of the watering can and poured a few more drops. “There, perfect,” she said as Lucky sniffed around the dirt. “When will they grow, Momma?”
“In the spring, sweetie. We’ll come back to check on them.”
The little girl stared at the mound of dirt with concern. “Will he be cold?” she asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” Jamie said with a smile. “I think he’ll be happy here.”
Jamie surveyed the acres of land that had once housed the Upackk facility. Over the past six weeks, people had been trickling onto the property to wrap trees with yellow ribbons. Jamie assumed they were the people Bailino had helped over the years—to find a job, get out of prison, go to rehab. They were the people who didn’t see him as a criminal, or if they did they didn’t care, and because there had been no public funeral, as per Bailino’s wishes, perhaps people needed a place to mourn. “I think this is the perfect spot,” she said.
Faith put her hand on her hips and gave the area a once-over. “Me too, and I think Lucky thinks so too.” The dog curled herself into a ball and sat on the mound of fresh dirt.
Jamie had thought long and hard about where Bailino’s final resting place should be. He had amended his last will and testament in 2014, just before he had been shipped off to Stanton Federal Correction Facility. His only stipulation was that he be “cremated with his remains to be buried near his children.” At the time, Joey Santelli had been alive and well and attending MIT, instead of where he was now—buried in a plot beside his mother and grandfather in Queens. Had Bailino died in prison, perhaps it would have been ToniAnne Cataldi making the decision about his final resting place, but that wasn’t to be, and if Jamie hadn’t intervened, Bailino would have probably ended up in a pauper’s lot or public cemetery—or in a dumpster somewhere, if NYPD had had its say. Often with the death of a criminal—particularly one as well known as Bailino—there was worry about vandalism or a public backlash with the remains. Ironically, the only people looking to desecrate Bailino’s grave were probably the ones who were supposed to protect it—law enforcement officers, who had no love for the man who had killed some of their own. Although Jamie had considered burying Bailino near Joey Santelli, she chose instead to lay his remains on the property near the factory he had loved. Only she—and perhaps Lucky—would know the location of the unmarked grave. Even in death, Don Bailino would be evading the police. He would have liked that.
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