by Brad Meltzer
True to form, the announcement comes at exactly five-thirty. I hold my breath as Press Secretary Emmy Goldfarb does a quick rundown of the facts: Early this morning, Caroline Penzler was found dead in her office of a heart attack caused by coronary artery disease. As she says the words, I once again start breathing. Keeping the explanation short and sweet, Goldfarb turns it over to Dr. Leon Welp, a heart specialist from Georgetown Medical Center, who explains that Caroline had a hysterectomy a few years ago, which made her prematurely experience menopause. Combine the drop in estrogen with heavy smoking, and you’ve got a quick recipe for a heart attack.
Before anyone can ask a question, the President himself comes out to do the regrets. Its a masterstroke by the Press Office. Forget the hows and whys, let’s get to the emotion. I can practically taste the subtext: Our leader. A man who takes care of his own.
I hate election years.
As the President grasps the podium in two tight fists, I can’t help but see the resemblance to Nora. The black hair. The piercing eyes. The reckless jaw. Always in control. Before he opens his mouth, we all know what’s going to come out: “It’s a dark day; she’ll be sorely missed; our prayers go out to her family.” Nothing suspicious; nothing to worry about. He tops it all off with a quick brush of his eye—he’s not crying, but it’s just enough to make us think that if he had a moment to himself, he might.
From Goldfarb, to the doctor, to the President, they all do their specialty. All I notice is that there’s no mention of an investigation. Of course, the family has requested an autopsy, but Goldfarb spins it as a hope to help others with similar ailments. Brilliant touch. Just to be safe, though, the autopsy’s set for Sunday, which means it won’t be the topic of the weekend talk shows, and if the results show it’s a murder, it’ll be too late for the major magazines to make it a cover story. For at least two days, I’m safe. I try to tell myself that it may be over—that it’ll all go away—but like Nora said, I’m a terrible liar.
Dinnertime comes and goes, and I still don’t move from the couch. My stomach is screaming, but I can’t stop flipping through channels. I have to be sure. I need to know no one is using those words: Suspicion. Foul Play. Murder.
The thing is, there’s no mention of it anywhere. Whatever Adenauer and the FBI have found, they’re keeping it to themselves. Relieved, I lean my head back on my rent-a-couch and finally accept that it’s going to be a quiet night.
There’s a loud knock on my door.
“Who is it?” I ask.
There’s no answer. They just bang harder.
“Who is it?” I repeat, raising my voice.
Nothing.
I move quickly from the couch and head toward the door. Along the way, I pick up an umbrella that’s hanging on the knob of the coat closet. It’s a pathetically bad weapon, but it’s the best I’ve got. Slowly, I bring my eye to the peephole and get a look at my imagined enemy. Pam.
Undoing the locks, I pull open the door. She’s holding her briefcase in one hand and a blue plastic shopping bag in the other. Her eyes go right to the umbrella. “Nervous much?”
“I didn’t know who it was.”
“So that’s what you grab? You’ve got a kitchen full of steak knives and you grab an umbrella? What’re you going to do? Keep-me-dry to death?” She shoots me a warm smile and holds up the blue bag. “Now, c’mon, how about inviting me in? I brought Thai food.”
I move out of her way and she steps inside. “And you call me the Boy Scout?” I ask.
“Just hold this,” she adds, handing me her briefcase and heading for the kitchen. Before I can react, she’s rummaging through cabinets and drawers, collecting plates and silverware. When she has what she needs, she moves to the small dining area outside the kitchen and unloads three cartons of Thai food from the blue bag. Dinner is served.
Confused, I’m still standing by the door. “Pam, can I ask you a question?”
“As long as you make it quick. I’m starving.”
“What’re you doing here?”
She looks up from the Pad Thai and her expression changes. “Here?” she asks. Her voice is hurt, almost pained. “I was worried about you.”
Her answer catches me off guard. It’s almost too honest. I take a step toward the dining room table and return her smile. She really is a good friend. And we can both use the company. “I appreciate what you’re doing.”
“You should’ve called me earlier.”
“I tried all afternoon, but you weren’t there.”
“That’s because the FBI was questioning me for two hours. We do share an office, y’know.”
Right there, I lose my appetite. “What’d you say to them?”
“I answered their questions. They asked me what Caroline was working on, and I told them everything I knew.”
“Did you tell them about me and Nora?”
“There’s nothing to tell,” she says with a grin. “I don’t know anything, Mr. Agent. I just remember him leaving the office.”
As I said, she’s a good friend. “Did they ask you a lot of questions about me?”
“They’re suspicious, but I don’t think they have a clue. They just told me to take the rest of the night off. Now do you want to tell me what’s really going on?”
I’m tempted, but decide against it.
“I know you’re in trouble, Michael. I can see it in your face.”
I keep my eyes focused on the Pad Thai. There’s no reason to get her involved.
“No matter what you’re thinking, you can’t do this one alone. I mean, Nora’s already hung you out to dry, hasn’t she? Nothing’s going to change that. The only question now is whether you’re going to be too stubborn to ask for help.” She reaches over and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’d never betray your loyalty, Michael. If I wanted to see you drown, I would’ve done it already.”
“Done what?”
“Told them what I think.”
“Which is?”
“I think you and Nora ran into something you weren’t supposed to. And whatever it was, it’s got you thinking there’s more to Caroline’s heart attack than what they put in the press release.”
I don’t respond.
“You think someone killed her, don’t you?”
All I can do is stay with the Pad Thai.
“We can get out of this, Michael,” she promises. “Just tell me who it was. What’d you see? You don’t have to keep it all to yoursel—”
“Simon,” I whisper.
“What?”
“It’s Simon,” I repeat. “I know it sounds nuts, but that’s who we saw last night.” Once the gates open, it doesn’t take long for me to tell her the whole story. Losing the Secret Service. Finding the bar. Trailing Simon. Getting caught with the money. By the time I’m done, I have to admit I feel the weight lift. There’s nothing worse than being alone.
Slowly wiping her mouth with a napkin, Pam’s still processing the information. “You think he murdered her?”
“I don’t know what to think. I’ve barely had a second to catch my breath.”
She shakes her head at me. “You’re in trouble, Michael. This is Simon we’re talking about.” She says something else, but I don’t hear it. All I notice is that ‘we’ has once again become ‘me.’
My fork slips from my hand and crashes against my plate. Jolted by the noise, I’m back where I started. “So you’re not going to help?”
“N-no, of course not,” she stutters, looking down. “I’ll definitely help.”
Biting the inside of my lip, all I want to do is accept the offer. But the more I watch her pick at her food . . . I’m not getting her into this—especially when I’m still struggling with how to get out. “I appreciate the ear, but—”
“It’s okay, Michael, I know what I’m doing.”
“No, you—”
“I do,” she interrupts, growing more confident. “I didn’t come here to let you fly alone.” Pausing a moment, she adds, “We’ll get
you out of this.”
On my face, I show her a smile, but deep down, I’m praying she’s right. “I was thinking of pulling Simon’s and Caroline’s FBI files. Maybe that’ll tell us why he—”
“Forget about their files,” she says. “I think we should go straight to the FBI and—”
“No!” I blurt, catching us both by surprise. “I’m sorry . . . I just . . . I’ve already seen the results of that one. I open my mouth and Simon opens his.”
“But if you tell them—”
“Who do you think they’re going to believe—the Counsel to the President or the young associate who got nabbed with ten grand in his glove compartment? Besides, the moment I start singing, I wreck my life. The vultures and their news vans’ll be sniffing through every piece of dirty laundry they can find.”
“You’re worried about your dad?”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
She doesn’t answer. Clearing her plate from the table, she replies, “I still don’t think you can just sit on this and hope it goes away.”
“I’m not sitting on it—I just . . . you should’ve heard Simon today. Quiet’s going to be what keeps me around . . .” I pause as it once again knocks the wind out of me. “That’s all I have, Pam. Stay quiet and start searching. Anything else is just throwing myself to the wolves.” Letting the logic make the point, I add, “Also, let’s not forget the backdrop here: A scandal like this is a wrecking ball for the reelection. I guarantee that’s why the FBI is keeping things so hush-hush.”
Her silence lets me know I’m right. I pick up my own plate and follow her to the kitchen. Pam’s pouring half of her food into the garbage disposal. Another lost appetite.
Without turning around, Pam asks, “What about Nora?”
I take a nervous sip of water. “What about her?”
“What’s she going to do to help you? I mean, if she wasn’t such a freakshow, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“It’s not all her fault. Her life isn’t as easy as you think.”
“Not as easy?” Pam asks, facing me. She gives me a long, steady look, then quickly rolls her eyes. “Oh, no,” she groans. “You’re going to try and save her now, aren’t you . . . ?”
“It’s not that I want to save her . . .”
“You just have to, right? That’s the way it always is.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“I know why you do it, Michael; I even admire why you do it . . . but just because you couldn’t help your dad . . .”
“This has nothing to do with my dad!”
She lets the outburst go, knowing it’ll calm me down. In the silence, I take a breath. Sure, I grew up being protective of my father, but that doesn’t mean I’m protective of everyone. And with Nora, it’s . . . it’s different.
“It’s a wonderful instinct, Michael, but this isn’t like what you did with Trey. Nora’s not going to be as easy to cover up.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“You don’t have to play dumb—Trey told me how the two of you met: about how he came into your office looking for help.”
“He didn’t need help; he just wanted some advice.”
“C’mon, now—he was caught painting devil beards and monocles on Dellinger’s campaign posters, then got arrested for destruction of property. He was terrified to bring it to his boss . . .”
“He wasn’t arrested,” I clarify. “All it was was a citation. The whole thing was just harmless fun, and more important, it was on his own time—it wasn’t like he was acting for the campaign.”
“Still, when he came in, you barely knew him; he was just a face from around headquarters . . . which means you certainly didn’t have to call in any favors from your law school buddies at the DA’s Office.”
“I didn’t do anything illegal . . .”
“I’m not saying you did, but you didn’t have to run to his rescue either.”
I shake my head. She doesn’t understand. “Pam, don’t make more of it than it is. Trey needed help, and he found me.”
“No,” she blurts, her voice rising. “He found you because he needed help.” Watching me carefully, she adds, “For better or worse, we all have our reputations here.”
“So what does that have to do with Nora?”
“Just what I said: helping Trey, and your dad, and your friends, and everyone else who needs a rescue, doesn’t mean you can pull it off with Nora. Not to mention the fact that if you’re not careful, she’ll let you take the fall alone.”
I think back to last night and the way Nora’s voice cracked as she apologized. The way she said it . . . her chin quivering . . . she’d never let me fall alone. “If she’s staying quiet now, it’s gotta be for a reason.”
“For a reason?” Pam asks. I can read it in the creases of her forehead. She thinks I’m starstruck. “Now you’re being plain stupid.”
“I’m sorry—that’s how I see it.”
“Well, regardless of how blind you want to be, you still need her help. She’s the only one who can corroborate your story about Simon.”
I nod, trying not to dwell on why she wouldn’t see me today. “When everything calms down, I bet she comes through.”
“Why do I have such a hard time believing that?”
“Because you don’t like her.”
“I could care less about her—I’m just worried about you.”
“Don’t worry, she’s not going to let us down.”
“I hope you’re right,” Pam says. “Because if she does, you’re going to be free-falling without a parachute. And before you can blink, you’re going to taste every second of that impact.”
• • •
For financial reasons, Saturday morning means only two of my four newspapers are sitting outside my door. Even as a lawyer, government salaries only go so far. Regardless, the ritual’s pretty much the same. Pulling the papers inside, I stare down at Bartlett’s second consecutive day in the front photo—a beaming shot of him and his wife at their son’s soccer game. Flipping the paper over, I scour the Post’s below-the-fold, front-page story on Caroline’s death and search for my name. It’s not there. Not yet.
Instead, I get a recap of her death, followed by a quick sketch of what a good friend Caroline was to the First Lady. According to the quote under the old photo of the two friends, the relationship changed Caroline’s life. Looking at the picture, I can see why. Caroline’s the law student, all wide-eyed and passionate in her cheap blouse and wrinkled skirt; Mrs. Hartson is her supervisor—the sparkling director of Parkinson’s fund-raising in her white Miami power suit. A friendship ended by a heart attack. Please let it just be a heart attack.
• • •
On the Saturday morning drive downtown, as I approach the White House, Pennsylvania Avenue is packed with joggers and bicyclists trying to leave the work week behind. Behind them, the sun is gleaming off the mansion’s ivory columns. It’s the kind of sight that makes you want to spend the whole day outside. That is, unless you can’t get your mind off work.
I pull up to the first checkpoint before the Southwest Appointment Gate and flash my ID to a uniformed Secret Service officer. He glances at my photo and offers me a subtle smirk. In his right hand, he’s holding what looks like a pool cue with a round unbreakable mirror attached to the end of it. Without a word, he runs the mirror below the car. No bombs, no surprise guests. Knowing the rest of the ritual, I pop my rear hatch. The first officer rummages through the back of my Jeep, as I notice a second officer standing on the side with a way-too-alert German shepherd. When my car’s finally parked, they’ll send the dog sniffing on an hourly basis. Right now, they wave me in.
I find an open spot on State Place, right outside the steel bars of the gate. At my level, that’s the best parking I can get. Outside the gate. Still, at least I have a parking pass.
Traveling the rest of the way on foot, I cross inside the gate, swipe my badge at the turnstile, and wait for the lock to click. I wal
k past two more guards, neither of whom gives me a second look. As I glance over my shoulder, however, I notice the officer with the mirror on the other side of the gate. Through the bars, he’s staring straight at me. Smirk still on his face.
Picking up speed, I head up the sidewalk, with the OEOB on my left and the West Wing on my right. The corridor between the two is lined with Mercedes, Jaguars, Saabs, and just enough beat-up Saturns to stave off elitist guilt. The most prestigious parking lot in the city. All of it inside the gate. An island unto itself, West Exec parking is also where the hierarchy of White House command is laid out for the world to see: the closer your spot to the entrance of the West Wing, the higher your rank. Chief of Staff is closer than the Deputy Chief of Staff, who’s closer than the Domestic Policy Advisor, who’s closer than me. And even though I don’t usually drive to work, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be inside the gate.
Getting closer to the front, I can’t help myself. I pretend to hear someone calling my name and again look over my shoulder. The guard’s still there. Our eyes lock and he whispers something into his walkie-talkie. What the hell is . . . Forget it. He’s just trying to scare me. Who could he be speaking to anyway?
I turn back to the parking lot and see a black Volvo in Spot Twenty-six. Simon’s somewhere in the building. At the end of the row, there’s an old gray Honda in Spot Ninety-four. It belongs to Trey, whose boss lets him use her spot on weekends. Midway between the two, I notice there’s a brand-new red car parked in Spot Forty-one. Caroline’s been dead less than twenty-four hours, and someone’s already taken her parking space.
As I approach the side entrance of the OEOB, I take one last glance at the guard outside the gate. For the first time since I arrived, he’s gone—back to sliding his mirror under the belly of arriving cars. Still, it’s just like the night on the embankment—not only is my neck soaked—I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.