by Brad Meltzer
Outside, where I’m sitting, it’s still completely dark, so as he goes from bedroom to bathroom to kitchen, I follow the trail of lights. As near as I can tell, he’s got a tasteful house in a tasteful neighborhood. It’s not the best of Virginia’s sprawling suburbs, but that’s why he chose it. I remember him telling the story during the last staff retreat. The day he and his wife were going to bid on the house, their Realtor called about a brand-new home in a coveted section of McLean. Sure it was more expensive, Simon’s wife argued, but they could afford it. Simon wanted nothing to do with it. If he was going to teach his kids proper values, they had to have something to shoot for. There’s nothing gained by always being on top.
Looking back, the story’s probably bullshit. Up until a few weeks ago, Simon was a man to be taken at his word. Which, in a strange way, is precisely why I’m now sitting in the passenger seat of his black Volvo.
• • •
It’s still pitch dark as Simon steps out the back door of his house. I watch him lock up and check the yard. It’s still early. No reporters in sight. Moving toward the driveway, he’s wearing the strut of a man without a care. More like a careless man to me. He doesn’t even see me as he heads to the driver’s side of his car. He’s too busy thinking he got away with it.
Tossing his briefcase into my lap, he slides into the leather seat like it’s just another day.
“Morning, Mr. Worm—I’m the early bird,” I announce.
Startled, he clutches his chest and drops his keys. Still, I have to hand it to him. Within seconds, his ironing-board shoulders rise in irritation. As he brushes a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, his unshakable calm flows back even faster than it left. He turns my way, and the light in the car shines in his face. With an angry tug, he slams the door shut and darkness falls.
“I thought you’d wait until I got to the office,” he says in a voice that’s pure gravel.
“You think I’m that stupid?” I ask.
“You tell me—who’s the one sleeping in my car?”
“I didn’t sleep here, I was . . .”
“. . . just stalking your boss at five in the morning? C’mon,” Simon adds. “You didn’t really think you were going to get away with it, did you?”
“Get away with—?”
“It’s over, Michael. Better to plead insanity than innocence.” Laughing to himself, he adds, “I was right, though, wasn’t I? Caroline set it up; you collected the cash?”
“What?”
“I wouldn’t have even thought it if I hadn’t spotted you that night. Then when I heard what happened to my payment—when the cops confiscated the ten grand, that’s where it all fell apart, isn’t it? She thought you were holding out on her. That’s why you did it, right? That’s why you killed her?”
“I killed her?”
“It’s a fool’s way out, Michael—it was then and it is now. You’ll never pull it off twice.”
“Twice?” I don’t know what he’s talking about, but it’s clear he’s got his own version of reality. Time to call bullshit. “I’m not a moron, Edgar. I saw you at Pendulum that night. I was there.”
“There’s a good expla—”
“Spin it whichever way you want, you were still paying the blackmail. Forty grand to keep a lock on the closet.” He shoots me a look. “Does your wife know? Have you—”
“Are you wearing a wire?” he interrupts. “Is that why you’re here?” Before I can react, his arm springs out, slapping an open palm against my chest.
“Get the hell off me!” I shout, pushing him away.
Realizing there’s nothing in my shirt, he sits back in his seat.
I shake my head at the man who used to be my boss. “You haven’t even told her yet, have you? You’re out playing around and she still doesn’t know. What about your kids? You lying to them too?” Realizing I have his attention, I motion over my shoulder toward his house. “They’re the ones who pay for it, Edgar.”
Once again, he runs his hand through his hair. For the first time since I met him, the salt-and-pepper doesn’t go back in place. “I have to tell you, I didn’t think you had it in you, Michael.” The way his voice slowly lingers on each word, I assume he’s talking out of shock. Maybe even fear.
But it’s not. It’s disappointment. “All this time, I always figured Caroline as the ruthless one. Now I know better.”
“I didn’t—”
“Tell whoever you want,” he says, staring straight out the front windshield. “Tell the papers; tell the whole damn world. I’m not embarrassed.”
“Then—”
“Why’d I pay the money?” He looks over my shoulder, back at his tasteful house. “How do you think the other sixth-graders are going to react when the newscaster says Katie’s daddy likes to sleep with other men? And what about the ninth-grade boys? And the one who’s about to hit college? It was never about me, Michael. I know who I am. It’s for them.”
Listening to his strained words, I notice how tightly he’s holding the steering wheel. “So that’s why you told Caroline that I was the one who had the money?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The next morning. After the meeting. You told her the forty thousand dollars was mine—that I made the drop.”
He lets go of the wheel and looks at me completely confused. “I think you have it backwards. All I told her was that I wanted to see your file. I figured if you were the blackmailer . . .”
“Me?”
“Dammit, Michael, stop lying to my face! You picked up the money—you’re a co-conspirator. I know that’s why you killed her.”
He says something else, but I’m not listening. “You never told her the money was mine?” I ask.
“Why would I do that? If Caroline was in on it—which I always thought she was—and she knew I found out—she’d have gutted me to keep me quiet.”
I feel the blood rush from my face. I don’t believe it . . . all this time . . . she made it up to keep me quiet—and to point the finger at Simon. It’s perfect when you think about it; she was playing us against each other. Searching for solid ground, I wrap my fist around the door handle. Slowly, painfully, I turn to look at Simon. And for the first time since we followed him out of the bar, I entertain the thought that he might be innocent.
“Are you okay?” he asks, reading my expression.
It doesn’t make any sense. “I didn’t do it—I never killed anyone. V-Vaughn . . . and Trey . . . even Nora said . . .”
“You told Nora about this?”
Behind us, up the street, a bright light cuts through the darkness. A car just turned onto the block. No, not a car. A van. As it gets closer, I notice the broadcasting antenna attached to its roof. Oh, shit. That’s no mom-mobile. That’s a news van. Time’s up.
I throw open the door, but Simon grabs me by the arm. “Does Nora know? Did she tell Hartson?”
“Let go!”
“Don’t do this now, Michael! Please! Not while my kids are in the house!”
“I’m not telling anyone. I just want to get out of here!” Jerking my arm free, I scramble out of the car. The news van is almost in front of the house.
“Ask Adenauer! I didn’t do anything wrong!” Simon shouts. I’m about to take off, but . . . it’s hard to describe . . . there’s pain in his voice. With seconds to spare, I turn back for one last question. Until now, it’s the only one I’ve been afraid to ask. “Tell me the truth, Edgar. Have you ever slept with Nora?”
“What?”
That’s all I need to hear.
The door to the news van slides open and two people hop out. It’s hard not to miss the interior glow of Simon’s car. “Up there!” a reporter shouts as the cameraman turns on his light.
“Start the car and get out of here,” I tell him. “And tell Adenauer I’m innocent.”
“What about—”
I slam the car door and dart for the wooden fence in the backyard. Like a spotlight in a prison break, a b
last of artificial light floods through the back window of Simon’s car and lights the right side of his face. By the time they pan across the rest of the backyard, I’m gone.
• • •
“Operator 27,” a male voice says, answering the phone.
“I just got paged,” I say to the Signal operator. “Can you please connect me to Room 160½.”
“I need a name, sir.”
“It’s not assigned to anyone. It’s an intern room.”
He puts me on hold to verify the rest. Typical White House operator. No time for—
“I’m connecting you now,” he announces.
As the phone rings, I huddle close to the gas station’s pay phone and thank God for 800 numbers. Looking down, I notice that the leather on my shoes is beginning to rip. Too many fences. Story of my life. When the phone rings for the third time, I start getting nervous. They should’ve picked up by now—unless no one’s there. I take a quick glance at my watch. It’s past nine o’clock. Someone’s got to need copies. It’s the—
“White House,” a young man’s voice answers.
I can hear it in the seriousness of his tone. Intern. Perfect.
“Who am I speaking with?” I bark.
“A-Andrew Schottenstein.”
“Listen, Andrew, this is Reggie Dwight from the First Lady’s Office. Do you know where Room 144 is?”
“I think—”
“Good. I want you to run down there and ask for Trey Powell. Tell him you need to speak to him and bring him back here to me.”
“I don’t understand. Why—”
“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.
I roll forward as we come to an abrupt halt, grinding a few chess pieces into the carpet. There’s an electric hum as Nora’s window opens. I strain to hear the muffled voice of the uniformed guard. The night we went up on the roof, they never checked the trunk. Nora got in with nothing more than a wave and a smile. But in the last twenty-four hours, times have changed. I’m barely breathing.