Red, White, and Blue

by Laura Hayden

  “Are you saying this wasn’t an accident?” Emily asked.

  Something’s all wrong about this, Kate thought. Here was the director of the FBI, involving himself in a case. Wouldn’t he leave that up to someone with real investigative experience? Even given the high profile of the people involved?

  Kate reached down deep into her reservoir of courage to find the right nonconfrontational tack to take. “Sir, before we go on, may I ask why you’re handling this instead of a field agent?”

  He managed a tight grin. “It’s not a question I haven’t asked myself. But considering the potentially sensitive nature of the situation, I decided to break procedure.” Richfield continued as if his vague response were a real answer. “I was told that you received news of the wreck from one of the Secret Service agents working the command post at the ball, correct?”

  Kate hesitated, then finally decided to play it his way. “Yes. An Agent Brown found me in the crowd. Evidently the command post had been monitoring all the various law enforcement frequencies, and someone recognized Maia’s name as being associated with the campaign staff. After he briefed me, I made the decision to hold off informing the president until that next morning after the ball.”

  “I understand you weren’t alone when you were briefed. Correct?”

  Kate hadn’t spent a huge amount of time in the courtroom but enough so that she knew how to maintain her facial expression and control her body language. “No, as it happens, I was talking with Nicholas Beaudry when the agent approached—” she glanced at Emily—“in the company of Chip McWilliamson, who was also aware of the situation. I believe he’d been instrumental in locating me in the middle of the crowd. He remained there and overheard the resulting conversation.”

  “McWilliamson.” The slightest hint of distaste crossed the director’s face. “That’s right. The . . . blogger.” He said the word with the same enthusiasm as one might say, “The mosquito.”

  The man regrouped and continued. “So in addition to Mr. McWilliamson, Mr. Beaudry also overheard the news of the accident and what few details you had at the moment.”

  “Correct.”

  “And he said nothing?”

  “Who? Nick? No. I’m sure he knew it wasn’t appropriate to enter into the conversation.”

  The director crossed his arms as if having uncovered a Scooby-Doo–size clue. “But he didn’t step away and give you any privacy.”

  “No, but then again, I didn’t find that odd. It was obvious that it wasn’t a security matter where he might need a specific clearance. If it had been, the agent would have never tried to conduct a secure brief in the middle of a ballroom full of partygoers. Anyone could have overheard.”

  “So when Mr. Beaudry overheard the discussion, he didn’t say anything about knowing Timothy Colton?”

  “Not at that time. Once the agent stepped away, he brought the subject up. It wasn’t like it was a secret. He knew I was aware of the hierarchy of Talbot’s staff, including his own former position in that structure. With that in mind, it didn’t take any great leaps in logic to presume he knew Colton, probably fairly well. They had to have worked together at some point on the campaign. As I recall, we exchanged sympathies since we’d both lost a—” she stumbled over the word—“colleague. He knew who Maia was and that I’d worked with her.” Kate hesitated, then added, “She is—was the sort of woman that men always noticed.”

  “Indeed. She was quite a beautiful woman.” The director nodded. “So, during your conversation with Mr. Beaudry, did he mention any animosity he might have had against Colton?”

  Kate shifted, signaling an end to her willingness to be grilled. “Director, you’re asking some very pointed questions that lead me to believe you have some suspicions about Mr. Beaudry’s involvement in this terrible situation. Certainly you’re not accusing him of having anything to do with the accident? Or tampering with the vehicle?”

  Richfield shifted on the couch, sitting up a bit straighter. “We’re making no accusations. It’s simply come to our attention that Mr. Beaudry and Mr. Colton were not friendly coworkers—more like bitter adversaries, according to Governor Talbot.”

  Now things were starting to make more sense. If Talbot had weighed in on the situation, no doubt he’d worked hard to cast Nick in the worst possible light. Their opponent had been none too thrilled to learn his plan to use Emily’s ex-husband against her had backfired.

  Kate folded her hands in her lap. “Mr. Beaudry said nothing to me to substantiate that.” She worked very hard to keep I already knew it was fact from showing in her expression.

  Richfield dug a little deeper. “So he had never mentioned to you that on the day he resigned from Governor Talbot’s staff, he was attacked?”

  Although this was no court of law and she’d taken no oath, Kate realized the truth was the only avenue she could follow at the moment. “Actually I knew about that incident shortly after it occurred.”

  Emily quirked an eyebrow. “You talked that often with him?”

  The single look Kate shot her friend carried at least three messages—the most important of which was You don’t want me to go into this, not with the FBI or anyone else for that matter.

  She turned back to Richfield. “I spoke with him a few times, mostly coordinating issues common to both campaigns.” She chose her words carefully. “I believe toward the end of the campaign, he’d gotten disillusioned with Governor Talbot, and that was why he called me—to inform me that he was resigning from his position.”

  “He didn’t offer to sell or otherwise give you any secrets about the Talbot campaign?”

  Kate couldn’t help one gibe. “I didn’t realize you also sat on the Federal Election Commission as well.” She dismissed the supposed absurdity of her own statement with a wave of her hand. “No, he didn’t. In any case, I doubt there was anything he could tell us that we didn’t already know.” She raised a finger. “Wait. I take that back. I remember that in the conversation we had about his resignation, he mentioned in passing that Talbot was planning to have a press conference the next day. However, I guess that shows you how out of the loop he truly was. As I recall, Talbot had no press conference that next day.”

  “Interesting. And you remember this . . . why?”

  “Because, besides being proactive, part of my job was reactive, and I always monitored the actions of the other side.” Kate sighed. “Director, I’m finding your questions to be . . . rather disturbing. Normally I would ask if I needed to have a lawyer present.” She glanced at Emily. “But she’s here already. So I’ll continue to answer your questions. For now.”

  Richfield caught himself just short of issuing a harrumph. “I’m sorry, Ms. Rosen. I’m just trying to get the background on Beaudry. I only have a few more questions.” He pressed on without pausing. “The night of the inauguration, had you made arrangements to meet Beaudry at the ball?”

  Kate didn’t have to look at Emily to know that she had turned her face away from the conversation, fearing her expressions might be telling.

  “Absolutely not. I didn’t even know he’d been invited. It seems someone from the White House made sure he was sent a ticket.”

  After a moment of silence, Emily raised her hand lazily in the air. “That would be me.” She turned to face them and offered a shrug with her explanation. “What can I say? It seemed like a decent gesture. Goodwill and all that.” She managed a small crooked smile. “Me burying the hatchet somewhere other than his skull.”

  The director spared Emily a quick glance as if mandated by law to pay attention to anyone talking about hatchets and skulls. He turned back to Kate. “Do you recall what time you first saw Mr. Beaudry at the ball?”

  Although she’d already mentally taken the pieces and assembled them into an uncomfortable conclusion, Kate decided to voice her observation. “Before I answer that, let me ask you a question. Are you accusing the president’s former husband of having something to do with the accident?”

 
He stiffened. “I’m merely trying to establish a timeline to aid in the investigation.” He pressed on without even taking a breath. “When did you first see him that night?”

  Kate knew who Nick had been in the past and who he’d become in the intervening years. She couldn’t imagine either version of Nick being involved in something like this, not even during his worst drinking days. As her father always said, “Booze doesn’t turn a good man into a mean drunk. It simply removes all the filters and self-controls he uses every day to control his temper and his tongue.” Even fully intoxicated, Nick Beaudry had never been a mean drunk.

  She faced the director. “I’m unsure of the exact time—I wasn’t wearing a watch. But the first time we spoke was during Emily’s first dance with Richard. I’m sure there are media files that will give you the exact time frame of the dance.”

  “No point prior to that?”

  “No. That was the first time I saw him that night.”

  “And his demeanor at that time?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Was he excited? relieved? distracted? Had he had anything to drink? Was he intoxicated?”

  The last question got under Kate’s skin, and she couldn’t stop herself from firing back. “Next you’ll ask me if I noticed the telltale sign of oil stains on his hands or some vital piece of a braking system in the pocket of his tuxedo.”

  The director shot Emily a glance as if the two of them were sharing some great revelation.

  Kate closed her eyes for a moment, struggling to regain her composure, then stood, hoping it would get the message across that her patience had been stretched to its end. “Nick Beaudry was pleasant and even-keeled that evening, even when he encountered a less than polite member of our staff who wanted to throw him bodily out of the hotel. And he was stone-cold sober when I spoke to him and remained sober all night.”

  “For as long as you were there,” the director corrected.

  “True. And long after, I suspect. I don’t know if you’ve spoken with him, but he appears to be very serious about and very dedicated to maintaining his sobriety.” She met the director eye to eye. “Are there any other questions? I still have many meetings on my docket today.” Her use of the legalistic term was deliberate.

  “No, ma’am.” Richfield stood as well. “I’m sorry to have had to ask them at all. But this way, I can spare you any other inquiries from agents assigned to investigate this.”

  “Then let me state that I sincerely doubt Nick Beaudry had anything to do with the deaths of Timothy and Maia.”

  He didn’t offer his hand, and Kate wasn’t sure she’d have accepted it had he made the gesture.

  “I’m sure you’re correct. Thank you so much.” He turned to Emily. “Madam President? Thank you for your valuable time.” With a nod of salutation, he headed for the door.

  Kate waited until the panel closed behind him before speaking. She pivoted sharply and glared at Emily. “What in the world has gotten into you?”

  “Into me?” Emily wrapped herself in an air of innocence that smelled dank. “I should be asking you that question.” A look of virtue transformed effortlessly to sadness on her face. “You and Nick? My ex-husband?”

  Kate crossed over to the fireplace, hoping the dancing flames might chase away the sudden chill that settled on her. “Get real, Emily. There is no Nick and me. You’re the one who sent him a ticket. Goodwill gesture? Like I believe that.” She turned away from the fire. “Chip had it right. All you wanted was a chance to twist the knife a little in public. You dragged him there just to remind him of what he lost, to tell him, ‘You could have been up here as First Gentleman if you hadn’t been such a louse.’”

  “That’s not the way I meant it.”

  To anyone else, Emily’s look appeared to be one of genuine confusion, but Kate saw something far less appealing in the shadows behind her eyes.

  Emily continued, her words sounding theatrical at best. “I thought you believed in forgiveness. In letting bygones be bygones.”

  “I do. But the trouble is—I know you don’t. Can the act, M. I know exactly what sort of trick you’re trying to pull. And while we’re at it, why did you give me no warning that the director of the FBI wanted to grill me?”

  Emily dropped all pretense of confused innocence. “Trust me.” She stood, walked over to her desk, and perched on the corner of it. “I was doing you a favor.”

  “A favor . . .”

  “Sure. One of George’s minions could have called on you, raised a stink, asked you to make a formal statement. Formal statements mean public records. But instead, you simply told him the facts in an informal setting.”

  “The Oval Office is not an informal setting.”

  “More so than his office. Still, it’s over. He’ll pass the data along to a subordinate and that’ll be that. He’s not going to bother you again because he got everything he needed from your unprepared, off-the-cuff answers.”

  “And what is he going to do with my answers? Pursue Nick as a possible suspect in the deaths of two people?” Kate paused and raised one finger to make a point. “Wait, if it’s sabotage, then it’d be considered premeditated murder.” Indignation began to bubble up inside of her. “C’mon, Emily, you know he’s not capable of that.”

  Emily crossed her arms, and a look of belligerence filled her face and her stance. “That’s what we thought about Charles Talbot. When you started rooting around in his past, I bet you expected to find a few relatively harmless skeletons in his closet—not a dead girlfriend.”

  Kate said nothing. The rules of politics were similar to those of fight club—never talk about fight club or dirty politics. If you’re overheard, you have to explain yourself. And neither she nor Emily wanted anyone wondering why they knew so much dirt about Charles Talbot but had never released their findings to the public.

  If any media type caught wind of the stalemate between the erstwhile candidates, two sets of dirty secrets might still be pinned to the clothesline for everyone to see. And something told her that whatever Maia and Colton were talking about in that car, it wasn’t likely to be good for Emily. But Emily didn’t seem upset.

  “Don’t worry,” Emily said, almost bragging. “I have everything covered. . . .”

  Now Kate was really worried.

  KATE WAITED UNTIL SHE GOT HOME before she used her cell phone to call Lee Devlin. Lee’s company, District Discreet, was Kate’s go-to squad for quiet investigations and unobtrusive background checks. Lee and her partner, Sierra Dudicroft, had been instrumental in helping Kate uncover Charles Talbot’s unsavory past as well Emily’s. They had also asked no questions when Kate asked them to bury both sets of the secrets deep.

  If anyone could ferret out information about the relationship between Timothy Colton and Maia Bari, it would be Lee.

  When the investigator answered the phone, laughter tipped her voice, obviously thanks to caller ID. “As I live and breathe. Do I call you Chief Rosen or Madam Secretary or what?”

  “Chief will do. Emily has already claimed ‘Her Highness.’”

  “What can I do for you, Chief Assistant to the Honorable Her Highness?”

  “The usual skulduggery. I need to put you on retainer.”

  “Don’t you have watchdogs from the Secret Service, FBI, CIA, Homeland Security, all at your beck and call now that you’re an honest-to-goodness White House insider?”

  “Sure. I control all the men in black now, too, especially the ones with the helicopters and memory-flashy thingies.” After they shared a laugh, Kate added, “This is more of a personal matter, Lee.”

  The words personal matter weren’t a code phrase, per se, but the investigator knew that the time for jokes had vanished. Her voice changed, reflecting a much more serious attitude. “What can I do for you, Kate?” she asked quietly.

  “First, there’s the matter of a retainer for legal purposes.”

  “Hang on.” After a few seconds of clicking keys on a keyboard, Lee returned. �
��Your retainer of $1,000 has been duly charged to your credit card on file and noted in our ledger. Client confidentiality is now evoked.”

  “Good. I take it you heard about the accident that happened on the night of the inaugural balls? Maia Bari and Timothy Colton?”

  Lee whistled softly. “Who hasn’t? Until the crash, Washington had no idea they had an updated version of Carville and Matalin—love across the party lines. How sweet. Or in this case, how tragic.”

  “Was it love?”

  “You tell me. That’s the assumption the press is making. They were together in a car. That’s enough to fuel general speculation. I take it you weren’t convinced?”

  “We’ll get to that. Speaking of press speculation, what have you heard beyond the official reports?”

  “Why ask me? I thought you had your own Deep Throat for these matters.”

  Kate did. Through luck, perseverance, and more luck, she’d cultivated the cooperation of the pinnacle of Washington insiders, Carmen del Rio, a woman who knew everything about everybody and kept most of it to herself. No gossip went uncollected, no news tip unfiled. Given two points, Carmen could not only draw a line, but a conclusion with 99.99 percent accuracy. Washingtonians of all profile levels from mildly important to holders of the highest offices kept Carmen happy and informed for fear of what she might do if she became less than enthralled with them. Such was the height of her real power that she seldom had to act.

  Dubbed the “godmother of gossip” by one brave and probably now headless soul, Carmen usually held court every afternoon in the tearoom at the Willard Hotel, but a bad cold had interrupted that tradition for several weeks. Kate knew that even her singular nonreciprocal relationship with Carmen couldn’t overcome the woman’s crankier demeanor when sick.

  “My usual source is unavailable,” Kate responded.

  “Yeah. Head cold. I heard. Could be the death of an old bat like her.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Kate lied. Talking about Carmen also fell under general fight club rules. “Back to the question at hand.”