“A safe place. I might need your help getting to it, though.”
“You have the same clearance level as the president, remember?”
He nodded. “But there are some places that might raise some eyebrows, were I to walk in without an appointment. Especially after business hours on a Friday night.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
“So I can just walk into the Lincoln Bedroom, you’re saying?”
She frowned. “That . . . might be a problem.”
“I know that the president and first lady were taking off for Florida tonight—”
“I watched the helicopter take off for the airport. Still, it would be suspicious for you to just go creeping around in the family quarters while they’re away.”
“Have you ever thought about all the presidents who’ve had sex in that bedroom?”
“It’s the guest bedroom,” she said.
“So?”
Emma continued, “We’ll have to come up with a good reason for you to . . . for you to . . .”
Emma winced and grabbed her stomach. It looked like she had felt a sharp pain, as if she’d just been kicked in the gut by an invisible foot. She hadn’t touched her food, though—must have been too much sweet tea. Caffeine could irritate an ulcer something wicked.
Emma started rocking back and forth in her chair while staring blankly into the distance. This was no ulcer.
Jimmie looked around for a waiter—she needed medical attention.
Emma thrust a hand out to steady herself, grabbing a bunch of tablecloth. She clutched it tight just as she tipped backward, taking her chair and the tablecloth to the ground. Their plates and silverware crashed to the floor.
Her glass, however, was still standing.
While time had seemed to slow down, it now sped back up. Jimmie shot out of his chair and knelt beside her. She wasn’t trembling anymore.
In fact, she wasn’t even breathing anymore.
Either she’d just died of sudden-onset type 2 diabetes from her sweet tea . . . or she’d been poisoned.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Storming the Castle
The White House guard patted Jimmie down and waved him through. “You forgot your phone in your office?” the guard said. “Jesus, I’d leave my dick somewhere ’fore I left my phone.”
Jimmie snorted. He hadn’t needed a cover story about returning to the White House to pick up his phone, but he couldn’t very well tell the truth: that he was here for a heist.
After Emma Blythe had croaked on the floor of the Ritz Cracker Barrel, he’d backed up slowly from her lifeless body—first in horror and then in panic mode. Whoever had poisoned her drink could have been coming for him next.
Commotion spread fast across the celebrity-packed restaurant. While Dr. Oz shrieked in panic from under a table, George Clooney leapt forward to administer CPR to Emma’s lifeless body. But there was no bringing her back. Not even George Clooney could breathe life back into the former Miss Universe.
So Jimmie had backed off, slowly at first. Onlookers were more concerned with taking selfies with Clooney and the unconscious woman than with watching the man she’d been dining with. When he’d backed up all the way to the edge of the dining area, he’d spun around and bolted out the door.
The crowds on the sidewalk had thinned considerably. He ran until he was out of breath, and then he jogged. It wasn’t until the White House was in view that he realized he’d dined and dashed. It was a miracle he hadn’t been shot and killed by a good hillbilly Samaritan, like so many others who had tried the same stunt at Cracker Barrels across the country.
Jimmie held his badge up to the door inside the Reagan Library. The lock clicked open. His clearance level hadn’t been restricted . . . yet. It occurred to him that this could be the last time he ever set foot inside the White House. He couldn’t hide the fact that he’d been at dinner with a British spy. Clooney wouldn’t testify against him, but somebody at the Ritz Cracker Barrel would. If he wasn’t just buried in the backyard with Lester by the time of his trial.
The one good thing about Emma biting it, he supposed, was that he was no longer beholden to squash the story about Lester’s death. There was that shadowy figure on the GIF, which cast major doubt on Trump’s version of events. Cat, with her intimate knowledge of Lester, would provide the missing pieces to the puzzle. She was a great editor—she’d always seen the holes in his stories that he was too close to see. All he had to do was trade the worthless recorder to the SJWs for her.
Jimmie took the subbasement’s service elevator to the second floor. While it didn’t go all the way to the third floor, the elevator at least got him into the family quarters as stealthily as possible.
He stepped off the elevator and into a long service corridor. It appeared to run adjacent to the length of the State Dining Room. He passed a white sign reading REMEMBER: COOK MEAT BEFORE SERVING!!! taped to the wall next to a stack of boxes labeled TACO BOWLS. He spotted a tray of silverware and paused to pocket a serrated knife. It might come in handy if the Lincoln Bedroom was locked.
Or if you run into trouble, he thought darkly.
He entered the dining room. In the center of the tables were cornucopias, packed with what looked to be every product made by Little Debbie. He poked his head into the hallway outside. To his left were the Green, Red, and Blue Rooms—or, since Trump had ordered them redecorated, the 10K, 14K, and 24K Rooms. To his right were the stairs that led up to the presidential bedrooms on the renovated third floor. The only problem was the Secret Service flunky standing guard. The hairless one.
Jimmie closed the door. He hadn’t been expecting the Secret Service up here, since the president was halfway to Mar-a-Lago by now. Even in the prez’s absence, though, they probably still had to guard the living quarters. Wouldn’t want any wayward busboys sneaking off with a pair of presidential boxers. Talk about illegal briefs.
Jimmie searched the room for something to distract the Secret Service agent. The agents were generally unflappable, but Jimmie had one thing going for him: It was almost nine o’clock. That meant it was nearing the end of the agent’s shift. He had to be mentally clocked out already. How to distract him, how to distract—
Jimmie snatched a handful of cut flowers from a vase on the nearest table. He could . . . offer them to the Secret Service agent? Ridiculous. The man out there was a legit trained killer. He might just take a shot at Jimmie for the hell of it, should he come at him with flowers like some peace-loving hippie.
Jimmie hoisted the ceramic vase. It was heavy enough to knock the agent out, if he ran at him fast enough and clocked him across the side of the skull. While Jimmie wasn’t the quickest cat around, he had the element of surprise on his side.
Unfortunately, he’d also end up serving time for assaulting a federal agent if he was caught. And he would be caught, whenever the next agent showed up for their shift. He set the vase down on the table. The table . . .
No, not the table. The tablecloth.
They think the family quarters are haunted.
Jimmie used the knife to cut two eyeholes in it. He threw the white cloth over his head. It draped down, covering his body. He looked at his reflection in the metallic vase.
He looked exactly like a person wearing an ill-fitting sheet. In the hallway, to a pair of tired eyes filtered through sunglasses, he might look more like a ghost.
Or a member of the KKK, you nitwit.
He didn’t have much choice. He just hoped the agent wouldn’t try to shoot him, because that would suck. He didn’t want to get shot—not tonight. Not ever, but definitely not tonight. He had to get his girl back (not that she was his girl again, not yet) and possibly pull the sheets off the largest scandal Washington had ever seen.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Something Strange in the Neighborhood
Jimmie stepped into the hallway. He could just make out the Secret Service agent through the eyeholes. Jimmie slouched down and raised his arms i
nside the sheet. The agent, standing guard some twenty yards away, took no notice.
“OooOooOooOooooOOoOOOO,” Jimmie moaned.
Grow Some Fucking Eyebrows swung his head in Jimmie’s direction. There was a deeply unamused expression on his face.
Jimmie froze. He’d suddenly lost his bravado. This was, undoubtedly, the height of his stupidity. He’d done some dumb things before, but this one took the Little Debbie snack cake.
The agent lowered his sunglasses to get a better look at the phantasm.
Jimmie waved his outstretched hands from side to side, swaying in the hallway as if he were at a USA Freedom Girls for America concert.
The agent stared at him. Either the man was frightened to his very core, or he was in such a state of disbelief that he couldn’t move a muscle.
“OooOoOOOOooOOO,” Jimmie said, getting his nerve back. “OoooOoOoOOOoooOOo.”
The agent finally pushed his sunglasses back into place. “Very funny, Junior,” he said. “Now get to bed. Your dad wouldn’t be very happy to hear you were up this late.”
Jimmie dropped his arms. Junior? Of course. The agent thought he was Donald Trump Jr. up past his bedtime. This was the first that Jimmie had heard about the forty-year-old still living at home, but why not? If Jimmie’s parents lived in the White House, he’d do the same.
He walked past the agent and hiked up the tablecloth so that he didn’t trip while walking up the steps. The agent grabbed him by the arm and spun him around.
This ghost just got busted.
Jimmie tried to inhale deeply to steady himself, but all he could take were quick and shallow breaths. His heart was pounding now like a hotel bed against a wall. The agent had a hold on him and was staring through his eyeholes, just inches away.
“No Xbox, you hear me?” the agent said. “You need your sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
If Jimmie didn’t respond, he’d be unmasked for sure; if he said something, even a word, the agent would discover his ruse.
He looked the agent in the eyes . . . and stomped his Oxfords in protest.
“I don’t make the rules, kiddo,” the agent said, letting him go.
Jimmie stomped his way up the stairs, playing the part of the petulant Trump child to a T. When he reached the third floor, he turned down the hall and ditched the tablecloth behind a potted plant.
From the closed door nearest him, he heard a full artillery at work: machine-gun fire, grenades. Human Hiroshima 3: Soldier of Misfortune, if he wasn’t mistaken. Somebody was disobeying daddy. If he was anything like the gamers Jimmie had known in college, Junior wouldn’t be getting up for a good long while—not even to use the restroom. Jimmie was thankful he’d only ever been a casual gamer. He could stop any time he wanted—and he had stopped, when he’d pawned his PlayStation to pay off his parking tickets. And then pawned his Xbox after his car got towed when he double-parked outside the ticket-payment office.
Jimmie straightened his tie and ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. He strutted down the hall. So this is what James Bond felt like. A little tipsier, probably, but there’s a swagger that begins to course through your veins when you’re firing on all cylinders. James Bond . . . Jimmie Bernwood. They even shared the same initials. They also shared them with Justin Bieber, but Jimmie wasn’t quite ready to proclaim himself the next Biebs.
He paused at the doorway to the Lincoln Bedroom. The door was cracked an inch. He looked to his left and to his right down the hallway to confirm he was still alone and then slipped inside the Lincoln Bedroom.
Moonlight filtered in through the spacious glass doors that opened onto the veranda. The sliver of light shone directly onto the desk, where a handwritten copy of the Trump Address was laid out on permanent display. Next to it sat the recorder.
He felt his way along the wall toward the desk. If he’d planned this out, he would have brought a flashlight with him. If he’d had his phone, he could have used a flashlight app, even. But he didn’t have time to plan. He didn’t even have time to use the restroom (which he badly needed to do).
Jimmie picked up the recorder. He could barely believe it was real, but it was. A sense of relief rushed through him. He still had to figure out a way to get the damned recorder out of the White House, but the first part of his mission was complete. Mission impossible? As W would say, “Mission accomplished”!
But just like George W. Bush had learned, you should never celebrate before the end of a mission, even if the end is within sight. Before he could even turn around for the door, a woman’s voice rang out from the darkness:
“Took you long enough, Mr. Jimmie.”
Chapter Fifty
Victoria’s Secret
Jimmie Bernwood recognized the woman’s husky voice. Her Eastern European accent was unmistakable.
“Mrs. Trump,” he said, slipping the recorder into his pants pocket. He turned around. With a fuller moon, he might have been able to see her more clearly on the bed. As it was, he only saw her outline. And what a fine outline it was.
“Call me Victoria,” she said, pronouncing it Veek-toria.
“I didn’t know you were here,” Jimmie said. “I thought you’d gone to Florida.”
“Mar-a-Lago?” she said. “Donny took Mr. Christie. They’re going to golf all weekend. And who knows what else.”
Jimmie eyed the door. His first instinct was to bolt for it. Get the hell out of here. Unfortunately, he couldn’t just run out of the White House. His aching ribs couldn’t take another beating.
“I was in here talking to your husband earlier and left something behind,” he said. “Sorry to disturb you.”
“The little tape machine.”
He swallowed hard. “The recorder. Yes.”
“I assume you have found it,” she said, “or else you are very happy to see me.”
Jimmie glanced down at his pants. The recorder bulged unseemly in his pocket.
She asked, “Are you happy to see me, Mr. Jimmie? I have been thinking about your big hands ever since our little flirtation earlier this week.”
Victoria flipped on the bedside lamp. Jimmie felt his breath hitch as he got a good look at the first lady, who was sitting upright against the headboard. The bedsheet and comforter had been tossed aside, giving him a full view of the toned and tanned body that had graced so many magazine covers over the years. Her lacy, black bra-and-panties set left little up to the imagination. Jimmie had spent enough time with her racy National Review spread to fill in the missing pieces.
Still, he had to control himself. The first lady was toying with him like a cat with a mouse. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up decapitated on the porch by morning.
He cleared his throat. “Are you trying to seduce me?”
She slowly traced her full, luscious lips with her tongue. “I’m not trying to seduce you—I am seducing you.”
“Your husband—”
“Isn’t here.”
“He’s the president. If he found out I was even in his wife’s bedroom . . .”
“Why do you think I’m sleeping in the guest bedroom?”
“Do you always sleep wearing lingerie? I would imagine the underwire isn’t very comfortable.”
She giggled. “I usually sleep naked. Very naked.”
Jimmie had no idea how one could be “very naked” as opposed to simply “naked,” but he was sufficiently intrigued. Now there were two bulges in his pants.
What the hell are you doing? his rational side chimed in. Sure, you’re “intrigued” by the prospect of seeing this gorgeous woman in the nude. But what woman aren’t you “intrigued” by? Remember that you’re doing this to save Cat from the kidnappers. You’re risking your livelihood—right here, right now—for the woman you used to love. And also the woman you need to help you complete the puzzle of Lester’s death.
Jimmie said, “Listen, I know it can’t be easy, being married to the president of the United States—hell, it can’t be easy being married at all. I’ve never w
alked the aisle myself. I thought I’d found the right girl once, but then things fell apart. I might have found her again—but it all depends on me getting this recorder to the bad guys who’ve kidnapped her.”
“What a shame,” she said. Victoria’s fingers went to the front of her push-up bra. She unhooked its clasp. The bra split in two, releasing her breasts from their captivity. The bra hadn’t been a push-up bra after all: Her breasts seemed to float before her in defiance of gravitational laws. The natural order of things might have been put temporarily on hold, actually, as Jimmie had sucked all the air out of the room.
Y’know, he thought, I’m not actually dating Cat right now.
Yes, he was going to rescue her from the bad guys, and blah, blah, blah. But until they actually started seeing each other again, it meant they were free to see other people. Right? When else was he going to get the chance to hop into bed with a supermodel of indeterminate age in the Lincoln Bedroom? He could practically sense Lincoln’s ghost in the room, telling him to hit that shit.
He dropped his voice to a whisper: “Aren’t there, like, video cameras all over the place?”
“Is that what my husband told you? Ha! There are no cameras in the bedrooms.”
“What about the restrooms?”
“You want to do it in the restroom? I knew you were a little pervert when I saw you watching me, Mr. Jimmie.”
“The bed is fine,” he said, loosening his tie.
Chapter Fifty-One
It Happens to Plenty of Guys
As Victoria unbuttoned Jimmie’s pants, another wave of hesitation hit him. It had nothing to do with Cat or with the fact that Victoria Trump was married to the president. He knew that she was just using him to get back at her husband. She’d praised Jimmie’s “big hands,” but they both knew they were just average. To someone who’s starving, though, a crumb looks like a meal.
The Day of the Donald Page 14