by Otho Eskin
The Suburban slows briefly while driving through the West Gate of the White House, then swings around the semicircular drive and stops in front of the door to the West Wing. The same door I entered earlier.
One of the black-uniformed Secret Service armed guards pulls open the back door and I’m hustled out onto the pavement and through the entrance door. Once again, the security detail checks me for weapons and takes my cell phone. Standing on the far side of the security barrier, Miss Shaw waits for me.
She smiles. “Follow me,” she says in a pleasant voice. I fall into step beside her. A small, heavyset man with a fat neck and wearing a Rolex watch follows us about ten feet behind.
“We can’t seem to have enough of you here in the Executive Mansion, can we, Detective Zorn?” Miss Shaw asks cheerfully.
“Does Myron Clark have more things he wants to shout at me?”
“You’re done with Myron.”
She offers no suggestion as to why I’m here as we walk through the West Wing in silence. We stop at a door and she steps inside part way and says something I can’t hear. She turns back to me.
“Go right in.” I enter.
I’m standing in a dark, wood-paneled office furnished with comfortable furniture—a leather sofa, two wingback, dark brown, leather armchairs, and a polished coffee table. To the far side is a large, ornately carved mahogany desk with a green leather top. There is no phone or computer on the desk. Just a single pad of paper imprinted with the White House crest. There is a well-supplied bar on the far side of the room. The walls are covered with photographs of government officials and politicians—both US and foreign—including several presidents and a couple of archbishops and a pope. Many have been signed with warm wishes. No lethal weapon is in sight anywhere in the office.
Standing in the middle of the room is a tall man, about sixty. He’s in his shirtsleeves and wears blue suspenders, his hair is gray. There is a faint aroma of expensive aftershave lotion in the room.
“Detective Zorn?” The man crosses to me and holds out his hand and we shake. His grasp is firm and assured. “I am Hollis Chambers. Delighted to meet you. I think.” He smiles genially. “Can I get you a drink? I understand you’re a bourbon man. Or do you not drink when you’re on duty?”
“Am I on duty?” I ask. “My captors neglected to explain my status. I don’t know why I’m here.”
“Of course. How could you?” Hollis Chambers goes to the bar, pours bourbon into a glass. “Ice, Mr. Zorn?”
“No ice.”
“Good man. I drink scotch myself. Dates back to my days at Harvard. I think I got most of my bad habits at Harvard.”
Holding a glass in each hand, Chambers crosses the room, passes me one. “Let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?”
Without waiting for an answer, he settles into one of the wingback armchairs. I sit in the chair facing him. “To the confusion of our enemies,” Chambers says, raising his glass and looking at me over the top. He takes a substantial gulp and places the glass on a fancy coaster, embossed with the White House seal. I take a sip from my glass.
“First, let me introduce myself. My name is Hollis. My title around here is Special Adviser to the President. Some damn-fool thing like that. Second, I must apologize for the cowboy tactics used to get you here. You referred to ‘your captors.’ I assume you were shanghaied off the street with no explanation.”
“Something like that.”
“I deplore that kind of treatment. Miss Shaw urged a more civilized method to get you here. She was very insistent. I should listen to her.” He takes another drink. “But I was in a hurry and I needed to talk to you. You’re a hard man to find. You tend to disappear from time to time.”
“That’s part of my job.” I don’t say what job.
“It was urgent I speak with you. And I didn’t want anybody to know you were coming to see me. And I didn’t want to give you the chance to contact your associates, maybe someone in your police department, or perhaps the redoubtable Arora Lovelace.”
“I haven’t agreed to keep our meeting confidential.”
Chambers sips his drink. “Your house is being watched, you know. And your phone tapped. You’ve been under surveillance for several days now.” Chambers smiles genially.
“Who’s watching me?”
“I don’t know. If I were you, I’d find out.”
“Why am I here? I’ve already been interviewed, if that’s the word, by somebody in the White House. A Myron Clark …”
“Ah, Myron. I’m afraid Myron lacks polish. A rough diamond.”
“You could say that.”
“I gather your—what did you call it?—your interview did not go well.”
“You could say that, as well.”
“Once again, Miss Shaw warned me about that. She thought I should be the one to speak with you.”
“She sounds like a smart lady.”
“Smarter than you could possibly know.” Chambers gets to his feet. “May I refresh your drink? I know I could use another.” Without waiting for me to answer, he takes my glass and goes to the bar and refills the glasses.
“I’m going to share some information with you.” He speaks from the bar, his back to me. “Information I’m going to ask you to keep in strictest confidence.”
“I make no promises. I’m investigating a homicide. If what you tell me bears on my investigation, I will use it.”
Chambers returns, carrying the two glasses, passes me one and takes a seat. “Of course. I would not dream of perverting the course of justice.”
“You’d be surprised how many perverts there are in my business,” I say.
Chambers laughs, almost spilling his scotch. “When Myron spoke with you—well, he wasn’t fully in the picture.”
“What is this picture you want me to know about but not talk about that Myron wasn’t fully in?”
“I assume Myron asked you not to investigate the death of Sandra Wilcox.”
“He ordered me to stop my investigation. Which I did not take well.”
“Quite understandable. The fact is, we’re dealing with a situation here. Keeping the information confidential will in no way compromise your investigation.”
“I’m listening.”
“On the night Agent Wilcox died, we were having a crisis here in the White House.”
“I never heard of any crisis,” I say. “There’s been nothing in the news.”
“And there never will be. In two days, the President and the First Lady are scheduled to go to Arlington National Cemetery to attend the funeral of General Harry Durkin. Durkin was a major figure in the US military and on the political scene. And also, one of the President’s bitterest opponents.”
“What has any of this to do with Sandra Wilcox? Or me?”
“In a sense, nothing. That’s just the point. Despite their enmity, the President is determined to attend the funeral. For political reasons he feels he must be there to give the eulogy.”
“I understand there’s a plot to assassinate the President. That must complicate things,” I say, trying to cut the explanation short.
“You are well informed. The existence of this plot is supposed to be secret. How did you come to know about the threat? Never mind. The Secret Service has imposed the highest-level security protocols for the next few days. All information about the President’s activities is now secret and that includes all security arrangements.”
“Is that why the White House logs have been closed?”
“Who came and went the night Agent Wilcox was killed is being treated as a state secret.”
Chambers stares into his empty glass. “Would you care for another, Detective Zorn? I’m afraid I can’t join you. I’ve reached my allowed limit. You know how doctors are.” Hollis Chambers looks forlorn. “The Secret Service has discovered evidence of a serious breach of security within the White House itself. Somebody has been leaking information about the President’s schedule. Enough to compromise his secu
rity. I needn’t tell you how serious this is. I’m sorry to say, it looks as though Sandra may have been the source of the leak.”
“You have evidence of this?”
“Nothing I can share. But suffice it to say, there’s evidence she had contacts with a domestic terrorist group that is planning an insurrection.”
“What happened on the night Sandra was killed?”
“We don’t know for sure. Matt Decker, Chief of the Secret Service, believes she was warned she might be under suspicion and managed to escape from the White House to avoid arrest.”
“Then what do they think happened?”
“Decker and his people are investigating that.”
“So this group killed her. Is that what you think?”
“That’s what Matt Decker thinks. I have no personal opinion.”
“I need to know when Sandra Wilcox left the White House on the night she was murdered. And how did Sandra learn she was under suspicion? Is there another conspirator in the White House?”
Hollis Chambers shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I can’t go any further. All the details about what happened that night are being treated as Top Secret. I must warn you, sir, you are in dangerous territory. This case touches on matters of national security.”
“That makes no sense.”
“We must not let this terrorist group learn what we know. It would put the President at risk and could lead to an insurrection with who knows what consequences.”
“But you just told me this group already has sources—what do they call them? ‘moles’—inside the White House.”
“That’s what the Secret Service suspects. We don’t actually know anything. Until we can stop this group, everything to do with Sandra and her death is off limits.”
“It looks like I’m at a dead end.”
“It looks that way,” Chambers murmurs. “I’m sure you understand.”
“No, I don’t understand. And, with respect, I don’t think you are being entirely honest with me.”
He shrugs.
“I have a question for you, Mr. Chambers.”
“Go ahead.”
“Did you know Sandra Wilcox?”
“Not really. The Secret Service agents, when they’re on duty, have no time for socializing or idle talk. The White House is not a social club.”
“You never talked to her?”
“From time to time,” Chambers answers. “When the President and First Lady traveled, there were some down times on Air Force One. We might exchange a few words. Miss Wilcox was on the security detail for the First Lady for over a year, and on three or four occasions I accompanied Mrs. Reynolds on these trips. I spoke with some of the Secret Service agents on these occasions.”
“Including Sandra Wilcox?”
“She was one of many.”
“What is it you do here in the White House, Mr. Chambers?” I ask.
He laughs gently. “You’re not the first one to wonder about that. I have known Eliot and Marsha Reynolds for many years. I was Eliot’s law partner in Cleveland. I worked on his campaign when he first ran for office and I’ve been with him ever since—his run for governor, his first campaign for President. His reelection campaign.”
“You’re saying you’re a kind of a family friend?”
“You could say that. I think of myself as a fixer. I bring no special expertise. I have no political ambitions of my own. No ambitions of any sort. Only to serve Eliot and Marsha Reynolds loyally.”
“Just one more question.”
Chambers nods graciously, spreading his hands—an invitation.
“Did you know Miss Wilcox had an allergy to peanuts?”
“She did? How would I possibly know that?”
I stand up. “Thank you for the drinks.”
“I hope, in light of what I’ve told you,” Chambers says quietly, “you might be less eager in your pursuit of justice.”
“Not a chance.”
“Why do you care? What’s so important about Sandra Wilcox?”
“I’m a police officer. I’m responsible for a murder investigation.”
“I don’t mean to be rude,” Chambers says, “but I don’t believe you. You must have had many cases you could not close.”
“Far too many.”
“You do not strike me as a vigilante. According to your records you have—how should I phrase this?—you have shown flexibility in some of your more delicate investigations. I’m told you showed understanding in the case of Billy Walsh, Howard Walsh’s boy. I ask for understanding in this case. What is it about this case that makes you so determined? You have no connection to the victim and yet you persist in pursuing the truth. Miss Shaw tells me you’re a stubborn man. But there’s more than that here. Why do you care what happened to Sandra Wilcox?”
What can I say? How do I explain why her death is important to me? She needs my help. She’s beyond help—but I can’t turn away. Whatever the cost.
“She looked me in the eye.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I was one of those who pulled Sandra Wilcox’s body from the Reflecting Pool. I looked into the water and she stared back up at me. I can’t forget her blue eyes. And I won’t stop until I discover her killer.”
Hollis Chambers nods. “I see.” He doesn’t see. Not really. “Thank you for coming, Detective Zorn. I hope you will take my advice and drop the Wilcox case.”
Miss Shaw waits for me just outside the door. “I trust your meeting was more satisfactory than the last one,” Miss Shaw says, amiably.
“Pleasanter, certainly. Satisfactory? Not really.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She regards me thoughtfully. “You’re going to persist in finding out what happened to Sandra Wilcox, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“What games are you people here playing?”
“Games?”
“I don’t like playing games. Especially when I don’t know the rules.”
“We play by our own rules here in the Executive Mansion.”
“Why don’t you explain the rules to me?”
She looks intently into my eyes. “Why not?” She smiles. “Shall we say dinner tomorrow evening at the Anchorage Restaurant?”
“That sounds fine.”
“Tomorrow at seven then. I look forward to it.” She smiles. “You have much to learn.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“I COULD BE fired for talking to you.” Larry Talbot, Sandra’s friend in the Secret Service and sometime lover, says, his voice hushed. He sits opposite me in a bar nowhere near the Secret Service headquarters building, a place where no one who knows Talbot is likely to be.
“Who told you not to talk to me?”
“Matt Decker, the head of the Secret Service.”
“When was this?”
“He called me into his office this morning.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“He told me Sandy was mixed up with some domestic terror group.”
“What does he think she did?”
“He claims she was involved in a plot to assassinate the President. He thinks the terrorists decided Sandra was a high risk and feared if she was arrested, she could give away the game. But that’s absurd. I know Sandy. She would never betray the Service. Would never betray her country.”
“You’re sure she’d never betray the Service, even to protect her brother?”
“Not even for that. I know they were close. When her brother washed out of the Army, she took it very hard. That doesn’t mean she’d commit treason for him.”
“Sometimes people surprise us. Sometimes we don’t know people as well as we think we do.”
“You sound just like Decker. Now they’re beginning to suspect me. They’re questioning anyone who knew Sandy well. Decker didn’t say so, but it’s clear they think there was another person involved. And I’m under suspicion.”
�
��What makes you think that?”
“I’ve been suspended. I had to turn in my badge and weapon an hour ago. But it’s not me I’m worried about. It’s Sandy’s honor. Her memory.”
“Larry, I need to know about the night Sandra was murdered,” I say. “Tell me what you know.”
Talbot leans across the table, closer to me, speaking softly. “I don’t know what happened. I didn’t even know where Sandy was that evening.”
“Sandra was in the White House,” I say. “The Secret Service will not confirm that but that’s the way it looks. Tell me how the protective detail is organized.”
“The security details work eight-hour shifts. There’s a day shift, an evening shift, and a night shift.”
“If Sandra was on night shift that evening, what time would she have arrived?”
“Around eleven thirty.”
“Where would the detail be located?”
“In W-16. That’s the Secret Service holding room in the White House.”
“Where were you that evening?”
“I’m assigned to the evening shift of the Counter Assault Team, and my group was in the Old Executive Office Building. The President and First Lady were in the White House that evening hosting a formal dinner. So the Counter Assault Team was standing down. I was relieved by the night shift and I and a couple of the guys, we went to a bar on 15th Street—Ernie’s. It’s a hangout for Secret Service agents. We go there to unwind.”
“What time did you leave the Old Executive Office Building?”
“It would have been around eleven thirty. Maybe a little after.”
“Then what happened?”
“About midnight I got an urgent message on my cell ordering me to the White House.”
“Who called you?”
“The shift supervisor, Alan Drake. I went immediately. Must have gotten there a few minutes after twelve.”
“Why did they call you?”
“Sandra had disappeared.”
“What do you mean?”
“They told me Sandy was in the holding room at the beginning of her shift. And then she wasn’t there. The shift supervisor called her on her cell. There was no answer and they searched the immediate area but found nothing. That’s when Drake called me and others in the area. This is serious shit. The Service is very strict about having security details at full complement at all times.”