The First Lady Page 11

  I slide my pistol in my rear waistband. “Ben … what a surprise.”

  He kisses the top of Amelia’s head. “Love giving my little girl a surprise.”

  “Why … how … why are you here, Ben?”

  He closes the door behind him, as Amelia turns around and he puts his arm around her. Amelia’s smile is as sweet as anything I’ve seen in a while. Ben kisses her again and says, “I called here earlier. Amelia said Todd, the babysitter—”

  “Dad, he’s not a babysitter!”

  “Sorry, kiddo,” he says, squeezing her shoulder. “Amelia said Todd the neighbor had to leave and she wasn’t sure when you were coming home, so I offered to come over and keep her safe.”

  This isn’t what we agreed to with the visitation schedule is what I want to say, but I buck up and go into the kitchen. “Great. Come along, Ben, you can help us finish the dishes.”

  Marsha waits and waits and then the lights in the apartment unit start going out. Good. Across the street is a 24/7 Walgreens with a well-lit parking lot. She’ll slide in there and catch some catnaps during the night, and be ready in case Grissom leaves.

  She remembers again how quickly that Secret Service agent moved. She hates to admit it, but when Grissom was facing those two creeps, Marsha was really tempted to go out and help her.

  It was the urge to do something good.

  Marsha turns on the ignition.

  Better watch out and make sure it didn’t happen again.

  CHAPTER 30

  AFTER THE DISHES are wiped dry and put away, I’m yawning because of the long day, but I won’t go to bed yet. Ben and I keep a cordial and polite conversation for the benefit of our girl, and there’s chocolate ice cream for dessert. We then go out into the small living room, and I not-so-gently aim Ben to a battered reclining chair, while Amelia and I sit on the couch.

  Amelia puts on a television show about not-so-real housewives somewhere, all made up, Botoxed, and dieted to within an ounce of their lives, and it seems most of their time is spent yelling at each other and eating at expensive restaurants.

  My daughter is calling up photos of national parks on her iPad in preparation for some school project, and Ben comes over and kneels down next to her, pointing out the history of each park that Amelia brings up. I try to stay awake as I watch members of my own sex disgrace themselves on national television, but then I’m shocked into sudden awareness at the exchange next to me.

  Amelia oohs and points to a photo on her tablet. “Oh, Yellowstone. And that geyser, Old Faithful. Does it really spout out like that on schedule?”

  Ben rubs her shoulder. “It sure does, honey. I was there last year and saw it twice, right on time.”

  Amelia says, “No way, Dad,” and her dad says, “Sure … maybe I’ll take you out there next summer.”

  “Really?” Amelia turns to me and says, “Mom, did you hear that?”

  I force a smile. “I sure did, sweetie, and look at the time. Let’s get you into bed.”

  For once she doesn’t whine or argue, but she shuts down her iPad and says, “Can Daddy spend the night? Can he?”

  Ben says quietly, “Yes, can he?”

  I take Amelia’s hand, gently pull her up from the couch, and lead her out of the room without saying a word.

  After she’s washed up and settled down in her small bedroom, I go out and Ben is standing there, looking uneasy, pretending to pay serious attention to a talk show now on Bravo. I stand in front of him and say, “Mind telling me what this is all about?”

  He looks up at me, not ignoring me, which is at least a step forward, although a step overdue by a number of years. “I called her up to see how she was doing. She told me Todd had to leave because of some family emergency. And that you were running late. She sounded scared, Sally, so I told her I’d come right over. You know this isn’t the best of neighborhoods.”

  I cross my arms. “And whose fault is that?”

  Ben holds up a hand. “Please … can we not fight? Please? For Amelia’s sake?”

  “For Amelia’s sake?” I step closer and lower my voice. “You should have thought of Amelia a long, long time ago, before your drinking got out of control and you started humping interns half your age.”

  His voice is bleak. “I’m in a program. I’ve stopped the drinking and … I’ve been faithful these past months. Sally, how many times do I have to apologize?”

  “I’ll let you know,” I snap back. “And here’s another thing for Amelia’s sake. You’re confusing the hell out of her. We’ve agreed to a visitation schedule, and you coming tonight … okay, she was scared, but I was here before you showed up. It’s tough enough for our daughter without her thinking there’s a chance we’re getting back together.”

  His eyes seem to moisten, and I step back and say, “But fair’s fair. You take the couch, get out before she gets up for school.”

  He nods. “Thanks, Sally.”

  “Don’t be so happy,” I say. “If I get called out during the night, you’re going to have to stay and get her to school by yourself.”

  “Not a problem,” Ben says.

  I leave the living room. “And either turn that damn thing down or turn it off.”

  In my bedroom I hear sudden silence from the living room as Ben switches off the television, like he’s some holy pilgrim somewhere, following his superior’s orders, hoping for redemption.

  Sorry, Ben, I think, curled up in my bed. No redemption tonight.

  And after a while, I figure, no sleep as well.

  Not after the day I’ve had.

  So many thoughts are racing around in my mind that it’s hard to keep track of them, and instead of counting sheep, I’m counting all of the problems I’m facing—each problem looking like a rabid wolverine rather than a cuddly sheep—and then the bedroom door creaks open.

  I whisper, “Amelia?”

  “No,” comes the embarrassed reply. “It’s Ben.”

  He comes in, closes the door, and says, “Sally, I’m sorry. I can’t sleep. That couch … it’s got some metal bar in it that digs into my back.”

  “Then go home already.”

  “Can’t … can’t I just come in here? With you? I promise, I won’t disturb you.”

  His shape is outlined by the glow from the bedside clock and other electronics. I don’t want to even glance at the time.

  “You could still go home.”

  “Sally, please … must you always be angry at me? Always?”

  I think of him and I think of my commander in chief, and I wonder where the First Lady might be, and maybe there should be some consolation that even the highest and mightiest of us all can have marital problems, but I’m not seeing it. The First Lady saw her betrayal live on television earlier today. I saw mine about a year ago, when a presidential visit was canceled at the last minute, meaning I got home early to see my drunken husband in bed with an intern from the Department of the Interior, with another one waiting for him in the kitchen, smoking a joint.

  “All right,” I say. “You can join me.”

  There’s movement and a soft rustle of clothes being removed, and the bed shifts as he stretches out next to me. We both remain silent until Ben says, “Not a day goes by that I don’t regret what I did, Sally. Honest. I’m ashamed, I’m humiliated, and I’m so sad for what I’ve put you through, and Amelia. Especially Amelia, I never meant for it to—”

  “Ben?” I ask in the darkened bedroom.

  “Yes?”

  “Go to sleep,” I say, “and if you touch me or try to come over to this side, I’ll break your fingers.”

  CHAPTER 31

  MY INTERNAL CLOCK usually gets me up at 6:00 a.m., and it’s rare that it fails me, but this is one of those damnable mornings. I wake up in an empty bed. Good, I think, and glance over at the clock—6:45 a.m., definitely not good—and I jump out of bed and toss on a robe and yell out “Amelia!” as I go down the hallway.

  Then I smell coffee and bacon, and I get to the
kitchen, and Ben’s there, grinning, standing by the stove, and Amelia is setting plates and says cheerfully, “Look, Mom, Daddy and I made you breakfast!”

  Holy crap, I think. I check the time again and say, “Ben … for Christ’s sake, she’s got to be down at the corner in ten minutes to catch the bus.”

  Ben’s face colors. “I thought the bus picked her up at seven fifteen.”

  Before I caught you, you fool, and when I swore I would never set foot in that place ever again, is what I think.

  I say, “Ben, that was at … the old place.” I turn to Amelia and say, “Your bag all packed? You got money for lunch?”

  “Mom—” she starts, and I say, “Hurry up and eat as much as you can.”

  And I turn and race back to the bedroom.

  Nine minutes later I’m outside with Amelia, dressed, with just a comb through my hair and wearing about 80 percent of what I was wearing yesterday. I’ve made a call to get a pickup from one of the Secret Service staff at H Street. I also make two other phone calls, one to Scotty and one to Pamela Smithson, and both calls confirm what I had suspected: no progress in the search for Grace Fuller Tucker.

  “All right,” I tell them both. “Keep at it. I’m going to work matters on this end.”

  When I’m done I see the bright-yellow school bus grumbling its way to us in the thick morning traffic. Amelia stands there, looking small, her brightly colored knapsack almost as large as she is. Ben had given her a quick kiss and awkward hug a few minutes earlier before quickly strolling away, shoulders hunched over.

  “Hey, hon,” I say, “what’s up?”

  “You don’t have to be so mean.”

  “Amelia …”

  Her head snaps right to my direction. “Daddy came over last night because I was scared! And he helped clean the dishes. And make breakfast. And you weren’t nice to him at all …”

  “But Amelia …”

  “He came out of your bedroom this morning,” she says. “That means he still loves you, Mommy. Don’t you see? If you stop being so mean to him, we can move back to our real home, and you don’t have to get a divorce and it can all go back to the way things were.”

  Her bus comes to a stop, and I note a black Suburban up the way that’s my ride this morning.

  “It’s … more complicated than that, honey. And we’re not getting back together. I’m sorry.”

  The door to the bus swings open, and she’s now bawling. “If you were nice to him, he’d take us back! He’d take us back, I know he would! We can all be together again!”

  “Honey …”

  She jumps off the sidewalk, goes up the steps into the school bus, her knapsack bouncing on her little back, and she turns and in a high-pitched voice that always cuts me, no matter how much of a tough mom I think I am, she calls out, “If you weren’t so mean, we’d still be a family! Why do you have to be so mean?”

  The door whispers shut. Amelia goes to a seat. The times I’ve waited with her at the bus stop, she’s always turned and waved out the window at me.

  Not this morning.

  The bus lurches forward into the traffic, and the Suburban stops. I open the door and climb in, and I say to the young driver, “Not a word to me or I’ll toss you out and drive myself.”

  Even with his sharp dress and clean-cut looks, he appears scared.

  Good.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says.

  I fasten my seat belt. “Those were two words. Don’t let it happen again.”

  And then we’re off.

  CHAPTER 32

  PARKER HOYT HAS been at his desk for three hours already this morning, working the phones, soothing scared senators and representatives, bucking up important donors, all the while waiting and waiting to see if the First Lady is going to be found today. The news is still grim from Atlanta, but there’s a hopeful tone in some of the commentary, about the President coming forth yesterday and admitting his mistakes. And the bulk of the coverage and opinion pieces share the same thread: the President’s campaign has received a serious blow, but there’s still time to recover, especially if the First Lady comes forward and offers some forgiveness.

  But there are also questions … where is the First Lady?

  Parker rubs at the back of his neck. Publicly, she’s in seclusion. Privately … about a half-dozen people know her real status, and in DC, that number will start growing in the next few hours until he finds that bitch, either dead or alive.

  At this point, Parker doesn’t particularly care.

  His phone rings, and his secretary says, “Special Agent Grissom to see you,” and he says, “Right away, send her in.”

  The door opens and Agent Grissom comes in, and she looks awful. Eyes bleary, hair a mess, skin blotchy, and it looks like she’s wearing the same plain outfit from yesterday. A nasty part of Parker quickly wonders how in the world she managed to find a husband and to have a child … and also thinks, well, she found a husband, but she sure didn’t find a way to keep him.

  “Sit down,” he says, but she’s already descending into a chair when he says, “Why are you here?”

  Grissom says, “I have a capable crew out searching the river. And I’ve got other work to do in town.”

  “Anything new to report?”

  “Not a thing,” she says. “The horse came back riderless. Nobody at the stables saw anything unusual. There’s only one road in and out of the farm. Surveillance tapes were reviewed and she didn’t sneak out.”

  “And the note and the panic button?”

  “Still in our possession, and I got a call a while ago from our forensics outfit,” she says. “It was legit. Does the President know?”

  “He does,” Parker says. “The Homeland Security unit still out there?”

  “They are.”

  “The cover story about a lost canoeist still holding?”

  “It is, so far … but I don’t know for how long.”

  Parker brushes away a speck of dust on his otherwise clean desk. “How did you get that unit out there on such short notice?”

  “Appealed to their better nature,” Grissom said, voice snappy, and Parker decides not to press the point.

  He says, “What did you say earlier, about other work to do? What the hell does that mean?”

  Grissom says, “It means the President’s wife is still missing. There are search teams in the area where she was last seen. Having me out there supervising won’t accomplish a damn thing. Talking to people back here can help.”

  “What people?”

  “The President’s lead protective agent, for one.”

  “And who else?”

  Grissom says, “I need to talk to the President. Privately.”

  Parker shakes his head. “Impossible.”

  “Then make it possible, and this morning,” Grissom says. “Right now, there are no leads. None. Zero. And I need to ask some questions, poke around to see what comes up.”

  “She might be dead,” Parker says. “That note … I thought it looked like a suicide note.”

  “Perhaps, but I’m leaving all options open.”

  “You think she might be faking a suicide?”

  Grissom says, “Like I said, I’m leaving all options open. And I need to see the President, as soon as possible.”

  “Agent Grissom …”

  “Make it happen, Mr. Hoyt,” Grissom says. “The best way for a successful resolution, and a quick one, is to run this down like any other criminal investigation. Which means I get to talk to people. And that’s going to include me talking to the husband of a missing woman. When a wife goes missing, the husband needs to be interviewed. Like any other case.”

  Parker says, “This isn’t any other case, you know that.”

  Grissom stands up. “You can keep on thinking that, Mr. Hoyt, but I can’t afford to do so. Otherwise she’ll never be found.”

  After she’s gone, Parker picks up his phone, reluctantly calls one of the two numbers he’s been using since this mess sta
rted.

  Again, the phone is answered by his contact; again, from the ambient noise, he can tell the person is outside.

  There’s no hesitation on the other end of the phone. “Don’t ever call me again, all right? I’ll call if I have any information, and right now, I don’t.”

  Parker says, “I just want to verify that there are no new developments.”

  No answer, as the person on his private payroll hangs up.

  Parker stares at the phone and then glances at a printed piece of paper carefully placed at the side of his desk. He picks up his White House phone and reaches the President’s secretary.

  He lets out a big sigh as she answers the phone. He says, “Mrs. Young, I need fifteen minutes of the President’s time this morning … so tell the Better Business Bureau delegation they’re going to have to make do with the secretary of commerce.”

  CHAPTER 33

  IN A CRAMPED, windowless interview office adjacent to Room W-17, I finally meet with Jackson Thiel, the head of the President’s detail, the agent most often at President Tucker’s side. There’s no decorations, no plants, no framed photographs in the office, just a telephone and a metal desk and two chairs that seem to be leftovers from the Carter administration.

  I sit down, and Jackson sits across from me, impeccably dressed as always, face impassive but slightly troubled, and I decide to get right to it.

  “When did it start?”

  Jackson doesn’t hesitate. “When did what start?”

  I make sure he hears my audible sigh. “Okay, if that’s how you want to play it, I’ll let you be. In a day or two, the usual congressional knuckleheads are going to demand a special prosecutor to find out what laws were broken while CANAL was stepping out on his wife. Then the Secret Service and Homeland Security are going to decide whether to defend you rogue agents, or toss you all under the nearest Metro bus. When that happens, you’re going to be on your own, Agent Thiel. In other words, if some agents who’d take a bullet for CANAL have their lives and careers destroyed, so be it.”