The First Lady Read online

  “I think I am,” I say, yawning. “What’s up?”

  I see she has some sheets of paper in her hand. “Sorry to say this, Sally, but you guys need to leave. Now.”

  CHAPTER 80

  THERE’S HUSTLE AND bustle, and soon enough, I’m in the living room with Scotty and the First Lady, and we’re dressed and ready to go. Gwen passes a lumpy envelope over to me that I slide into my coat while no one is looking, and while we’re all yawning and rubbing our eyes, Scotty is as sharp as ever.

  My lower back still aches.

  “Are you sure we need to do this?” he asks.

  “Very sure,” I say, looking to my sister, who says, “Amelia’s still sleeping.”

  I choke up. “You tell her … you tell her …”

  Gwen comes to me, squeezes my hand.

  “I’m going to tell her that she can have scrambled eggs or pancakes. That’s what I’m going to tell her.”

  I squeeze her hand back. “That sounds fine.”

  Scotty is next to CANARY, who says, “Why are we going so early? And where are we going?”

  “I’ll tell you in a moment, ma’am,” I say. “But first things first … Scotty. Will you do a sweep of the parking lot and come back with the Suburban?”

  “On it, boss,” he says, and he unlocks the door, and then slips out. I give him a few seconds, and motioning to the First Lady, we follow him.

  We step outside on the small sidewalk. The sun is up, but it’s still damn early. The First Lady holds her bandaged left hand awkwardly, but I’m not in the mood for interrogating her.

  I’m in the mood for my primary job.

  Off in the distance among the parked cars I see the form of Scotty, looking around, making sure that there’s no one out there with bad intent, waiting.

  I can’t help myself. I yawn. The First Lady smiles and says, “Still pretty tired.”

  I say, “Some days my only goal in life is to be someplace where I never have to set an alarm, ever again, so I only wake up when my body tells me.”

  A car suddenly starts up, and I reach for my pistol, then relax. It’s a woman in a silver Lexus, slowly going by, drinking from a travel mug of coffee. She waves at us both, and we wave back, and she drives on, ignorant of whom she’s just passed.

  I say, “Earlier you said you had an idea of a safe place where we might go.”

  “I did,” CANARY replies.

  I slide my hand into my coat, to the lumpy envelope that my sister has just given me.

  “Now’s a good time to let me know,” I say.

  CHAPTER 81

  TAMMY DOYLE IS in her office at Pearson, Pearson, and Price, pleased that she was brave enough to pass through the front doors of her firm this morning. With the news about the missing First Lady, the stakeout has thinned, with most reporters and TV crews heading out to the newer and juicier story in Virginia.

  She knows the equations of news very well.

  What gets more attention?

  A live mistress or a dead First Lady?

  A slight knock on the door and Ralph Moren, the group’s admin aide, comes in, bearing a cup of coffee, and he says, “You’re looking pretty fine this morning.”

  “Thanks, Ralph.”

  He passes the cup of coffee to her, and before she can take a sip, he says confidentially, “There’s a phone call for you.”

  “Who is it?”

  “You won’t believe it,” he says, smiling.

  “Try me.”

  “Lucian Crockett.”

  Tammy is stunned, remembering the last time she heard that name, back at her condo. “There’s a mistake. Amanda’s been trying for months to reel him in as a client.”

  The aide smiles and shakes his head. “No mistake. He asked for you directly and specifically.” Ralph gestures to her phone. “Line three, Tammy. Don’t keep him waiting.”

  Ralph leaves, but Tammy does keep Lucian waiting because she’s trying to process what’s going on. Lucian Crockett is the CEO of the nation’s largest fracking and gas recovery corporation in the American Southwest, and the lobbying firm of Pearson, Pearson, and Price—and especially Amanda—have been trying to get him and his billions of dollars of assets under the firm’s lobbying umbrella.

  Tammy stops hesitating. She picks up the receiver, punches in the switch for line three, and says, “Tammy Doyle here.”

  “Miss Doyle?” comes a gravelly and self-assured voice. “Lucian Crockett here. Thanks for taking my call.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. Crockett. Thanks for calling. What can I do for you?”

  He laughs. “I always love doing things informally. Drives my accountants crazy. May I call you Tammy, Miss Doyle?”

  “Certainly.”

  There are voices raised out in the common office area, but Tammy ignores the commotion. “Then you can call me Lucian,” he replies. “Look, I know you’re a busy woman, and you’ve been in the news lately, so I’ll make this quick and to the point. I want your company to represent me and my folks, the sooner the better. We need to get a jump on a lot of permitting and zoning issues, and your company has just the kind of folks we need to push things along.”

  Tammy says, “Well, that’s wonderful news indeed, Mr., er, Lucian. But I know you’ve been in discussions with my boss, Amanda Price, and—”

  His cheerful voice quickly turns to ice. “Amanda? Well … ’tween you and me, Tammy, that bitch has been playin’ with me for months, like a cheerleader dating a star football player, taggin’ and taggin’ him along, and I’m tired of it.”

  “Well—”

  “My wife and my mother, bless ’em both, well, they’ve seen you on the TV. They like how you hold your head high. They don’t like the way Tucker has treated you. And I told ’em that you worked for Pearson, Pearson, and Price … well, they advised me …”—and he chuckles, like he and Tammy both know what the word advised means—“that I should go with your company, but deal only with you. And not Amanda Price.”

  Tammy’s heart is thumping with joy, thinking of the millions of dollars that will be coming into the firm, and all thanks to her. “Well, Lucian, that’s highly irregular, and—”

  “Here’s the deal,” Lucian says. “Yes or no, don’t have time to keep on dickin’ around … last time Amanda and I chatted, she said her last offer was the best she could do, take it or leave it. Seems she felt like she had to charge me more in case she loses some of her nature-loving clients ’cause of what we do. Bitch. Okay, I’m gonna take the offer, but it’s gonna be with you and only you. Make myself clear?”

  Tammy’s thoughts are racing. Amanda will say this is impossible, that she won’t allow it to happen, but the other partners in the firm … they’ll smile and make it happen.

  “Lucian, you’ve got yourself a deal,” Tammy says, smiling.

  When she’s done, she goes out to the common area and sees what the fuss is all about. There’s a television set on in the corner, and she pushes her way through to see—

  Grace Fuller Tucker, First Lady of the United States.

  She’s smiling, laughing, and there are small children around her, hugging and giggling, and on the walls are finger paintings and drawings, and in the crowd near the First Lady, Tammy spots the Secret Service agent who had earlier interviewed her.

  “What’s going on?” Tammy asks.

  One of her coworkers says, “The First Lady’s alive. Seems like she fell in the river while riding her horse, got knocked out, hurt her hand … managed to crawl to a barn … Secret Service found her this morning.”

  Tammy watches the First Lady smile and smile, sees the joy and pleasure in her eyes, standing alone and strong, and proud and defiant, and someone says, “She looks awful.”

  “No,” Tammy says. “She looks wonderful.”

  CHAPTER 82

  EARLIER GRACE FULLER Tucker had been chilled, hungry, and her left hand had been throbbing with slow pangs of pain, but now she’s warm, happy, and feels oh so safe.

  She’
s back at A Happy Place Forever, the homeless shelter in Anacostia she had visited before leaving the East Wing on the day the scandal broke, and with the children, her staff, and Agent Grissom around her and television crews coming in one after another, she feels invulnerable.

  The questions are now coming at her, like fast-pitch softballs back when she was on the softball team at OSU, and like she did back in the day, she’s hammering them.

  “Mrs. Tucker, what happened to your hand?”

  She holds up her left hand. “I’m not sure. I think when I fell in the stream, I crushed my little finger somehow. It’s doing better, thanks.”

  “Mrs. Tucker, who treated it?”

  “The Secret Service … they gave me initial care. I’ll be off to George Washington later this morning to have a medical professional look at it.”

  “And your head?”

  She widens her smile, takes her good hand, rubs the back of her neck. “Despite the best efforts of the Taccanock River and Arapahoe, it seems to be still attached.”

  Some laughter from the staff and even some members of the rapidly growing press corps.

  “Mrs. Tucker, do you know there’s been an extensive search for you these past few days?”

  A little African-American boy is hugging her so tightly, and she just reaches down and squeezes a bony shoulder. “I know … and I’m most grateful for those who took part in the search. You have my deepest gratitude.”

  “Mrs. Tucker, why are you here and not at the White House? Or a hospital?”

  She says, “I know it sounds odd, but I wanted a little pick-meup before going to the hospital … and this is the perfect place to get that.”

  Another hug from the boy at her side, and she wonders if anyone out there is noticing that she’s not saying anything about returning to the White House.

  The cameras are flashing, microphones are being extended to her, and the bright lights from the television cameras make the interior of this homeless shelter for children look like it’s in Phoenix at high noon.

  But she’s waiting, waiting for that question that’s going to come her way, and sure enough, here it comes.

  “Mrs. Tucker … if I may … and I’m sorry to bring this up, but do you have any comment about the apparent relationship your husband is having with a K Street lobbyist?”

  One more wide smile, one more squeeze of the homeless boy’s shoulders.

  “No, I don’t,” she says.

  CHAPTER 83

  FOUR DAYS AGO, when I came into the Oval Office the President and the chief of staff had been sitting on a couch, asking me to sit across from them in an inviting and open manner.

  Not today.

  The President is sitting behind his desk, and Parker Hoyt is standing by his side. They both have grim looks on their faces, like attorneys who’ve just learned the governor has turned down the last chance for clemency for their death-row client.

  That’s all right.

  This will be my last visit to this office, and if I’m lucky, the last time I talk to either of them.

  Parker Hoyt looks to the Man, and I jump right in.

  “Mr. President, I know the news has reached you already, but I’m pleased to report that the First Lady has been recovered,” I say. “Save for her little finger and some bumps and scrapes, she’s doing fine.”

  President Tucker looks to his chief of staff, as if he’s seeking some reassurance, and I say, “I’m sure you’re pleased, no matter the status of your … marriage, that Grace Tucker is alive and reasonably well. But as to Mr, Hoyt … I feel you should know that he has been working behind your back to hinder this investigation.”

  Parker Hoyt’s face flushes, and he says, “Agent Grissom, you are way the hell out of line. Leave. Now.”

  “Not until I finish my briefing to the President.”

  “Out!” Parker shouts, pointing to the near Oval Office door. “Now!”

  I stride right up and get into his face, give it right back. “I don’t work for you, Mr. Hoyt! I serve in this White House at the pleasure of the President, and only him! If he wants me to depart, I’ll do so, but not one goddamn second earlier!”

  We lock eyes, and without shifting my head, I say, “Mr. President?”

  Oh my, this pause only goes on for a few seconds, but it seems like hours.

  Then the President, in a soft voice, says, “Agent Grissom, please continue.”

  I smile at Hoyt, back away.

  “Sir,” I say, “in the course of my investigation, I’ve learned that your chief of staff, Parker Hoyt, has been in contact with his former employer, Global Strategic Solutions, and an independent contractor, Marsha Gray, a former Marine sniper. This woman was in constant contact with Mr. Hoyt and was working under his direction.”

  The President’s hands are clenched, and he stands up behind his desk.

  “Parker?”

  The chief of staff’s eyes flicker, and I can sense his reptilian, political mind racing along, almost at light speed. “Mr. President, that’s not true. And you know it. Agent Grissom … you know she’s been under tremendous pressure, and with the death of her husband—”

  I keep my suspicions about Ben’s killer to myself, and say, “Mr. President, your chief of staff wasn’t interested in rescuing the First Lady. He was interested in having her killed.”

  Face flushed, Parker says, “Harry … don’t listen to her. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Look, you’ve known me for years, long years. I’ve always had your best interests at heart. Don’t listen to her.”

  “Mr. President,” I say, “did you know that Mr. Hoyt has a secure phone in his office that bypasses the White House communications system?”

  He pauses. “I seem to recall a slight mention of it … right after the inauguration.”

  “That’s how Mr. Hoyt communicated with his former company and the Marine sniper. The sniper who came close to murdering the First Lady yesterday.”

  Hoyt’s face is so red it looks like he’s just emerged from a tanning booth. “Prove it.”

  I reach inside my plain black jacket, unfold three sheets of paper. “Mr. President … these are phone records, listing the time and location of phone calls made between Mr. Hoyt, his former company, and the arrested Marine sniper.”

  I put them on the President’s desk. Hoyt says, “A forgery. It’s a forgery, Mr. President.”

  I say, “No, it’s not a forgery. And a call from the President to the director of the National Security Agency at Fort Meade can confirm it. This phone listing … it’s not evidence that can be admitted in court, but Mr. President … I know you’ll find it useful.”

  CANAL reaches over, his hand trembling, picks up the papers. He starts to look at them.

  Hoyt is staring at me with pure, unadulterated hate.

  It feels good, being on the other side of his hate.

  I say, “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I need to leave.”

  I turn and walk to the curved door, and I can’t resist.

  “Mr. Hoyt, if you’ll recall our last conversation,” I say, “you advised me to hire the very best lawyer I could afford.”

  I open the door before stepping out. “I suggest you take your own advice.”

  CHAPTER 84

  SEVEN FEET BELOW the Oval Office—I’m morbidly curious about how the conversation up there is going—I go to my desk, sit down, and just put my head in my hands.

  A few moments pass, and then I get to work.

  No time to waste.

  The other agents studiously ignore me, as I find an empty cardboard box and two plastic grocery bags and slowly and carefully start packing up my personal belongings, putting them in, hating each second, but knowing it has to be done.

  The door to W-17 opens and my deputy, Scotty, walks in, sees what I’m doing, and comes over and sits down next to my desk.

  “Boss,” he says.

  “Scotty,” I reply.

  I reach over my desk, pick up one of my las
t mementos, the carved-wood sign made by Amelia, SALLY GRISSOM, AWESOME AGENT, though I don’t feel very awesome at the moment.

  “Pretty quiet there, Scotty.”

  He doesn’t say a word.

  “I’m wondering why you’re not asking me why I left you behind at my sister’s place and borrowed her car to take the First Lady over to that homeless shelter.”

  Scotty says quietly, “You probably had your reasons.”

  “Good reasons,” I say. “Let’s not play around, okay? Show me some respect. I’ve seen the phone records. Just tell me … what did Hoyt promise you?”

  My deputy’s jaw clenches, unclenches, and there’s probably a little battle going on, about what to say next, and Scotty says, “Your job. Plus a great career down the road at his company.”

  I nod. “Not thirty pieces of silver, I guess, but it’ll do. And now’s the time for me to ask, why?”

  A slight shrug. “Nothing personal, boss. I did three tours overseas. I’m ex-Ranger. I’ve done things that you could only have nightmares about … and I’m supposed to be bossed around by a former Metro and Virginia state cop? A woman?” Another slight shrug. “Not acceptable.”

  I keep my anger and outrage under control. “All right, thanks for telling me that.”

  I open up my drawer, rummage around, don’t see anything personal in there, and I say, “My sister also told me you were restless last night, getting up a few times, like you were trying to sneak through the living room and come upstairs to where CANARY was sleeping. But my sister sure is a light sleeper, isn’t she?”

  Scotty doesn’t respond. I give the drawer one last look, close it, and look up. Scotty is still there.

  “Well?” I say. “Is there anything else?”

  Now he finally looks uncomfortable. “Um, well, what now?”

  “Beats the hell out of me,” I say. “I’m ending my employment with the Secret Service and Homeland Security, effective … in about ten minutes. Upstairs I believe the President is in the middle of dismissing his chief of staff. At some point there may or may not be a congressional investigation, depending on how this election turns out. But I’m certain there’ll be some sort of internal and confidential Secret Service review as to what the hell went on here during the past few days. If not, an anonymous phone call to Homeland Security’s Office of the Inspector General will certainly get things moving.”