Born to Run (9 page)

"You mean getting fired?"

"Other issues." She drank some coffee, then continued. "The protocol for White House interns is strict: how to dress, where they're allowed to go, and most important, how to act when the 'principals' are present."

"She violated that?"

"The White House is the only place where the president is not a celebrity. Interns aren't supposed to hang out in halls that they expect the president or vice president to walk through, or park themselves outside rooms where they may be meeting. Chloe was one of the few interns who earned a blue pass, which gave her access to the West Wing. Frankly, I think she became a little star -
struck. Chloe started to, shall we say--hover--around Grayson."

"What happened?"

"Well, she ended up getting fired."

"For drugs."

"That's what they say," said Paulette.

"Again, you sound skeptical."

"I can't help it. I'm a journalist," she said, her tone turning more serious. "And because this is my sister we're talking about."

"I think I'm beginning to understand you," he said. "But I really don't see where this is leading."

"It comes down to this e-mail," she said, holding her iPhone. "I'm guessing that it wasn't the first communication between Chloe and her source. Why else would the FBI have shown up at her apartment with a warrant to get her computer? So let's say the give-and-take between Chloe and her source went back a few weeks, maybe longer. If you read Chloe's e-mail--the promise of a story that will bring down Keyes--in tandem with the message you got--an offer to make your father president--it makes you stop and think. Maybe there was a reason Chloe was trying so hard to reach the vice president. Maybe she was trying to convey the same information."

"About an assassination attempt?"

"No. Don't you get it? The key word here is not 'threat.' It's information. Chloe had information that could bring down Keyes and make Grayson president. Your source has information that could still bring down Keyes and make your father president. That's why the FBI won't let me see the full e-mail that Chloe received."

"Wow" was all Jack could say.

"So?" said Paulette. "Are we there yet?"

Jack was about to ask where, but she had that look on her face again, and he knew she was talking about trust. "Are you proposing some kind of partnership?"

"The FBI is not going to tell me anything. Mark my word: they are not going to tell you anything, either. I have sources. You'll have yours. If we cooperate, I might just find out what happened to my sister. And you might find out what your father is walking into--before it's too late."

"That makes some sense."

"It will make even more sense if you're free for about another hour."

Jack checked his watch. He had time. "Free for what?"

"I have a meeting, and you're welcome to tag along."

"Who's it with?"

"Someone who is now terrified to talk to anyone, thanks to the strong arm of the FBI. He may be the only man alive who can identify the person who sent you that e-mail."

"Are you talking about that homeless guy who hand-delivered the message to me yesterday?"

"You got it."

"The FBI wouldn't even tell me his name. How did you find him?"

"Sources."

"Must be nice to have them," said Jack.

"Good boy," she said, smiling thinly. "You're learning."

Chapter
14

A scenic walk down Pennsylvania Avenue took Jack and Paulette to Lafayette Park, a seven-acre public green space directly north of the White House. At the southeast entrance they were greeted by a statue of Marquis Gilbert de Lafayette, a French hero of the American Revolutionary War and France's "pay-it-forward" answer to World War II and the liberation of Paris. A block north was St. John's Episcopal Church, the unofficial chapel to the White House since James Madison staked out pew 54 almost two centuries ago.

"They call this the church of presidents," said Paulette, as they approached.

Four homeless men were resting on the front steps, two of them either sleeping or passed out.

"These must be the vice presidents," said Jack.

She smiled and said, "Are you making fun of your father or my church?"

"You go to church?"

"Does that surprise you?"

"Only because most of the Washington reporters I've met so far think they are God."

"And I suppose monster egos would be something completely new to you, being a trial lawyer and all."

"Touche," said Jack.

As they climbed the granite stairs, the sun poked through the clouds and brought a springlike glow to the golden cupola and exterior walls of yellow stucco. The morning air was still quite cold, however, and Jack wondered how many nights these homeless men had spent shivering outside church doors just a block away from the White House.

"I started coming here when I was assigned to White House coverage," said Paulette, "though, to be honest, on my first visit I was just curious to see who might be here. That's how I found Juan."

"Juan?"

"My source."

"Vrincesa" the man said, rising from the top step. "Como estas?"

"Muy bien, gracias."

Jack shot Paulette another look of surprise. "You speak Spanish?"

"Not really. But Juan doesn't seem to care."

Jack was suddenly reminded of the embarrassment it caused his abuela to have lady friends compare her grandson's Spanish to Speedy Gonzalez's English.

Paulette made the introductions, but instead of shaking Jack's hand, Juan hugged Paulette and said, "She's beautiful, no?"

It was apparent to Jack that Juan wasn't just a source.

"Sit," he said, inviting them to take a place on the church step. "Mi casa es su casa."

Juan's smile was short on teeth but not on sincerity. He wore a Washington Redskins cap, black mittens, and Easter-egg-blue golf slacks that the embarrassed wife of a lawyer must have thrown into the Salvation Army box. Juan was a large man with a non -
threatening manner, and the scar on his forehead made Jack guess that he was probably one of those gentle giants who got provoked into bar fights by short, drunk guys with Napoleon complexes.

Paulette said, "Juan and I have been sitting next to each other every Sunday for about six months now."

"We met at La Casa," said Juan.

"La Casa is a homeless shelter," she said, "mostly Hispanic men. I volunteer down there."

Jack tried not to look too surprised, but Paulette was turning out to be very unlike the person he had expected. And yet she hardly knew her sister.

The world is a weird place.

"Got good news for you," said Juan.

"You found our man?" said Paulette. "SL"

"Can you take us to him?" said Jack.

"No."

"Why not?" said Paulette.

"He is hiding."

"From who?" she said.

"Todo el mundo." The whole world.

Jack said, "My guess is that he knows the FBI is using him as bait. That's why the bureau released him--to see if the man who hired him as a decoy comes looking for him again."

Paulette didn't disagree. "Did you talk to him, Juan?"

"Claro. Turns out he's a friend de un amigo of a friend."

Jack calculated that as a friend, once-Hispanic and twice
-
gringo removed. "Did he tell you anything about the man who hired him to meet me outside the museum?"

"Un viejo."

"How old of an old man?" said Jack.

"In a wheelchair."

"A wheelchair?"

"St. A chair. With wheels. Tu sabes? Or you no speak English?"

Paulette swallowed her laughter.

"Yes," said Jack, "I know what a wheelchair is."

"Did your homeless friend tell you anything else about the man?" said Paulette.

"He like Anthony Hopkins."

"He's like Anthony Hopkins?" she said. "Or he likes Anthony Hopkins?"

"He is him. That character in the movie."

"You mean he's a Hannibal Lecter?"

"No. The other one." Juan started dancing, arms up over his head, humming to the tune of Zorba's famous Sirtaki.

"You mean Anthony Quinn," said Paulette.

"Si, si El Griego."

The Greek.

A volunteer from a local shelter passed by with cups of hot coffee. Juan called to her and was about to bolt. Jack needed to get to his morning meeting anyway, so with Juan's assurance that he wasn't forgetting to tell them anything, Jack and Paulette bid him good-bye and walked back toward the White House. At the corner, facing the Executive Mansion, Jack and Paulette exchanged glances.

"What do you think?'1 said Jack.

"I think the man who sent that e-mail to you also sent that e-mail to Chloe. I think if we find out what was actually inside Chloe's e-mail, we'll find out why he shot her."

"But that was your theory even before we talked to Juan."

"Right. A theory. Now I'm convinced it's fact."

"How'd you make that leap?"

"It makes perfect sense that the shooter would be in a wheelchair."

"Why?"

"Something broke down between him and Chloe. He needed to eliminate her and deal with you instead. He instructed her to walk to a bus stop where he could drive by, make the hit from his car, and make a quick escape. A clean job and a clean getaway for an old man who can't walk."

Jack considered it. "That actually makes some sense."

"Of course it does. You factor in the way the FBI has shut down the flow of information to both you and me, and it makes even more sense. The guy has something on President Keyes. Maybe he told it to Chloe, and she didn't pay him for it. He killed her before she could go public and make his secret worthless. Now he's looking to sell the same information to you--with the promise that, if your father is confirmed as vice president, it will make him president."

"I don't follow that last part. If he has some dirt on the president, why not just blackmail him or his supporters? Why come to me, the son of the vice presidential nominee?"

"I haven't figured that one out yet. But this much I can compute: right now the FBI is pulling out all the stops looking for an old Greek man in a wheelchair. We should be, too."

"How many of those can there be in Washington?"

"No idea," she said.

"Me neither," said Jack. "But something tells me we're going to find out."

Chapter
15

Jack was surrounded by lawyers.

He counted thirteen in all. They were gathered in the walnut-paneled courtroom on the ninth floor of the law offices of Carter and Brooke, the high-powered law firm that would be the Washington muscle behind Jack and Harry at the confirmation hearings. It was a moot courtroom, used primarily for dress rehearsals of important trials, and Jack could only imagine what kind of corporate skulduggery had been tested here. Yes, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my client did routinely fly its crop dusters while the migrant workers were in the tomato fields, but surely those company-issued sombreros offered more than enough protection from any cancer-causing pesticides. Theories abandoned, cases settled, egotistical corporate executives convinced not to testify at the real trial only after being shredded by their own lawyers in mock cross -
examination.

Today was the mock grilling of Harry Swyteck, as eight
-
hundred-dollar-an-hour lawyers played the role of congressional representatives and White House chief of staff Olivia Thompson ran the show.

"For the last time," she said, groaning. "Please frame your responses to avoid open disagreement with the administration. President Keyes supports a complete ban on assault weapons."

"I dont," said Harry. "I'm against any law that pushes us closer to becoming a nation where only criminals have guns."

"Dad's right," said Jack. "Imagine if this country had laws against obscenity. Only prostitutes could have sex."

And so the tap dance began--and it continued well beyond dinnertime.

Daylight was short in December, and it felt much later than 7:30 P
. M
. as the limo carried Jack and his father back across town. The driver dropped Harry first for dinner with Agnes at a Moroccan restaurant. Jack was dead tired, but if he returned to the hotel and hit the sack now, his eyes would probably pop open at 3:00 A . M
., and he'd be left staring at the ceiling until sunrise.

"Could you take me toward Massachusetts Avenue?" he told the driver.

"Sure. Whereabout?"

Jack removed a business card from his wallet. "Number One Observatory Circle."

"The vice presidential mansion?"

"Yes."

"Right away, sir."