My King The President (4 page)

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Chapter 3

Talk about your anti-climax. It was scary. From Dulles to the Capitol, Washington looked like a dead city. Ghost town half-filled with plodding zombies. Pennsylvania Avenue looked like the abandoned street leading to the OK corral. It was as if the whole population of the District of Columbia had left their collective energy at Arlington last week, where President Tyndall was finally laid, I hoped, to rest. The young Iranian cabbie that drove me to Georgetown complained loudly of lack of fares. (“Serious, man, serious.”) I asked him to drive around until five till one, tipped him generously at the curb of the well-publicized brownstone, and was quietly surrounded by a phalanx of smart-suited, unsmiling Secret Service men who expertly ID’d and frisked me before escorting me inside, where I was unceremoniously searched yet again, but I kept an understanding smile on my face the whole time. At last the head honcho said, “Sorry about that, sir, go right in. The President’s expecting you,” and I was suddenly standing in Helene Fordham’s early-American parlor.

I wasn’t surprised at how she looked; casually coiffed, wearing just enough makeup to soften the fresh circles under her blue eyes, dressed in the usual loose-fitting pantsuit, which helped hide the thick ankles and thighs she had always been so sensitive about. Nor was I very much surprised that she called me by my first name when she stood and offered me her hand. “Jeb. I’m so glad you could make it. Make yourself comfortable.”

No, the surprise was the other person present, who didn’t rise from his armchair. Merely waved, as if he’d seen me just yesterday. “Jeb. Long time.”

Next to Cal, Ernie Latham is the man I have the most respect for in this old world, both personal and professional. Best friend and toughest boss a guy could ever have. I had to smile. Yeah, it would take a summons from no less than the new President to pry him away from his editorial desk at the
Post
.

“Ernie. Fancy seeing you here.” I turned back. “Madame President, I—”

“Oh, please. Ms. will do just fine. My former husband might like that other word better. God knows he knew a lot of them, and please forgive me for not telling you beforehand that I had also invited Ernie. Why don’t we have a cup of coffee while we talk? Made it myself. How do you take it, Jeb? I remember Ernie drinks his black.”

“Black’s fine, ma’am.”

The first female President of the United States poured and served coffee like any chattering suburban hostess, allowed us time for two sips, then got right down to business. “Jeb, I don’t have to tell you the country is a mess. National morale is lower than any time since Iraq. You know, being a Senator was fun, and I don’t mind admitting I always wanted a crack at this job, but I certainly didn’t expect it to come to me like this. As you might imagine, I’m not the most popular girl at the dance right now, and I’ve got a big, ugly task ahead of me. I don’t need any detours or distractions. One of my problems is the inevitable rash of rumors and innuendoes already floating up from the sewers of Washington that there may have been some kind of dark plot behind President Tyndall’s death. Some, I’m told, have even mentioned
my
name. I want that talk put to rest. Stopped cold, but I can’t do it until I know for sure whether there’s any truth in them.”

From beneath the silver coffee tray, she extracted a plain manila envelope, which she slid across the table. “There’s fifty thousand dollars of my personal money in there, Jeb. I want you to find out if those rumors have any foundation in fact, and if so, who and what are behind it all. I’ll pay you another fifty thousand when you give me your full report. Will you help me?”

My knee-jerk reaction to this bombshell was pitifully lame. “I’d be glad to help you in any way I could, ma’am, but I don’t understand why you want
me
. You’ve got the whole Justice department, the FBI, the Washington Police, and everybody else—”

“Already working in high gear, but I don’t trust any of them. They’re all Tyndall people, down to the last clerk typist, and they’re going to tell me what they
want
me to know. On the other hand, I’ve known Ernie here for thirty years, and would even trust him with my daughter. He tells me you are the best investigator he’s ever known, and I need the best. Ergo, you’re my man.”

I put my cup down, hoping I did with some semblance of grace. So, Ernie Latham was behind this deal. I knew he and Helene Fordham had a long standing friendship, based on how fair Ernie had always treated her, during her bad times as well as the good. “I’m very flattered, Ms. President, but I’ve been out of the loop for quite a while. Rusty.”

“How long have you been gone? Three years? That’s precisely why we think you’re the best man for the job. Aside from a few ladies I happen to know, most people around this town have forgotten what a tenacious tiger you can be. Besides, Ernie has thought up a marvelous cover for your private snooping, which he can explain to you later. As to your other concern, urgency is the best rust remover in the world, and I’m a woman in a hurry. Say yes, Jeb.”

I said yes, thinking I wasn’t the only tiger in this town. Not by a long shot.

“Um, about the money, you don’t—”

“Take it, Jeb. Ernie tells me you need it, and I can afford it. Just remember that it buys me your absolute discretion and exclusive loyalty regarding what you find, before you write or print one word.” This statement was leveled at Ernie and me both. “And gentlemen, I expect you to earn every dime of it! Now, you’ll have to excuse me, but do finish your coffee. One of the boys will drop you wherever you like. Jeb, you are to reach me through Ernie when you have it all.”

My “Yes, ma’am” followed her through the door. Funny, after agonizing over this thing for two weeks, our new President had made the decision for me in five minutes!

Ernie got up, took three paces toward me through the lingering ghost of her perfume, grinned, and said, “Persuasive, isn’t she.”

“You ink-pissing bandit. What have you got me into?”

Ernie laughed. “A nice new account at BankAmerica for one thing. Come on, let’s go to the office. Seems you’ve just got your old job back.”

I had to wait for Ernie to proof a short article for page two. Looking through the plate glass of his office, I was reminded of the time I took a useless biology course at Carolina. In some nearby woods off campus, our professor had cultivated a huge ant colony and had contrived to glass off a five-foot wall of it so students could see everything happening in his microcosm of the planet. From the inside of Ernie’s cubicle, the scene looked remarkably similar. Everyone was busy as hell, doing jobs that brought back a lot of memories, some of them very pleasant. I recognized a few faces, but most of Ernie’s worker ants were strangers, and none paid me the slightest bit of attention.

I shifted my glance back to my former boss. From past experience, I knew his routine never changed. Ernie Latham took his time. He’d speed-read through a piece of copy, then go back over each word, sentence, and paragraph with the care of a brain surgeon. Finally, he seemed satisfied, and tossed the piece into his outbox. When he removed his half glasses, I knew it was safe to talk. “Okay, Ernie, what’s the scam.”

“Scam?”

“The cover she mentioned.”

“Oh. It’s simple. I’ve temporarily brought you back out of retirement to write a guest series of post-obit articles. Human-interest stuff, based on interviews with people close to the late President Tyndall. It’s something we would probably do anyway, and we’re going to play up your return to the
Post
as something of a coup. Neat, logical, and will give you a legitimate press entree into areas you need to poke your nose into without raising a lot of eyebrows. Should work fine if you’re careful. And, by the way, I’m the only one in this building who knows what you’ll really be up to.”

“Right. And let me guess, the public purpose of that little
tête-à-tête
we just had with President Fordham was to set up an interview—with her.”

I had a good idea of someone who would know, but I didn’t mention Thurmond Frye’s name to Ernie. Probably for the same reason I had held back telling him or Helene Fordham anything about Mac’s note and my own nagging suspicions.
Keep your own counsel, Jeb. Until you can separate fact from rumor
. Because my new employer was in such a hurry, I knew I’d need some help, and told Ernie so.

“Thought of that already.” He pressed the intercom button. “Somebody get Walt Erikson in here.” He didn’t have to add “right away” or “yesterday.” The tone of his voice would have that poor man, if he was anywhere in the building, come a-running. I hoped he hadn’t been sitting on the john in the men’s room.

Not to worry. A bespectacled, bean-pole of a guy was standing there in less than a minute, grinning from Atlantic to Pacific, wearing Dockers and a Boston Red Sox tee shirt. Couldn’t have weighed much over one-thirty, though he was almost as tall as me.

“Jeb Willard,” Ernie said as I shook hands with the young man, “Meet Walt Erikson. He doesn’t look like he’s been out of high school more than a week, but he has a PhD in Communications, and is the best hacker in Washington. Spends more time in our morgue than the D.C. medical examiner does in his. He’ll be your legs. Now. I’ve got work to do, so the two of you get out of my sight. Jeb, I presumed you’d rather not work out of your old office, so Ms. You-Know-Who and I arranged to get your old room at the Mayflower back for you. Touch base with me tomorrow.”

Walt Erikson’s car was a light blue, four year-old Plymouth. Nondescript. Couldn’t be better. On the way to Georgetown, and as tactfully as I could, I told him I was going to be moving around town a lot, mostly on short notice, that I appreciated his help, and that it would be best if he kept his questions about my activities to a bare minimum. “I’m on a short leash, Walt. Not much time, and it would also be good if you kept everything we do to yourself.
Completely
to yourself. Understood?”

“Great. Now, first thing is, I’ve got to take care of some private business at the Georgetown Sheraton. Won’t take long, if you don’t mind waiting.”

“No problem.”

I made a mental note to clobber him if he kept saying “no problem.” It was getting on my nerves the same way that old hymn
Amazing Grace
had recently. I swear, if I had to hear that noble melody butchered one more time by so-called “song stylists”, it would turn me off music for a year. That would be a damn shame, too, because I dearly love good music, whether classical or good jazz—something else Cal and I share.

Walt waited for me to finish my business in the Sheraton office. He was probably bright enough to figure out I wanted an escape valve-think place somewhere away from the Mayflower, but I didn’t mention to him it would be my boat. There was still time for me to go back into town and make a very large bank deposit, get some cash, then pick up my bag from the Holiday Inn. All the while, Walt Erikson proved to be a talented driver, and made only small talk about his wife, Alicia, and his precocious daughter who was already learning advanced computer skills. Thank God, he didn’t say “no problem” one other time. He dropped me at the Mayflower and told me he’d be in the office by eight if I needed him.

My old room was exactly the same. Large. Old-fashioned. Comfortable. Some thoughtful person had left a bucket of ice and a bottle of Absolut on the dresser. Now, that’s thoughtful. Must have been my old buddy, Cecil, the, ah, colorful night clerk. I made another mental note to renew my good (hard cash) relationship with him. In the past, he’d been a tremendous asset.

I made a drink and called Cal. As usual, he listened to my complete report without interrupting. “…And Cal, I need a favor. Could you and Sammy please bring
LAST WORD
up to Georgetown? I’ve already made arrangements to berth her at the Sheraton.”