The First Counsel (16 page)

My shout rumbles down the lane, but Nora never looks up. With her head bent over, and the way she stuffs her hands behind her knees, she once again becomes that little girl. It's not easy for her either. She knows she's put me in this one. That's the penlight at the end of the tunnel--she's not just worried about herself--she's worried about me. "Michael, I swear to you, if I thought it'd be like this, I never would've--"

"You don't have to say it, Nora."

"No. I do. Whatever else happens, I got you into this, and I'll get you out."

She says the words forcefully, but I can still hear her fear. Her eyes are locked on the floor of the bowling alley. Her bowling alley. She's got a lot more to lose. "You sure you want to risk this, Nora?"

Slowly, she looks up at me. She's been debating this one since I dropped her off the other night. Her hands are still stuffed nervously behind her knees. But the answer comes as quickly as her grin. "Yeah," she nods. "No question."

My mind is racing with all the reasons Pam and Trey gave me to walk away. And all their Freud-babble explanations for why I'd stay: my need to protect, my need to help my dad, my need to somehow get the inside track to the President . . . But as I stand here--as I watch Nora--there's only one real thing that makes sense. Unlike before, it's not about the stupid things like the way she looks at me and the way she says my name. It's not about how much she needs me, or even who she is. In the end, as I take it all in, it's about what Nora Hartson is willing to give up--for me--to make things right.

"I'll get you out," she repeats confidently. "I'll get you--"

"We," I interrupt. "We got in. We'll get out." I take the seat next to her and put a hand on her shoulder. It's the same thing with my dad--sometimes the only way to problem-solve is to look past how we got here. And while I don't necessarily like it . . . with my family . . . it's the only way I know how to live.

Once again, she picks her head up. A soft smile lights her cheeks. "Just so you know, I hate romantics."

"Me too. Hate 'em with a passion," I shoot back. She's got the comeback ready, but I don't give her a chance. The only way out of the box is to figure out what really happened. "Now what about your bodyguards? Did you tell them what's going on?"

"These guys? They just work the weekends. I told them we went on a date and you pissed me off. They figure this is makeup time. Why? Did you tell your girlfriend Pam?"

"How do you know about Pam?"

"I checked you out, Garrick. I don't date every slob in the building."

"She's not my girlfriend," I add.

"That's not what she thinks, Romeo." She gets up from her seat, heads for the alley, and throws an imaginary bowling ball down the lane. "You know Nixon used to come down here and bowl ten games back-to-back? Is that psychoville, or what?"

As she asks the question, I can't help but notice how quickly her mood's changed. Within seconds, she's a different person. And once again I'm reminded that I've never met anyone who can make me feel so old and so young at the same time.

"So did you tell Pam, or what?"

"Yeah," I say hesitantly. "I didn't have anyone else to talk to, so I--"

"Don't apologize. Chris said I should've got to you sooner."

"You told your brother?"

"He's family--and one of the few who can handle it." She throws another imaginary ball down the lane.

Pointing to the rack of bowling balls, I say, "Y'know, the real ones are right behind you."

She looks at me with those pick-you-apart eyes. "I hate bowling," she says, matter-of-factly. "Now tell me what happened when you went to see her."

"Caroline?"

"No, the other dead woman with thirty grand in her safe. Of course, Caroline."

I quickly relay all the important details.

"So Simon narked on you?" she asks when I'm done. "Forget Washington-ruthless; this guy's film-industry."

"That's the least of it. Let's not forget he might've killed her."

"You don't think it was a heart attack?"

"I guess it could've been . . . but . . . with everything from the bar, it seems like a hell of a coincidence."

"Maybe," she begins. "But you'd be surprised why things happen--especially around here."

I'm not sure what she means by that, and she's not giving me a chance to ask.

"Assuming it was Simon," she continues, "why do you think he did it?"

"It's got to have something to do with that money."

"You still convinced he's selling secrets?"

"I don't know. When you sell secrets, you drop off information. He had nothing but cash--the same cash that was in Caroline's safe."

"So you think he was being blackmailed?"

"Married man in a gay bar? You saw his expression in there. He didn't look like he was in control--he was scared. If you wanted control, you talked to Caroline."

"I see where you're going. Caroline's the blackmailer, and Simon killed her to stay quiet."

"She's the only one with access to all that personal information. And she relished it. You should've seen how she came after me." Staring at the end of the alley, I have a lateral view that allows me to see all ten pins. "There's just this one thing that doesn't make sense: If Caroline was doing the blackmailing, why didn't Simon take back his money when he killed her?"

Once again, Nora finds that dark grin. She shakes her head like I'm missing something. "Maybe he didn't know the safe's combination. Maybe he didn't want to get caught with it. For all we know, maybe it really was a heart attack. Or best of all, with his fake story, maybe it's the best way to put the blame on you. If he saw us the other night, he certainly could've seen the cops. Now the whole plot changes. The ten thousand the cops confiscated was only a quarter of it. The rest you gave to Caroline as hush money. The consecutive numbers on the bills prove it. You're the one who was being blackmailed. You're the one who has the money. You're the one who killed her."

The money. It always comes back to the money. In the safe. In my glove compartment. In my name. Consecutively marked, it's all tied to me. She's hit it on the head. The money with the D.C. police is a time bomb. And as soon as someone finds out about it, it's going to explode. Even if it was a heart attack--with that kind of cash in my possession . . . in that neighborhood--just raising the specter of drugs, my job's history. They'll cut me loose simply to avoid the front-page story. And if the autopsy shows it's a murder . . . Oh, God. I rub the back of my neck, doing my best to stall. What I'm about to say is going to set her off, but it has to be done. "Nora, if this starts snowballing, it's going to work its way to the top."

Across the narrow room, she leans against the rack of bowling balls and stares directly at me. She knows it's true. I can see it in her dancing eyes. She's terrified. "They're going to try to kill him with it, aren't they?"

There he is again. Her father. However it plays out, a scandal like this takes a mean toll. Especially with Bartlett nipping at the lead.

"All we need is some time," she says, vigorously rubbing her nose. "It can still work out okay."

The more she talks, the more her voice picks up speed. It reminds me of the speech she gave at the party's national convention when her father was nominated all those years ago. Initially, they asked her brother, Chris, to speak, thinking that America would rally around a young man standing up for his dad. But after a few private run-throughs, where Chris stumbled over words and looked generally panicked, Nora asked if she could step in. The campaign played it as the firstborn child coming to the forefront, while our opponents played it as another bossy Hartson vying for control.

When it was all over, Nora, like any other eighteen-year-old speaking to a group of a hundred and ten million people, was criticized for being jittery and unpolished. That's what you get for trying to steal the spotlight, a few critics blasted. But as I watch her now, anxiously rocking back and forth at the mere mention of her father's pain, I think it was less a power play and more a protective one. When she got up there, Chris didn't have to. And when the beating gets particularly hard, we all take care of our own.

"For all we know--it's just a heart attack," she stutters. "Maybe Simon'll even stay quiet."

What am I supposed to say? No, your father's life is definitely going to get wrecked--especially if I scream the truth? In the span of a few unstrung seconds, my options quickly narrow: I open my mouth, her dad takes it in the knees, and since I'm at the epicenter, we all go down. If I keep my mouth shut, I buy some time to sniff around, but I risk going down alone. Once again, I look over at the pins at the end of the alley. I can't help but feel like the lead pin in the triangle. The one that always gets creamed by the ball.

"Maybe you should talk to him," I suggest. "Just so he knows who to trust. I mean, even if it was a heart attack, Simon was being blackmailed for something--and unless we figure it out, he's going to keep hanging the noose around me."

Nora looks at me, but doesn't say a word.

"So you'll talk to him?"

She pauses. "I can't."

"What do you mean you can't?"

"I'm telling you, he can't be bothered with this stuff. He won't . . . he won't understand. He's not your average dad." Right there, I stop arguing. I know that frustration in her voice. And I know that world--an orphan with a living parent.

"Is there anyone else you can--?"

"I already told my Uncle Larry."

"Who?"

"Larry. Larry Lamb."

"Of course," I say, trying to be nonchalant. She's not going to call him Lawrence. She's known him since birth--I read the People magazine cover story--she and her brother spent summers at his farm in Connecticut. There was a picture of Nora and Christopher in mid-scream on a swing set, and another one of them hiding under the covers of Lamb's four-poster bed. I sink down in my seat and gather my thoughts. He's the shadow of the President; she calls him Uncle Larry. It sounds almost silly when you think about it. But that's who she is. Still acting unimpressed, I eventually ask, "What'd he say?"

"Exactly what you'd expect. 'Thank you. I'm glad you told me. It was ruled a heart attack, but I'll look into it.' He's got his eyes on reelection--there's no way he's pulling the plug now. When everything dies down, they'll do the official investigation."

"So where does that leave us?" I ask.

"It leaves us as the only two people who care about protecting your butt. As it is, Simon seems happy to keep it quiet--but that's not much of a solution."

I nod. Detente won't work forever. Sooner or later, the more powerful side realizes its advantage. And the other side dies. "I just wish we had some more information. If Caroline was doing this, it probably wasn't just to Simon. She had all our secrets--she could've been doing this to--"

"Actually, that reminds me . . ." Nora walks over to the scorekeeper's seat, picks up her black leather purse, and pulls out a folded-up sheet of paper.

"What's this?" I ask as she hands it to me.

"It came in when I was talking to Uncle Larry. They're the names on two of the FBI files that were found in Caroline's office."

Rick Ferguson and Gary Seward. One's up for a presidential appointment at Treasury, the other just started at Commerce. "I don't understand," I say. "Why only two?"

"Apparently, she had tons of files all over her office--and not just for presidential appointments. Some were judicial, some were from the Counsel's Office . . ."

"She had mine. I saw it."

"The FBI's rechecking each one."

"So they released a full list of the names?"

"Not until they're done. According to the memo, they don't want to tip anyone off. Instead, for security purposes, we get them as they clear them--one or two at a time."

"And how'd you get these?" I ask, holding up the sheet of paper.

"I told you, Uncle Larry."

"He gave them to you?"

"Actually, he walked out to talk to his secretary, and I copied the names on some scrap paper."

"You stole them?"

"Do you want them or not?"

"Of course I want them. I just don't want you stealing them from Lawrence Lamb."

"He doesn't care. The man's my godfather--he took the training wheels off my bike; he's not gonna care if I sneak a peek at a file. At least this way, we're not sitting in the dark."

It's no consolation. "So that means the FBI's looking at my file."

"Relax, Michael. I'm sure they'll clear you."

Trying to believe that, I stare down at the list. Nora's handwriting has a circular bubble-quality to it. Like a third-grade girl who's just learning to write in cursive. Rick Ferguson. Gary Seward. Two people who've been declared innocent by the FBI. I try to remember how many files I saw in Caroline's office. There were at least five or six under mine--and probably more in the drawers. Looks like the FBI is also thinking blackmail. Turning back to Nora, I ask, "Why'd you wait until now to give these to me?"

"I don't know. I guess I forgot," she says with a shrug. "Listen, I gotta run. Some Prime Minister's bringing his family by for a photo-op."