The First Counsel (20 page)

"What's wrong? You wanna take back your bet?"

"No, it's just . . . about this Caroline story . . ."

"Aw, c'mon, Michael, I thought you weren't gonna--"

"Tell me the truth, Trey--you think it's got legs?"

He doesn't answer.

I sink down in my seat. For whatever reason, the Post is still interested. And from what I can tell, they're just starting to tighten the microscope.

* * *

"I'm looking for an Officer Rayford," I say, reading the name from the confirmation of receipt early the following morning.

"This is Rayford," he answers, annoyed. "Who's this?"

As he says the words, I move the phone to my other ear and picture his crooked nose and hairless forearms. "Hi, Officer, this is Michael Garrick--you stopped me last week for speeding . . ."

"And maybe dealing drugs," he adds. "I know who you are."

I close my eyes and pretend to be unintimidated. "Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. I'm wondering if you've had a chance to check the money, so we could put this all behind--"

"Do you know how much money they photocopied before the drug sweep? Almost a hundred grand. Even at four bills per page, it's going to take me days to make sure the serial numbers on your bills don't match the serial numbers on ours."

"I didn't mean to bother you, I just--"

"Listen, when we're done, we'll give you a call. Until then, leave it alone. In the meantime, say hi to the President for me."

How does he know where I work?

There's a click on the other line and he's gone.

* * *

"And that's all he said?" Pam asks, sitting in front of my computer.

I look down at my desk, where I'm fidgeting with the swinging handle of the middle desk drawer. I flip it up, but it keeps falling down.

"Maybe you should tell the FBI about the money," she adds, reading my reaction. "Just to be safe."

"I can't," I insist.

"Of course you can."

"Pam, think about it for a second--it's not just telling the FBI--if it was just them, that's one thing. But you know how they feel about Hartson. From Hoover to Freeh, it's pure hate with every Chief Exec--always a power struggle. And with Nora involved . . . they'll feed it to the press in the bat of an eye. It's the same thing they did with the President's medical records."

"But at least you'd be--"

"I'd be dead is what I'd be. If I start gabbing with the FBI, Simon'll point everyone my way. In a game of he said/he said, I lose. And when they look at the evidence, all they're going to see are those consecutively marked bills. The first thirty grand in Caroline's safe; the last ten grand in my possession. Even I'm starting to believe the money's mine."

"So you're just going to sit around being Simon's quiet boy?"

Grabbing a sheet of paper from my out-box, I wave it in front of her face. "Do you know what this is?"

"A tree victimized by the ravenous, death-dealing, cannibal machine we call modern society?"

"Actually, Thoreau, it's a formal request to the Office of Government Ethics. I asked them for copies of Simon's financial disclosure forms, which are filed every year."

"Okay, so you've mastered public records. All that gives you is a list of his stock holdings and a few bank accounts."

"Sure, but when I get his records, we'll have a whole new place to search. You don't just get forty thousand dollars from nowhere. He either liquidated some major investments, or has a debit in one of his accounts. I find that debit and I've got the easiest way to prove the money's his."

"Let me give you an even easier way: Have Nora verify that he was--"

"I told you, I'm not doing that. We already went through this: The moment she's involved, we're all on page one. Career over; election finished."

"That's not--"

"You want to be Linda Tripp?" I challenge.

She doesn't answer.

"That's what I thought. Besides, what Nora saw only takes care of the first night. When it comes to Caroline's death--even if it was a heart attack--I'm still on my own."

Pam shakes her head and my phone starts ringing.

Refusing to get into it, I go for the phone. "This is Michael."

"Hey, Michael, it's Ellen Sherman calling. Am I catching you at a bad time? You talking to the President or anything?"

"No, Mrs. Sherman, I'm not talking to the President." Mrs. Sherman is the sixth-grade social studies teacher from my hometown in Arcana, Michigan. She's also in charge of the annual school trip to Washington, and when she found out about my job, a new stop was added to the itinerary: a private tour of the West Wing.

"I'm sure you know why I'm calling," she says with high-pitched elementary school zeal. "I just wanted to make sure you didn't forget about us."

"I'd never forget about you, Mrs. Sherman."

"So we're all checked in for the end of the month? You put all the names through security?"

"Did it yesterday," I lie, searching my desk for the list of names.

"Howzabout Janie Lewis? Is she okay? Her family's Mormon, y'know. From Utah."

"The White House is open to all religions, Mrs. Sherman. Including Utah's. Now is there anything else, because I really should run."

"As long as you put the names throu--"

"I cleared everyone in," I say, watching Pam continue to smolder. "Now you have a good day, Mrs. Sherman. I'll see you on the--"

"Don't try and chase me off the phone, young man. You may be big and famous, but you're still Mikey G. to me."

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry about that." The Midwest dies hard.

"And how's your father doing? Any word from him?"

I stare at the request for Simon's financial disclosure forms. "Just the usual. Not much to report."

"Well, please send him my best when you see him," she says. "Oh, and Michael, one last thing . . ."

"Yeah?"

"We really are proud of you here."

It's easy, but the compliment still makes me smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Sherman." Hanging up the phone, I turn to my computer screen.

"Who was that?" Pam asks.

"My past," I explain as I find Mrs. Sherman's list. Her school trip was the first time I ever left Michigan. The plane ride alone made the world a bigger place.

"Can't you do that la--"

"No," I insist. "I'm doing it now." Double-clicking on the WAVES folder, I open up a blank request form for the Worker and Visitor Entrance System. Before visitors are allowed in either the OEOB or the White House, they first have to be cleared through WAVES. One by one, I type in the names, birthdates, and Social Security numbers of Mrs. Sherman and her sixth-grade class. When I'm finished, I add the date, time, and place of our meeting, and then hit the Send button. On my screen, a rectangular box appears: "Your WAVES Visitor Request has been sent to the US Secret Service for processing."

"You finally ready to rejoin the discussion?" Pam asks.

I look at my watch and realize I'm late. Hopping out of my seat, I reply, "When I get back."

"Where're you going?"

"Adenauer wants to see me."

"The guy from the FBI? What's he want?"

"I don't know," I say as I head for the door. "But if the FBI finds out what's going on and this thing goes public, Edgar Simon's going to be the least of my worries."

* * *

I walk into the West Wing with my mind focused on Mrs. Sherman's school trip. It's a cerebral dodge that I hope'll keep me from panicking about Adenauer and whether or not it's a heart attack. The problem is, the more I think about sixth-graders, the more I worry I won't be here to give the tour.

Approaching the guard's desk at the first security checkpoint, I'm dying for a friendly face. "Hey, Phil."

He looks up and nods. Nothing else to say.

I watch him as I pass, but he still doesn't give me a syllable. It's like the guard outside the parking lot. The more the FBI gets involved, the more strange looks I get. Trying not to think about it, I pass Phil, make a sharp right, and head down a short flight of stairs. After another quick right, I find myself standing outside the Sit Room.

The regular haunt of National Security Council bigwigs, the Situation Room is the most secure location in the White House complex. One rumor holds that as you pass through the door, you're bathed in a thin band of invisible laser light that scans your body for chemical weaponry. Stepping inside, I don't believe a word of it. We're good, but we're not that good.

"I'm looking for Randall Adenauer," I explain to the first receptionist I see.

"And your name?" she asks, checking her scheduling book.

"Michael Garrick."

She looks up, startled. "Oh . . . Mr. Garrick . . . right this way."

My stomach drops out from under me. I lock my jaw to slow my breathing and follow the receptionist to what I assume will be one of the small peripheral offices. Instead, we stop at the closed door of the main conference room. Another bad sign. Rather than bringing me to the FBI's fifth-floor office in the OEOB, he's got me in the most secure room in the complex. It's where Kennedy's staff weighed in on the Cuban Missile Crisis, and where Reagan's staff fought viciously over who should be running the country when the President was shot. Set up in here, Adenauer has something serious to hide.

The click of a magnetic lock grants me access to the room. I open the door and step inside. Visually, it's an ordinary conference room: long mahogany table, leather chairs, a few pitchers of water. Technologically speaking, it's much more. The lining of the room is rumored to keep out everything from infrared spy satellites to electromagnetic surveillance systems that measure telephone, serial, network, or power cable emanations. Whatever's about to happen, there aren't going to be any witnesses.

When the door closes behind me, I notice the soft humming that pervades the room. Sounds like sitting next to a copier, but it's actually a white noise generator. If I'm wearing a wiretap or I'm bugged, the noise drowns it out. He's not taking any chances.

"Thanks for coming down," Adenauer says. He looks different than the last time I saw him. His sandy hair, his slightly off-center jaw--without Caroline's body in the background, both somehow seem softer. Like before, the top button of his shirt is opened. His tie's slightly loose. Nothing intimidating. He's got a red file folder in front of him, but as he sits across the table, his right hand is palm-up and wide open. An outstretched offer to help.

"Is something bothering you, Michael?"

"I'm just wondering why you're doing this here. You could've had me come up to your office."

"Someone's already using it, and if I had you come down to the main office, you would've been seen by every reporter who stakes out our building. At least here, I can keep you safe."

It's a good point.

"I'm not here to accuse you, Michael. I don't believe in scapegoats," he promises in his soft Virginia accent. Unlike last time, he doesn't try to reach out and touch my shoulder, which is one of the real reasons I think he's serious. As he speaks, he's got a fussy professionalism to his voice. It matches his tweed suit--and reminds me of an old high school English teacher. No, not just a teacher. A friend.

"Why don't you take a seat?" Adenauer asks. He points to the chair at the corner of the conference table and I follow his lead. "Don't worry," he says. "I'll make it quick."

He's certainly taking it easy. When I'm seated, he opens the red file folder. Down to business. "So, Michael, do you still maintain that all you did was find the body?"

My head jerks up before he even finishes the question. "What're you--"

"It's just a formality," he promises. "No need to get upset."

I force a smile and take his word for it. But in his eyes . . . the way they narrow . . . he's looking a little too amused.

"All I did was find her," I insist.

"Terrific," he replies, his expression unchanged. All around me, the humming white noise is getting irritating. "Now tell me what you know about Patrick Vaughn," he says, once again relying on old interrogation tricks. Rather than asking if I know Vaughn, he bluffs it into the question. But my guard's up. P. Vaughn. First name Patrick. The guy who slipped the note under my door. Hoping for more, I tell Adenauer the truth.

"Don't know the guy."

"Patrick Vaughn," he repeats.

"I heard you the first time. I have no idea who he is."

"C'mon, Michael, don't do it like this. You're smarter than that."

I don't like the sound of that one--it's not a trick--there's real concern in his voice. Which means he has a good reason to believe that I should know this guy Vaughn. Time to fish. "I swear, I'm trying my best. Help me out a little. What's he look like?"

Adenauer reaches into the folder and pulls out a black-and-white mug shot. Vaughn's a short guy with a thin, gang-TV-movie mustache, and slicked-back greasy hair. The identification card he's holding in front of his chest lists a police arrest number and his date of birth. The last line of the card reads "Wayne County," which tells me he's spent some time in Detroit.