A Hideous Beauty (17 page)

I positioned the cursor on chapter 3. “What is the word we don't want?”

“Is.”

My hopes sank. Such a common verb.

Click.

“Yes! Third chapter, third word . . .
Senate
!” My hopes revived.

Momentum picked up from there. We found no matches in chapters 4 through 13.

Christina stepped back and dropped onto the edge of the bed. “Oh Grant, I'm so glad you didn't write this!”

“I'm not out of the woods yet,” I said.

Inserting the backup CD into the computer, I checked it against the file on the hard drive. They were identical. Then I unearthed the two hard-copy printouts from the bottom of my closet. Neither of them condemned me. “Which means the text was changed during editing,” I concluded.

“So you're in the clear!” Christina said.

“Not completely. I could have made the changes during editing.”

“But you didn't.”

“And then there's the proofs, the typeset printout I get from the publisher after it's gone through editorial. It's my last look at the manuscript, my last chance to make any corrections. I could have altered it then.”

“But you have your copy of the proofs to prove you didn't do that, don't you?”

I winced.

“Tell me you made copies.”

“I'd like to tell you that. But I didn't make copies.”

“Why not?”

“Christina, it's over five hundred pages. It would cost me a small fortune, and for what? A changed phrase here, a sentence there. During the proof stage changes are largely cosmetic.”

She shoved the mice and hearts in my face. “This is not a cosmetic change,” she said.

“But it is, that's the beauty of the deception. Editors, copy editors make word changes here and there all the time without affecting the meaning of the sentence.”

“You're the author!” she cried. “You didn't notice the changes when the book was released?”

“I haven't read it.”

“Haven't read it? Your own book?”

I shook my head. “Why would I? I already know what's in it, or at least I thought I did.”

“That's why!” she replied.

In retrospect, she had a point.

“Which leaves us where?” Christina said. “First thing in the morning you contact the publisher?”

“First thing we do is get our hands on a copy of the proofs.”

“But you just said—”

“I'm not the only one who approved the proofs.”

“Yes! Yes!” Christina shouted. “No! Oh no!”

“What?”

“Margaret . . . she threw them away! I remember now. Ms. Irwin . . .”

“Ms. Irwin . . . the president's personal secretary?”

“Yes. She sent a memo to Margaret saying she was making a copy of the proofs for the president and wanted to know if the chief of staff wanted a copy, since he'd made comments on it. Margaret told her it wasn't necessary. The next day, a runner delivers a copy of the proofs to Margaret's desk anyway. I remember Margaret sniping that Ms. Irwin was the most annoying, pushy busybody she'd ever worked with, always telling people how to do their jobs.”

“What did Margaret do with the copy?”

“She put it in the shredder bin.”

“All right, disappointing, but that means Ms. Irwin still has a copy. If we can get our hands on it we can find out who made the corrections before it was sent to the publisher.”

“You suspect someone in the White House? Who?”

“Ingraham.”

“Oh Grant, do you really think so? You don't want Ingraham as an enemy.”

“A man can't always choose his enemies. I have a feeling he's behind all this, which means it's imperative we get a look at those proofs.”

“But how? Are you just going to walk in and ask her?”

“I wasn't thinking of asking her.”

Christina laughed derisively. “I suppose you're going to waltz into her office while nobody is looking and search through her files.”

“Not me. I can't even get in the door.”

“Then who?”

I folded my arms and stared at her.

“Oh no . . . oh no . . . Margaret is keeping close tabs on everyone. She knows exactly how long it takes to perform every task, and if you take a minute longer, she demands an explanation.”

“Only when she's there. How about when she's not there? How about . . . oh, I don't know . . . now?”

“No, Grant. Absolutely not. Out of the question.”

“People work through the night in the West Wing all the time. It's not that unusual. No one will suspect you.”

“But if someone asks, what do I tell them?”

“The truth. Tell them it's imperative you find some papers by morning.”

Christina backed away from me. She shook her head emphatically. “No, Grant. No. I can't do it. Rummage around Ms. Irwin's office? What if I get caught?”

“You're my only hope.”

“I don't care what you say, Grant. It's too much to ask. I'm not going to do it.”

As Christina made her way through the empty halls of the West Wing she couldn't get Watergate out of her mind—the second-rate office burglary that culminated in the first presidential resignation in history. It was the ripple effect that intrigued her. A small pebble tossed into political waters creating an ever-expanding ripple that led to the downfall of a president of the United States.

Tonight, she was the pebble. For all she knew, the proofs she was after would reveal nothing of consequence and tomorrow morning Grant would begin making inquiries at the publisher's office to determine who there had implicated him. But Christina's political instincts argued that the answers were in Washington, not New York. Intrigue of this nature was the heart and soul of D.C.

Christina was certain the White House copy of the proofs would be the smoking gun. The question that remained was, Who fired the shot? In whose handwriting were the changes made?

There were three primary suspects: the president, Chief of Staff Ingraham, and Ms. Irwin, acting on the president's behalf. There were other possibilities; other aides or writers could have been hired to review the proofs, but until she eliminated the primary suspects, they were inconsequential.

Getting into Ms. Irwin's office would be no problem; her office was rarely locked, the door rarely closed. Restricted access to the heart of the White House made it unnecessary. The hard part would come once she was inside the office. The
cabinets were undoubtedly locked. But there were a few places she knew to look and she hoped that publishing proofs would not be a matter of tight security.

Christina strode into her own office and flipped the light switch. Overhead fluorescents sputtered to life as though she'd awakened them.

What surprised her was that she was enjoying this.

At first, when Grant suggested she do this she thought he was out of his mind. Finally caving to his pleas, she formulated a plan while driving to the White House and not only did she realize she could do this, she had to admit she was good at the planning phase.

Getting past security was no trouble. This wasn't the first time West Wing staff was called to work in the middle of the night.

“If I don't have that environmental report on Ms. Irwin's desk by morning, it'll be my head,” she quipped to the guard at the security checkpoint.

He was a new guy. She hadn't seen him before. Average size. Crooked teeth.

She noticed his teeth in particular because of the way he grinned at her. It was more of a leer. Either manning security at the White House was lonelier than she thought, or the guy was hitting on her. It was hard to tell because if he was making a pass at her, he wasn't very good at it.

The security guard laughed a little too loud at her quip, and when she glanced back while turning a corner, he was still looking at her, still leering.

Now that she was in her office, she focused on the task at hand. She searched her desk for her copy of the environmental report. It was the key to her plan. Earlier in the day Margaret had instructed her to deliver a copy of the report—which outlined the long-range impact of offshore
oil drilling on California's coastline—to Ms. Irwin for the president. Just as she was walking out the door, Margaret had called her back. Chief of Staff Ingraham was screaming for follow-up phone calls to the Hill regarding a vote on an upcoming minimum wage bill. Working the phones was Christina's strength.

She didn't know who Margaret had sent to deliver the report, but if anyone were to ask her, Christina could say in all good conscience that she'd been instructed to deliver the report and at the last minute got sidetracked, so it was either come early to work in the morning and deliver the report or do it tonight.

“There you are,” she said, spying the report buried under a landslide of fiscal graphs.

“Found it, did you?”

The voice startled her, nearly sending her heart through the ceiling. She swung around to see the guard with crooked teeth. He leaned casually against the doorjamb, his thumbs hooked in his belt. “Would hate to see you lose that pretty head,” he said, making a guttural sound while dragging a thumb across his neck execution style.

Charming,
Christina thought.

“I'll walk you down,” he said.

Smiling as sweetly as she could, Christina said, “Oh, that won't be necessary. I'm sure you have more important things to do.”

“Not at all. I'm making my rounds. It's on the way.”

“Oh . . . well, in that case.”

She clutched the report to her chest with both arms and exited the room. He barely gave her room to get by him. He smelled her hair as she passed under his nose.

They strolled casually down the hallway. She had to figure out a way to get rid of him.

He began narrating his life story without asking if she wanted to hear it. He'd been raised in the Bronx, his first job out of high school was as a New York cop. After taking a bullet to the leg during a grocery store holdup, he landed a job in security at the governor's office. Then, when a buddy got hired at the White House, he thought, “Why not? It'll impress the ladies.”

He'd been divorced two years following a four-year marriage to a Georgia Peach—his words. Their marriage didn't last “because Southern girls are stuck on themselves and don't get city boys.”

Christina wondered what the Georgia Peach would say to her ex's version of the breakup.

“You're not a Southern girl, are you?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact I am,” she said brightly.

His face fell.

Christina was delighted. “Born and raised in Texas,” she boasted.

“Texas?” he cried. “Texas? That's not Southern!”

“It most certainly is!” Christina said, thickening her Southern accent.

“Nah. Texas is Texas, and from what I've heard, Texas girls—mmmm doggie—are in a class all by themselves. They're nothing like them prissy Georgia or Alabama girls. Texas girls know how to keep their cowboys smilin', if you know what I mean.”

They were fast approaching Ms. Irwin's office. Christina was running out of time. After his last remark, she could think of nothing she'd rather do than slap him, call him a pig, and report him for sexual harassment, but if she did that it would involve reports and Margaret would find out she'd been here and this was supposed to be a covert operation.

The problem remained, how to get rid of him? If he stood in the doorway and waited while she dropped off the report, she wouldn't be able to snoop around.

They reached the doorway to Ms. Irwin's office. She turned to him. “Thank you for walking me, Officer . . .”

“Kowalski,” the security officer said. “Didn't I tell you that already? Bruno Kowalski.”

“Bruno . . . of course,” she said.

“Actually, it's Eugene. Bruno's a nickname. I don't tell just anyone my real name, you know. Only special people. You have to promise you won't spread it around.”

“Your secret is safe with me, Officer Kowalski.”

“Bruno.”

“Yes . . . Bruno.”

He flashed his crooked teeth. “Don't mention it, Christine.” His grin widened. “Surprised I knew your first name? I didn't need to look at your badge. I memorized it when you came through security. I don't always memorize pretty girls' names, but something told me you were special and I just might want to use it again sometime soon. Guess I was right, right?”

Christina did her best to keep smiling. “Well . . . again . . . thank you, Bruno. It was nice meeting you.” She extended her hand.

Take the hint, take the hint, please take the hint,
Christina pleaded silently.

“Oh, I don't mind waitin' for you,” Kowalski said. “I'll wait right here and when you're done I'll walk you back.”

His radio crackled.