Apostle (19 page)

T
OWN
T
AVERN
, W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

“S
o, you want to tell me what we’re doing here?” asked Max Holland as he set his drink down on the table and looked Elise Campbell in the eye.

Holland, a twenty-five-year veteran Secret Service operative, had short gray hair, blue eyes, and hands the size of catchers’ mitts. He had been Robert Alden’s lead protective agent during the campaign and had been promoted to head of his detail when Alden was elected president. At fifty-three, he was the oldest agent protecting the president—something his smartass colleagues were more than happy to point out at all hours of the day and night. In fact, they liked to joke that Holland could never stand too near the military officer who carried the nuclear football for fear that his “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” Life Alert necklace might trigger an accidental launch.

The Secret Service agent took it all in stride. With the flood of young and relatively inexperienced agents that had been transfused into the White House, Holland was their senior in more ways than one. He knew their jokes were only good-natured ribbing. The most important thing was that they respect him, and they did. While Holland would have preferred that the president be surrounded by more experienced agents, there had been such a mass exodus after the election, he could do nothing more than make sure the people that the president did have were the absolute best that the Secret Service could provide.

Quietly, Holland resented the hell out of his colleagues who had taken early retirement rather than serve under President Alden. As far as he was concerned, they were a disgrace to the Secret Service. No matter how much they didn’t care for the new POTUS, they should have still been able to carry out their commitment to protecting the person who held the office. The exodus had destroyed many friendships and poisoned many more to the point that they were as good as ruined.

Looking across the table, Holland wondered what personal problem Campbell was going to unload on him. One of the drawbacks of being the most senior man on the team was that a lot of the agents saw him as a father figure and continually wanted to unburden themselves to him.

The best reason he always held these meetings at the Town Tavern in Adams Morgan was that it was the unofficial home of Chicago sports fans in D.C., and while Campbell droned on about her credit card debt, boyfriend problems, or how she felt her parents didn’t really understand her, Holland, a native Chicagoan who had been married and divorced twice, could keep one eye glued to the Cubs game on the TV behind the bar.

“Do you remember Nikki Hale?” the young agent asked after their food had arrived.

“Sort of,” he said as he took a bite of his bacon cheeseburger. “Why?”

“I heard she was pretty out of it the night she died.”

“That’s what they say,” replied Holland as he held up his empty glass and got a nod from the bartender.

“Did you see her that night?”

“Elise, why the sudden interest in Nikki Hale?”

The great thing about train rides was that they gave you plenty of time to think, and Elise Campbell had done just that as she made her way back from East Hampton. She understood the path she had chosen and she knew it wasn’t going to be easy. That was why she had decided to start with Holland. “I think there’s more to what went on that night than people know.”

“Like what?”

“Like—” began Campbell, before she was interrupted by the bartender, who set a new draft in front of Holland and asked her if she wanted another Diet Coke. Declining, she turned her attention back to Holland. “Like whom she’d been partying with before she sped off.”

“Like maybe the president?” offered Holland as he clamped down once more on his cheeseburger and tore off another bite.

“If they were actually
together
, then yes.”

“Leave it alone, Elise.”

“Why? What if the president actually had something to do with what happened that night?”

Holland chewed his food slowly and then took a long swallow of his Bud Light. “I’m going to eat my dinner and forget that we ever had this conversation.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Elise, why are you so interested in Nikki Hale’s death?”

Campbell knew from being a cop that when someone answered a question with a question, he was usually avoiding telling you something.

Prepared for the fact that her next question could very well end her career with the Secret Service, she took a deep breath and let it fly. “You were working Alden’s detail the night Nikki Hale died. I want to know if the president had anything to do with it.”

Slowly, Holland put down his cheeseburger and pushed his plate away. Picking up his napkin, he wiped the grease from his fingers. “In sixty seconds, I’m standing up and walking out of here.”

“Why?”

“Fifty-nine seconds,” he replied as he raised his glass to his mouth and knocked back half of his beer.

Campbell waited for him to put the glass back down and then said, “You’re going to be subpoenaed over what happened.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s going to be a new investigation.”

Holland couldn’t tell if the woman was telling the truth or not. “How would you know?” he asked.

“Trust me, I know.”

Holland laughed, removed two twenties from his wallet, and dropped them on the bar. “See you around.”

Elise put her hand on his arm as he rose from his stool. “I’m doing you a favor, Max,” she said, and then corrected herself. “Actually, I’m doing the Secret Service a favor, a big one, but I can only do it if you help me.”

The elder Secret Service agent closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, and sat back down. “What is this all about, Elise?”

“It’s about a new lawsuit against the president for his involvement in Hale’s death.”

“Who says he had anything to do with it?”

“Stephanie Gallo.”

“Gallo? What are you talking about? Did she tell you this?”

“Not directly, no.”

Holland stared at her for a moment before it hit him. “Jesus, Elise. You overheard the president and Gallo talking about something, didn’t you?”

“This isn’t about me.”

“For the first time tonight, you’re right. It isn’t about you. It’s about the Secret Service and our ability to protect the president. How the hell are we supposed to do that if he won’t let us get close enough to him because he’s worried we’re eavesdropping on him?”

When Elise tried to reply, Holland interrupted her. “If you hate the guy so much, why don’t you just resign like the others did? Why do this?”

“I don’t hate the president. I
voted
for him. But that doesn’t mean we should look the other way if a crime has been committed. We’re law enforcement officers.”

“Whose job it is to protect the president,” replied Holland, “not to solve crimes. We’re in
protection
, not detection.”

“Max, listen—” she began.

“No, Elise, you listen. Nikki Hale got drunk, she got behind the wheel, and she caused a horrible accident. She took four other people along with her. It was tragic, but it’s over. Don’t pick at the scab.”

“Max, I can help head this thing off and save us all a lot of trouble and embarrassment, but I can’t do that if you won’t cooperate.”

“Hale’s dead, Elise.
She’s
the one responsible for what happened. Case closed.”

“You’re wrong about that.”

“How do you know?” Holland asked. “How do you know there are going to be subpoenas? Who’s behind all this?”

“Are you going to help me or not?”

“That depends. You’ve got to give me something first.”

Elise reached for the remnants of her Diet Coke and weighed what to tell him. “The family Hale plowed into and killed—”

“The Colemans.”

She nodded. “Their only living relatives were Charlie Coleman’s parents. They started a lawsuit, but eventually agreed to an out of court settlement, supposedly paid for by Stephanie Gallo.”

“Big deal. Gallo’s free to do what she wants with her money. And why wouldn’t she want to make the lawsuit disappear? She had a lot invested in Alden’s campaign, and the drinking that night happened at her fund-raiser, on
her
property. With a bank account like hers, I would have done the same. Plus, with Nikki Hale dead, there’s no one to charge with a crime. And when the elder Colemans folded their tents and went home, that was the end of any civil suits too.”

“Not necessarily. There’s someone else who can bring a suit for what happened that night.”

“Who?”

“Sheryl Coleman’s business partner.”

“I don’t understand how you know all of this,” said Holland.

“I was invited to talk to her.”

“Invited by whom?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t. This smells like a political hatchet job. Who’s putting you up to this?”

Elise resented the insinuation. “Nobody’s putting me up to this.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

“Because it’s my job.”

“No it isn’t. Let it go, Elise.”

“What are you so worried about?”

Holland drained the last of his beer and then held the empty glass up to get the bartender’s attention again. “What I’m worried about,” he said as he set it back onto the bar, “is how the Secret Service could be made to look in all of this.”

“Why should that matter? Has the Secret Service done something wrong?”

Holland waited until the bartender had set down his new Bud Light and walked away before responding. “You said you could do the Secret Service a favor. How?”

“I might be able to convince Sheryl Coleman’s business partner not to pursue the lawsuit.”

“So might Stephanie Gallo and her mighty checkbook.”

“Not this woman,” said Elise. “I’ve met her. This isn’t about money.”

“You know,” he said as he raised his glass, but stopped just before it reached his mouth, “it’s funny how you just happened to overhear something between the president and Gallo and now all of a sudden this woman wants to bring a lawsuit. I’d think long and hard about what you’re doing, Elise.”

“I have, Max. Believe me. So about that night?”

Holland took another long sip of beer and set the glass back on the bar. “Are you sure about this?”

Elise nodded.

“Yes, after the dinner that night, the president was with Nikki Hale.”

“What were they doing?”

“I wouldn’t know. Unlike some agents, I don’t eavesdrop on the president.”

Elise let the remark slide. “What do you think was going on?”

“I’m not going to speculate.”

“There was a lot of talk that they might have been having an affair.”

“Is that a question?” asked Holland.

“Yes, it’s a question.”

“You worked his detail. What do you think?”

“I was an advance person for most of the campaign. If there was anything between them, I didn’t notice it.”

“Like I said,” replied Holland. “I’m not going to speculate.”

“Fine. How long were they together after the party that night?”

“About forty-five minutes.”

“Were they drinking? Do you think Alden could be held liable for her condition that night?”

“First of all,” said Holland as he raised his beer to take another swig, “I’m not an attorney. And second, I think Nikki Hale bears the ultimate responsibility for her condition. You remember what her reputation was.”

Elise looked at him. “I do, and I also know what people have said about Alden. I need to know you’re not covering for him, that this isn’t some wink-wink, boys-will-be-boys sort of thing.”

“The man’s personal life is his business. You can say what you want about Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe, but we all know how Clinton’s affair blew up in his face. We also know how the Service came away from that with black eyes. Morale is at an all-time low. We don’t need a scandal and we don’t need agents having to testify about what they saw or didn’t see.

“I’ll tell you this, though. I don’t care how many Americans love this new president, his administration has gotten off to a very rocky start. A mistress would be bad for his image, but a dead one would be fatal.”

Elise thought about that remark for a moment before asking, “Did you see Nikki Hale leave that night?”

“I saw her and the president part company. I didn’t see her leave the estate.”

“Had they been in his bedroom?”

“No, Gallo’s library study.”

“Were they alone?”

Holland nodded.

“What about the drinking?”

“You already asked me that,” he replied.

“And you didn’t answer. Had they been drinking?”

“Maybe.”

Elise studied him.
“Maybe?”

“I wasn’t in the room.”

“Max, her blood alcohol content was off the charts. You’re telling me she wasn’t bombed when she left?”

“Maybe she had been drinking with him and it just hadn’t hit her yet. All I know is that she didn’t look pie-eyed to me when she left.”

Elise was confused. “Then what happened?”

“She made another stop before leaving the estate that evening.”

“She did? Where?” asked Elise.

“That, you’re going to have to figure out for yourself,” replied Holland as he stood up from the bar and polished off the rest of his beer.

“Hold on a second, Max. You can’t just leave it like that. If I’ve got to go around asking every agent who was on duty that night what they saw or might have seen, word’s going to get out.”

Holland hadn’t thought of that. Reluctantly, he threw her a bone. “Talk to Hutch.”

“
Hutchinson?
But he was on Mrs. Alden’s detail that night.”

Reaching over, Holland collected his forty dollars off the bar. “Thanks for dinner. If you want to chat about this some more, I’ll expect to see a process server on my doorstep.”

As he disappeared into the crowd and exited the Town Tavern, Elise thought about what he had said.
A mistress would be very bad for the president’s image, and a dead mistress would be fatal.