The Candidate (18 page)

AT TEN THE NEXT MORNING Erica walks into the soaring Palmer House lobby—it's one of the country's classic old hotels, but she has no time to admire it. As she walks over to the elevators and heads up to the presidential suite for her meeting with Celeste Ortiz, she reminds herself to play her cards close to the vest. She has no doubt that Celeste has an agenda. Well, so does she.

She knocks on the door of the suite, and Celeste answers it herself. “Erica, welcome,” she says in a low-key way, smiling warmly, ushering her in. Like they were a couple of old friends.

Celeste is wearing a white T-shirt, khaki shorts, no makeup, and her hair is up in a wide elastic band. Talk about dressing down . . . She looks like she just stepped off the elliptical at the gym. Erica is surprised to see that there are no staff bustling around. It's just the two of them.

Celeste shows her over to a cozy seating area in front of a fireplace. “I ordered us some tea.”

“I'm good, thanks.”

Celeste is silent for a moment and then says, “Isn't it nice to be in a quiet place for a few minutes?”

Erica nods.

“Sometimes I just want to walk away from the whole thing.” Celeste pours herself a cup of tea and takes a sip. “But I think the country needs my husband. Speaking of our families, how's Jenny?”

“She's fine. Off at camp.”

“What fun. And your lucky fiancé?”

This is getting awfully personal awfully quickly. Erica doesn't answer.

“Distance can be tricky in a relationship. Sometimes it's the best thing. When my husband was a prisoner in Iraq, I felt closer to him than I ever had . . .” Celeste puts down her teacup and clasps her fingers together. “It was difficult . . .”

Erica sees an opening and jumps discreetly, matching Celeste's low-key manner. “Did you get any reports or updates when he was in captivity? Was he able to communicate with you personally?”

“No, I was in the dark. I would get reports from the CIA, but they weren't verified. I never could be sure if he was even still alive.”

Erica knows enough about war to know that if enough cash changes hands, information is available. “Did you make any back channel attempts to reach him?”

“I'm not sure what you mean.”

“In the fog of war, money can work miracles.”

Celeste turns and looks out the window, takes a sip of tea, and then says, “Yes, I did try. Of course. What wife wouldn't? But even my money proved useless against jihadism.” She exhales and sits up straight. “Do you
ever
take off your reporter's hat?”

“No. I even swim in it.”

“That might be unwise. It could block your sightlines.”

“I'm a strong swimmer.”

“What if you get caught in a riptide?”

“I always make it back to shore.”

“Watch out for rogue waves.” Celeste gives her a tight smile that slowly morphs into a warm one. “Listen, I wanted us to meet like this
for a couple of reasons. First of all, both Mike and I thought your piece on us at home was terrific. You captured our love for each other and our commitment to the nation. And, by the way, you handled poor Jasper's death pitch-perfectly that day.”

“You lost a family member.”

“If only we could care about
people
as much as we do our pets.” She tucks her legs under her, which only adds to the informal, welcoming vibe.

But it's a casual old-money pose—curled up in an armchair—that for a moment ignites Erica's social insecurities. Do prep schools teach courses in casual confidence?

“My husband feels very at ease with you. As do I.”

“That's always nice to hear.”

“You showed us kindness; we would like to return it.” Celeste gives Erica a flitting look, but there's no mistaking the proffered quid pro quo. “Politics is such an awful business, isn't it? There's so much backbiting and petty payback.
Threats
. People are always looking for ways to tear you down.”

“It's important to question power.”

“Yes. But not to engage in character assassination. To go looking for dirt under every rug. If my husband should have the honor of serving as president, he's going to change that culture.”

“It won't be easy.”

Celeste looks Erica in the eye. “He won't tolerate it. Neither will I.”

Well, you're not in the White House yet, Celeste, and I'm going to keep looking under every rug.

Erica is burning with curiosity about the “kindness” they want to bestow on her, but she doesn't want to appear overeager. “How confident are you of winning?”

“The polls are looking good. But you never know until the last vote is counted. Something unexpected could come up, but we're working to minimize that possibility.”

“Are you? How?”

“Vigilance.” She looks Erica in the eye. “By monitoring my husband's enemies. Staying one step ahead.”

“If your husband has nothing to hide, his enemies will come up empty-handed.”

“Well, sometimes people make reckless charges. Their imaginations run away with them.” She lets the words hang in the air a moment, then switches gears. “In any event, we do have a little surprise up our sleeve to create some excitement here in Chicago . . .”

“Which is?”

“The chattering class assumes that Mike to going to name Alice Marshall as his running mate.” She takes another sip of her tea. “Well, they assume wrong.”

The kindness is revealed. And it's a real scoop. In spite of any misgivings Erica may have about the Ortizes, announcing his VP pick would be a real coup for Erica and GNN. Mort Silver would be over the moon. Erica leans forward. Celeste smiles and leans back in response—the fish is on the line.

“Can you tell me who he
is
going to pick?”

Celeste lowers her voice,
très intime
. “I can't. Not just yet. I hope you don't think I'm being coy.”

“A tease maybe.”

“Why don't I ask Mike? If he agrees, we'll give the scoop to our favorite reporter.”

“She would be happy to have it. Providing it comes with no strings attached.”

“Strings are for puppets. You look to me like you're made of flesh and blood. Speaking of flesh, I better get my face on. I'm delivering welcoming remarks to a women's luncheon in an hour.”

In the elevator heading back down, Erica replays the scene. They're trying to co-opt her. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

Her phone rings. It's Knut Ludlow, her building's superintendent. What on earth could he be calling about?

“Hello, Knut, this is Erica.”

“I'm sorry to disturb you, Ms. Sparks, but there's been a burst pipe in the master bathroom two stories up from you. We've got the leak under control, but there was damage in the apartment above yours. I'd like to give your place a quick check. I need your permission to enter the apartment.”

“I'd appreciate it.”

“I'll call you back with a report.”

“Where exactly was the leak above me?”

“In the shower stall.”

AS SHE'S IN THE ELEVATOR heading up to her room, Knut Ludlow calls her back.

“We made a disturbing discovery in your bathroom, Ms. Sparks.”

“Oh dear, is there terrible water damage?”

“No, there's no water damage. But the plumber saw what he thought was a small water bug in the upper corner of the shower stall. He only saw it because he was on a stepladder doing a thorough check for leaks. He reached up to squish it, but it wasn't an insect. It was a tiny camera.”

Erica feels the blood drain from her head. She puts a hand on the elevator railing.

“Ms. Sparks, are you there? Are you all right?”

“Yes, I'm here. Can you please text me a picture of the camera immediately?”

“Of course.”

By the time Erica reaches her suite, she has the picture. The camera is tiny. But its size is the least of her concerns. She flashes back to Becky coming out of her bathroom. The girl is troubled, but is she so creepy and twisted that she would actually put a camera in Erica's
shower? The implications are too disturbing to dwell on. If there's one camera, are there more? Erica needs help and she needs it now.

She texts the picture to Greg and then calls him. It's around midnight in Sydney. Hopefully he's up. And not in the arms of another woman.

“Erica, I just got your text.”

“That camera was planted in my shower.”

“Whoa. Do you know by who?”

“I'm pretty sure it was Becky Sullivan, my personal assistant. But I want the whole apartment searched by a security expert. Do you know any?”

“There's a fantastic private security firm—Firewall Partners. We used them a couple of times when I was at GNN. Do you want me to call them?”

“I'll do it.”

“Keep me posted.”

There's a moment of silence between them. They both realize how seamlessly they connected just now, getting right to the heart of the problem and taking the right action to address it. Erica feels a swelling of emotion. “Thank you, Greg.”

“
Any
time.”

Erica Googles Firewall Partners, gets their number, calls, and speaks to president Gary Goldstein. She quickly explains the situation.

“I'm very sorry you're facing this threat. We'll be there within the hour.”

“I'll call the superintendent and tell him you're on the way.”

Erica hangs up and collapses onto a couch, reeling. She's been hit by a rogue wave.

BECKY IS JUST COMING HOME from work. It's past nine and dark, but she was glad she stayed so late, tying up every loose end she could find for Erica, who is out in Chicago. She wants to be
helpful
; she needs to be, to make amends for what she did. What she
had
to do. What they
made
her do. But it's all right now. Erica won't know. She believed Becky when she said she was in the bathroom to check that everything was in tip-top shape. Becky was a cool customer. Erica still likes her, Jenny
loves
her. Everything is going to be fine.

Becky is on Seventy-Eighth Street between Second and Third. It's a quiet block at this time of night. Her building is right around the corner on Second. Home. Her mind turns to dinner. She'll just call out for a pizza—that's what she loves about New York, the fingertip living. She hugs her bag to her chest. Secreted in the bottom—carefully wrapped in tissue—is her latest trophy and talisman to add to the Erica collection that sits under her bed in the vintage suitcase, calling to her. She'll wait until after she's eaten and washed her hands, and then she'll pull out the suitcase, slowly, and open it. There's Erica's scarf that holds traces of her Chanel No 5; there's the soap from her shower, the strands
of her hair. She'll place the tissue-wrapped treasure beside them and then slowly, gently, she'll unwrap Erica's soft silk slip.

Becky quickens her pace, nearing the corner, and then there's a man on either side of her. They're both in dark suits and they smile at her and each one takes an arm—they're wearing black gloves—and they turn her toward the curb where there's a black car waiting with its back door open.

“We're just going to go for a little ride,” one of the men says. Becky pulls back, but the men are strong and they steer her toward the car, and there's a couple up ahead but they don't turn around.

Now she's in the back of the car between the two men. The driver, another man in a dark suit wearing black gloves, pulls away from the curb.

“Who are you?! Where are we going?”

“We're just going for a little drive,” one of them says.

Becky feels fear rising up in her stomach, her throat. Suddenly she's freezing but she breaks out in a sweat. “
Who are you? Where are you taking me?”

The men ignore her, and she feels panic flood over her. She has to get out of this car; she has to get out. She lunges across one of the men and grabs for the door handle—
it's gone!

“Let me out. Please let me out!”

“Calm down, Becky; we're not going to hurt you. We're from the government.” When he says that, all three of the men smile.

“You are? From the government? Oh, okay.
Which government?”

The men smile again.

“Why is the government taking me? Where are you taking me?!”

Now they're farther uptown, on a street Becky's never been on before. She sees a sign:
Morningside Drive
. It's a nice quiet street, so quiet, with no shops, just apartment buildings on one side and an old stone wall on the other. It looks like there's a park down below the stone wall, way down below. Maybe they really are from the government; they're nice men who are taking her to meet someone in the
government who lives in one of the nice buildings. There are so few people on the street, there's no one to help her. Should she scream?

The car pulls over.

“We're just going to go and meet someone down in the park. He wants to talk to you, you have nothing to be afraid of.”

But she is afraid; she's never been so afraid in her life. She's sweating and shaking and it's hard to breathe. And now she's outside the car and the men lead her over to the wall.

“See that man down there?” one of the men says.

Becky looks down. The drop is so steep and there's a big rock outcropping at the bottom. And then she does see a man. Down in the park, sitting on a bench in the dark, smoking. “I see him,” she says, but her mouth is quivering and it's hard to talk.

“He wants to see
you
,” one of the men says. And then he laughs. A mean laugh.

And then Becky is lifted off her feet and now she's tumbling, tumbling through the air toward the rocks below, and she opens her mouth to scream—but nothing comes out.