The First Counsel (40 page)

I take another look at Vaughn. The man's smart--and though I don't want to admit it--he may be right. "If I tell you this . . ."

"Who'm I gonna tell? The police? Don't flake--your secret's safe."

"Yeah . . . maybe." With everything to lose, I take the next ten minutes to explain what happened--from spotting Simon in the bar, to finding the money, to Adenauer's Friday deadline. I leave out the parts about Nora. When I'm done, Vaughn lets out a deep, thundering laugh.

"Damn, boy," he says, covering his bright white teeth. "And I thought I was screwed."

"It's not funny--this's my ass on the line."

"Mine too," he says. "Mine too."

He hits it on the head with that one. For the past week, I'd assumed that Vaughn was going to be the missing piece. That when we finally got together, it'd all make sense. But listening to his story . . . I can't help but feel like I'm back where I started.

"So whatta we do now?" he asks.

Realizing that I've got less than forty-eight hours until it goes public, I lean back against the wall and once again feel myself slipping to the floor. "I have no idea."

"Nuh-uh, no way," he says, reading my expression. "This ain't the time to crumble."

He's right. Get it together. Pushing away from the wall, I feel around for a toehold. It's got to be there somewhere. "What about your buddy Morty? He's the one who set us up."

"Morty hasn't been in much of a talkin' mood lately."

"What do you mean?"

"His neighbors sniffed the smell late last week. When the super kicked in the door, they found Morty facedown on his white shag carpet. Throat sliced with piano wire."

I look nervously at Vaughn. "You didn't . . ."

"I look like that much of a hump to you?"

"I didn't mean . . ."

"Sure you did--that thought hit your brain lickety-split. Sure, he's fool enough to use that piano wire trick twice. Like I'm some dumb-ass piece of street trash beneath your Ivy League loafers."

"I went to a state school."

"I don't care where you went," he shoots back. "Unlike you, it don't matter to me."

"What're you--"

"I looked you up, Michael. Don't forget where you're from."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I listened to ya from word one."

"You had a gun to my head!"

"Don't gimme that--I didn't press you 'bout Simon or quiz you 'bout Caroline. I took one look in your scaredy eyes and knew you were telling truth. Now I may not be one of your Brainiac buddies--but if I'm crazy enough to sniff the lines you're sellin' me, I expect you to return the favor and hand me the benefit of the damn doubt."

"I wasn't trying to judge you, Vaughn, it's just the way you . . ." I stop myself. One foot in my mouth is enough. "Why don't we just get back to figuring this out?"

"Yeah . . . right." Looking away, he stuffs his hands in his pockets. And in that moment, I finally realize what he's thinking. It's not in his eyes. It's in the slump of his stance and the clench of his jaw. He'd never say it--he's got a tough-guy act to think about. But lately, I've seen my share of fear. When they catch him, he knows they're going to stomp on him. No fancy lawyer to protect him. No resources but the creased shirt on his back.

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

"With my sniff-pinkie shoved straight in the eye of whoever did this. Soon as we find that raunchbag, I'm giving 'em--"

"Guaranteed proof that you're the killer they say you are. No offense, but take a breather. We need better evidence than that."

"Howzabout where Simon was when Caroline got inanimate? Any holes there?"

The question catches me off guard. "His alibi? I-I don't know."

"Whatchu mean you don't know?"

"I never bothered to ask. Until now, I thought you were the killer. I figured Simon set it up and let you in to do the dirty work."

"But if it ain't me . . ."

"It's not a bad idea," I say excitedly as my voice picks up speed. "We should find out where he was."

"And who he's with."

"You think he had some help?" I ask.

"Don't know. But how else would Mr. Lawyer-to-the-President know his local dealers?"

There's an easy answer to that one, but I don't want to believe it. Still, I can't just pretend she doesn't exist. In the background, I hear music swelling. If the movie's about to end, I don't have much time. I turn to Vaughn before I can talk myself out of it. "Can I ask you a question about an unrelated subject?"

"Hit me."

"Have you ever sold drugs to anyone in the First Family?"

He raises an eyebrow just enough to make me worry. "Why?"

Already, I know I'm in trouble. "Just answer the question."

"Personally, I never met Nora, but I heard 'em whisper. Supposed to be a crazy little bitch."

Under the metal door, I see the house lights come up.

"That's our cue," Vaughn says. "Out with the crowd." As we head for the door, he adds, "You think she's playin' in all this?"

"No. Not at all."

He nods. For some reason, he's letting me get away with it. As he marches forward, I notice the cocky strut that haunts his walk.

"You really think we have a chance?" I ask.

"Trust me, the big boys don't like playing rock-'em-sock-'em. Too worried 'bout protectin' their face."

"And we're not?"

"Not anymore. They're the ones got something to lose." Picking up speed, he adds, "Same thing in a turf war--you wanna win, you gotta bring a little fight to them."

I raise my shoulders and stick my chest out. It's been too long since I shoved back.

"Ass-kissing bureaucrats think they can get away with tossin' me in the street," Vaughn adds as we head into the theater. "It's like my granddad used to say--you gonna take a shot at the king . . . you better kill 'im."

* * *

"What do you mean you want me to prove it?" I ask late Thursday afternoon.

"Exactly what I said," the detective explains on the other line. "Show me a receipt, a bank account, a stock certificate--anything that'll prove the cash is yours."

"I already went through this with the cop who took it. It's my personal savings--it's not like I have a receipt."

"Well you better find one. Otherwise the whole thing's going to forfeiture."

From the shortness in his tone, I can tell this is one of hundreds of cases he'd rather not deal with. Which means if I can stall him a few days, that's a guarantee of at least another week to keep this part quiet. It takes a bureaucracy to know one. "Now that I think about it, there might be one way for me to prove it."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"I'm just going to have to go through my files," I say as Trey walks in the room. "I'll call you next week."

"How goes the stonewalling?" Trey asks as I hang up.

"I'm not stonewalling; I'm stalling. There's a difference."

"Tell that to Nixon."

"What do you want me to do, Trey? I've got Inez paying people for stories; the FBI threatening to go public tomorrow. If I get caught with this money . . . stuck between a drug dealer and Nora . . . they'll bury me with Simon's version of the story."

"And Nora's. Don't forget, you guys split up after you lost the Secret Service. That's why she came home alone that night."

I burn my worst annoyed look into his forehead. I know he's only trying to help, but now's not the time. "Just tell me what Simon's secretary said."

"More bad news. According to her schedule, on the day Caroline died, Simon left the staff meeting and spent the rest of the morning in the Oval." Reading my reaction, he adds, "I know. If you tried, you couldn't come up with a better alibi."

"That's not possible! Is there a way to check it?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Just because Judy says he was in the Oval doesn't mean he was actually there. I mean, when I had my appointment, I stood around for twenty minutes before I finally got called in."

"I can call the President's secretary," Trey suggests. "As the gatekeeper, she records the actual times people go in there."

"When I walked into the Oval, I remember her making a note."

"Then that's our best bet. I'll check it out." Wasting no time, Trey reaches for my phone, but just as he's about to pick it up, it starts to ring.

I check caller ID. Outside Call. I'm betting on Lamb. He said he might have something.

"I should take this," I say.

"Is there another phone I can call Barbara on?"

"In the anteroom," I say as I point to the small desk that Pam's been using. Answering the phone, I add, "This is Michael."

"Michael, it's Lawrence."

I mouth "Lamb" to Trey. He nods and heads for the phone in the anteroom.

"Find anything out?" I ask Lamb.

"I spoke to the FBI," he begins in his slow, methodical voice. I can practically hear the starch in his French-cuffed shirt. "They still won't release their list of the last five files . . ."

My whole body deflates.

"However," he continues, "I told them we were having some security concerns in assigning new cases, and that we would therefore appreciate--at minimum--a list of all the people in our office whose files Caroline had in her possession. As we discussed, I think that's the best way to figure out who she was blackmailing--and who else would therefore want her dead."

"And were they helpful?"

"They gave me the list."

"That's great," I say, my voice cracking.

"It certainly is," Lamb replies. Even with a breakthrough, he's too careful to be excited. "The first two names were exactly what we expected. She had your file and Simon's."

"I knew it. I told you he--"

"But it was the third name on the list that caught me by surprise."

"Third? Who?"

He's about to answer when I hear the loud touch-tone beeps of someone calling on the line. Looking up, I see Trey punching in a phone number in the anteroom. "Ooops--sorry," he says as his voice comes through the earpiece on my phone. I look up, astounded. The phone in the anteroom is supposed to be on a separate line.

"Michael, is everything okay?" Lamb asks.

"Yeah. I just leaned on the keypad." Trying to stay focused, I can't stop thinking that the phone in the anteroom could've been used to listen in on my conversations.

"Back to Caroline's files," Lamb begins. "The third name on the list . . ."

There's only one person who uses that phone. A sharp pain rips through the back of my neck. My legs are already numb. Please don't let it be her.

Lamb voices my fear as succinctly as possible. "The last file . . . was Pam Cooper's."

Chapter
26

What'd he say?" Trey asks as I hang up the phone.

"I don't believe it," I say, collapsing in my seat.

"What? Tell me."

"You heard him--we were all on the same line."

"I meant after I hung up."

"What else is there to say? Caroline had Pam's file."

"I don't believe that."

"You think he's making it up?"

"Maybe he--Did he say what was in it?"

All I can do is shake my head. "FBI wouldn't give it to him."

"You really think Pam was being blackmailed by Caroline?"

"Can you think of any other reason why Caroline would need her file?"

"What about if Pam had an ethics question? Didn't Caroline do those?"

"It doesn't matter what she did--you saw the phone--Pam's been listening on my line."

"Just because you shared a line doesn't mean--"

"Trey, in all the time we've been in this office, Pam's never once used the phone in the anteroom. Then, as soon as I start sniffing around for Caroline's killer, she's on it full time."

"But if she were listening in, don't you think you would've heard her by now?"

"Not if she hit the mute button. She could pick up and I wouldn't hear a thing." Jumping out of my seat, I head for the door. "I bet she even turned off the ringer so I couldn't hear when someone--"

"It's off," Trey whispers, turning away.

"What?"

"I checked it when I hung up. The ringer's off."

* * *

"This better be good," Nora says, bursting into my office. She blows past the couch, but my eyes are still on the door.

She doesn't even have to ask--she knows who I'm looking for. The Service.

"They're not coming," she says.

"Are you sure?"

"What do you think?"

"So they--"

"They only follow if I leave the grounds. Otherwise, in here, they leave me . . ." Her voice trails off. She notices something behind my desk. The ego wall. Damn. Charging toward it, she goes straight to the photo of me and her dad. It's the same one I gave to my dad, but this one's signed.