“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Then put your things down, Bob. A pleasantry first. How are Molly and the girls?”
“All fine, Mr. President. And Joanne?”
“Missing the ranch. Like me. Now sit. Please. Some water?”
“No, thank you.” Mulligan gingerly crossed the magnificent rug that lay in front of the president’s desk in the center of the Oval Office. The chief executive’s seal was woven into it. Guests automatically walked over it lightly, out of a sense of guilt. He took a seat in one of the two modest cherry wood courthouse chairs. He removed a sealed document and placed it on his lap.
Lamden took his favorite seat, a handcrafted, button-tufted, brown leather Teddy Roosevelt Room chair from the Kittinger Furniture Company. His choice. The president noted the file, but didn’t ask about it yet.
“And you, Bob. You’re doing okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine, sir.” He was still getting used to his newest employer — different, more measured than his predecessor. “But I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
Lamden had heard these words many times before. They were never a good start to a conversation. From his navy days, it usually meant a pilot was down, a helicopter was lost, incoming fire. Now the president realized this was his first time, as commander in chief, anyone started a conversation that way.
“Come sit down and tell me about it.” The president reached for the same warm words he had used years earlier.
Mulligan obliged. He realized he hadn’t forged a real relationship with President Lamden. Go slowly, he warned himself. He wondered whether Lamden truly had what it takes to be president. Could he exert the ultimate authority? Would he be willing to use extreme measures? A voice told him no.
Upon becoming president, Henry Lamden agreed to Morgan Taylor’s first recommendations: that the FBI director remain at his post; the same for three other key cabinet members — Secretary of State Norman Poole, Attorney General Eve Goldman, and Homeland Security Secretary Norman Grigoryan. However, Lamden made two notable changes. He elevated CIA Chief Jack Evans to the higher post of National Director of Intelligence and appointed David Jaburi, a second-generation American and devout Muslim, as Secretary of the Treasury. It was a calculated move designed to demonstrate how America embraced people of all faiths. The fact that Jaburi worked with Eve Goldman, a Jew, was a positive lesson to the Muslim world.
“Go ahead, Bob.”
“Sir, a junior member of your Office for Strategic Initiatives was killed last night.”
Lamden tensed.
“Who?” the president quickly demanded.
“A young woman. I only met her once myself. Lynn Meyerson.”
Lamden closed his eyes, lowered his head, and whispered, “Oh, my God.” Without looking up he asked, “How did it happen?”
“She was jogging in L.A. Apparently stalked and attacked. We’re still looking at the initial evidence.”
“She left my suite to go running. I gave her time off,” the president said in a self-confession.
“Yes, Mr. President. I know.”
The president’s shoulders collapsed under the impact of the news. He thought about Lynn’s promising future, now gone. Her energy. Her desire to succeed. He buried his face in his hands. “Tell me what happened.”
“As you noted, she left the Century Plaza Hotel shortly before your departure. She was seen running down Avenue of the Stars to Pico Boulevard and into a local park. At some point, she cut into an adjoining golf course. That’s where she was assaulted.”
“My God! I drove right by there on the way to the airport.” Henry Lamden looked up. His voice cracked as he continued. “How did she die?”
“She was stabbed, sir.” He paused, as if reading the president’s mind. “And no, we do not believe she was raped.” He paused. “Though it appeared that was intended.”
“So there was a witness who interceded?”
“Possibly.”
“But he still took the time to kill Lynn?”
“Yes. And we don’t know why.”
Mulligan turned to a page of his own notes, scanned them, exhaled, and mustered the courage to proceed with what he had to say.
“Mr. President, I have to ask you something. If, after you hear my questions, you believe you should consult White House counsel, then I advise you to do so.”
The president’s mood suddenly changed. Armor went up. “Say what you mean, Bob.”
“I need to ask what every reporter will also be asking you. Three important questions.” Mulligan was a former prosecutor, a devilishly manipulative courtroom attorney. He had his cross-examination down. He fixed an unblinking stare on the president, trying to read his very thoughts.
“There have been hundreds of similar deaths this year that the media will show no interest in. This one is different. The victim worked for the government. She worked in the White House. And she worked for the President of the United States. You.”
“Get to your questions, Mr. Director.” Lamden now showed dismay over where Mulligan was heading.
“Mr. President, did you have any relationship with this worm —?”
“No!” the president shot back before the final word was off the FBI chiefs lips. “That’s one. Next.”
“Sir, can you shed any light on why anyone would want to harm Ms. Meyerson?”
“No, I cannot. For Christ sake, she was the most liked person here. Two.”
“Did she have access to any classified information?”
This caught him off guard. “Classified information? Well, I suppose a lot of what she touched could be considered classified. Hell, she was in Strategic Planning. Where are you going with this, Bob?”
Protocol usually demanded you never answered a president’s question with another question, but Mulligan did.
“What kinds of things, Mr. President?” He voice was more urgent.
“Schedules. Strategies. Secrets.”
The president locked onto the eyes that were scrutinizing him. It was a look that Robert Mulligan would long remember. It was still, serious, and final.
“Mr. Director, Lynn Meyerson was a fine young woman with a bright future. She was a trusted aide with access to the President of the United States. And, as you damn well know, almost everything we talk about in the Oval Office could be considered classified until it’s in the press. Now before you hear another word from me, it’s your turn. What the hell is going on?”
Chapter 14
FBI Agent Roy Bessolo parked his customized black Suburban on Columbia Road NW, directly across the street from Meyerson’s apartment. It was his second time up the hill today. His first was a drive-by surveillance run on his own. Now he had his entire team.
Meyerson lived alone a few blocks from Dupont Circle, in a one-bedroom walk-up. Her apartment was on the fourth floor of a century-old five-story brick building on 18th Street in the Adams Morgan neighborhood. Higher priced condos lined the street. Meyerson’s building hadn’t been converted yet.
“There it is,” Bessolo told his passengers. “Right over the video store.”
His team assessed the exterior. Chunks of brick and mortar had fallen away. Workers had tried to patch the facade with plaster, but the structure desperately needed work. Individual air-conditioning units hung from windows, indicating that there was no central HVAC.
“I’ve got the specs.” Earlier, Bessolo pulled the name of the owner, the money he owed on the building, and information on all the occupants. They were 20-something students: some from Georgetown and GW, a few of the “bridge and tunnel crowd” from the University of Maryland, a collection of junior hill staff, and some young attorneys. Bessolo ordered up more detailed information on each of the tenants, including what they paid in rent, their personal debt, and whether they had any record. Meyerson’s monthly rent was $1,980. She had no roommate. She’s getting hosed, he thought. Bessolo was the father of a 23-year-old daughter and he worried about such things. It was the only sympathy he’d show for Lynn Meyerson that day.