“Ever see a three-car collision?” Micah asks. “Y’know which car suffers the most damage? The one in the middle.” He pauses just long enough to let it all sink in. “Manning, you, Boyle. Which car d’you think you are?”
I grind my leg even deeper into the sand. “That’s… that’s not—”
“By the way, where’d you get the nice timepiece?” Micah interrupts, motioning to my vintage Franck Muller watch. “That’s a ten-thousand-dollar bauble.”
“What’re you—? It was a gift from the president of Senegal,” I explain. At home, I’ve got at least a half dozen more, including a platinum Vacheron Constantin given by the Saudi crown prince. When we were in office, they became gifts of the White House. Today, there’re no rules on giving to former Presidents and his staff. But before I can tell him—
“Mr. Holloway,” a voice calls out behind me.
I turn just in time to see my waiter from breakfast. He’s up by the pool area, holding my credit card in his hand.
“Sorry… didn’t want you to forget this,” he calls out, now scrambling toward us on the beach.
O’Shea turns toward the ocean so the waiter can’t hear. “Focus, Wes — are you really that blindly devoted? You know they lied to you. You keep covering for them and you’re just gonna be someone who needs a lawyer.”
“Here you go, sir,” the waiter says.
“Thanks,” I reply, forcing a half-smile.
O’Shea and Micah aren’t nearly as kind. From the angry glares they drill my way, they still want more. The problem is, I don’t have anything to give them. At least not yet. And until I do, I’ve got nothing to barter for protection.
“Wait up… I’ll walk out with you,” I say, pivoting in the sand and falling in line behind the waiter.
Years ago, I used to bite at a small callus on the side of my pointer finger. When I got to the White House, Dreidel made me stop, saying it looked bad in the background of the President’s photos. For the first time in a decade, I start gnawing at it.
“See you soon,” O’Shea calls out.
I don’t bother to answer.
As we reach the pool area, there’s a young family getting an early start on the day. Dad unpacks a newspaper, Mom unpacks a paperback, and their three-year-old boy with a bowl haircut is on his hands and knees, playing with two Matchbox cars, ramming them head-on, over and over, into each other.
I look over my shoulder and glance back at the beach. O’Shea and Micah are already gone.
They’re right about one thing: I definitely need a lawyer. Fortunately, I know exactly where to find one.
18
You know they lied to you. You keep covering for them and you’re just gonna be someone who needs a lawyer.”
“Here you go, sir.”
“Thanks,” Wes’s voice said, coming through the small speaker on the edge of the short metal file cabinet. “Wait up… I’ll walk out with you.”
Adjusting the volume, The Roman turned the knob slightly, his thick, steely hands almost too big for the job. When he was little, he only fit into his grandfather’s gloves. But after years of tying lures onto fishing string, he’d mastered the art of a soft touch.
“Have a wonderful day, Mr. Holloway,” a voice squawked through the speaker.
Getting a small enough microphone was the easy part. So was getting a transmitter that ran on a satellite signal so it would broadcast halfway across the country. Protecting the President was the Secret Service’s specialty, but with jurisdiction over counterfeiting and financial crimes, their Intelligence Division had one of the most formidable surveillance operations in the world. Indeed, the only hard part was figuring out a place to hide it. And someone to put it there.
The phone rang on the corner of his desk, and The Roman glanced down at caller ID. Dark digital letters read Offices of Leland Manning. The Roman smiled to himself, brushing his black hair from his chalky skin. If only the bass were this predictable.
“Any problems?” The Roman asked as he picked up the phone.
“Not a one. I did it first thing this morning. Put it in that lapel pin just like you said.”
“So I gathered from his last two hours of conversation.”
Reaching down, The Roman tugged open the bottom drawer of the file cabinet, and his fingertips tap-danced to the last file in back. The only unmarked one in there.
“Wes say anything interesting yet?” his associate asked.
“He’s getting there,” The Roman replied, flipping open the file on his desk and revealing a small stack of black-and-white photos.
“What about you? If your investigation’s so vital… I thought you were coming down here.”
“I’ll be there,” The Roman said as he stared down at the pictures. Graying from age, all of them were from the day at the speedway. One of Nico with the Service tackling him to the ground, one of the President being shoved inside his limo, and of course, one of Boyle, in mid-clap moments before he was shot. The smile on Boyle’s face looked unbreakable… his cheeks frozen, teeth gleaming. The Roman couldn’t take his eyes off it. “I just have to take care of one thing first.”
19
Where is he?” I ask, rushing through the welcome area of the small office with its dozens of potted plants and orchids.
“Inside,” the receptionist says, “but you can’t—”
She’s already too late. I cut past her cheap Formica desk that looks suspiciously like the one I threw away a few weeks ago and head for the door covered with old Florida license plates. Beyond the plants, which were the standard thank-you gift from clients, the office had all the design sense of a fifteen-year-old boy. It didn’t matter. Moving over the bridge a year ago, Rogo took this office so he’d have a proper Palm Beach address. When you’re targeting the rich, and 95 percent of your business is done by mail, that’s all you need.
“Wes, he’s busy in there!” the receptionist calls out.
I twist the doorknob, shove open the door, and send it slamming into the wall. Standing at his desk, Rogo jumps at the sound. “Wes, that you?” His eyes are closed. As he tries to make his way toward me, he taps his blotter and pencil cup and keyboard like a blind man feeling his way.
“What happened to your eyes?” I ask.
“Eye doctor. Dilated,” Rogo says, patting a picture frame of his childhood dog. The frame falls and he fumbles to pick it up. “Being blind sucks,” he says.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Meanwhile, ready for new levels of pathetic? When I was at the doctor, I cheated on my eye exam. Before he got in there, he left the eye chart up — y’know with the giant E and the little N3QFD at the bottom? I memorized it, then spit it right back at him. Suckaaaaaa!”
“Rogo…”
“I mean, that’s even more sad-sack than—”
“Boyle’s alive.”
Rogo stops patting the picture frame and turns straight at me. “Wha wha?”
“I saw him. Boyle’s alive,” I repeat. I slowly slink toward one of the chairs across from his desk. Rogo turns his head, following me perfectly.
“You can see, can’t you?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he replies, still in shock.