Two more shots snarled from the gun, piercing the bottom left and right corners of the glass, exploiting the foundation of the window.
Still on the floor, The Roman pulled off his tie to make a tourniquet for his foot. A tight fist eased the pain in his hand. The blood already filled his shoe, and his heartbeat felt like it was thumping up his arm and down his leg. A few feet away, he heard the thud of a bowling ball, then the crackling of glass. He looked up just in time to see Nico slamming his foot against the bullet hole on the bottom left of the window. True to its name, the glass wouldn’t shatter, but it did give, popping like bubble wrap as the tiny shards fought to stay together in an almost bendable plastic sheet. Now he had an opening. Licking his lips, Nico put his foot against the glass and gripped the radiator for leverage. With another shove, a fist-sized hunk of the sea-green window broke off from the rest. He pushed again. And again. Almost there. There was a tiny tear and a kitten shriek as the window slowly peeled outward and upward like old wallpaper. Then a final thud and— Nothing.
The Roman looked up as a blast of cold air slapped him in the face.
Nico was already gone.
Crawling to the window, The Roman gripped the top of the radiator and pulled himself up. Two stories down, he spotted the small bluff of snow that had broken Nico’s fall. Thinking about giving chase, he took another look at the height and felt the blood seeping through his own sock. Not a chance, he told himself. He could barely stand now.
Craning his neck out the window and following the footprints — out of the bluff, through the slush on the service road — he quickly spotted Nico: his sweatshirt creating a tiny brown spot plowing through the bright white layer of snow. Nico never looked back.
Within seconds, Nico’s faded brown spot gained a speck of black as he raised the gun and pointed it downhill. From the angle of the window, The Roman couldn’t see what Nico was aiming at. There was a guard at the gate, but that was over fifty yards a—
A whispered psst and a hiccup of smoke belched from the gun’s barrel. Right there, Nico slowed his pace to a calm, almost relaxing walk. The Roman didn’t need to see the body to know it was another direct hit.
Shoving the gun into the pouch of his sweatshirt, Nico looked like a man without a care in the world. Just strolling past the old army building, past the graveyards, past the leafless dogwood, and — as he faded from view — straight out the front gate.
Hobbling toward the door, The Roman grabbed the syringe and the razor blade from the floor.
“You guys okay?” a female voice asked through one of the orderlies’ walkie-talkies.
The Roman leaned down and pulled it off the orderly’s belt clip. “Just fine,” he mumbled into the receiver.
Carrying it with him, he turned around and took a final survey of the room. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized Nico had also taken the black-and-white photograph of Wes. Bleeding Wes.
28
Right this way,” I say as I cup the elbow of the older woman with the beehive of blond hair and escort her and her husband toward President Manning and the First Lady, who’re posed in front of a floral bouquet the size of a small car. Trapped in this small anteroom in the back of the Kravis Center for the Performing Arts, the President looks my way, never losing his grin. It’s all the signal I need. He has no idea who they are.
I put it on a platter. “Mr. President, you remember the Talbots—”
“George… Leonor…” the First Lady jumps in, shaking hands and swapping air kisses. Thirty-four books, five unauthorized biographies, and two TV movies have argued she’s the better politician in the family. All the proof is right here. “And how’s Lauren?” she asks, pulling off their daughter’s name as well. That’s when I’m impressed. The Talbots aren’t longtime donors. They’re NBFs — new best friends, which is what we call the rich groupies who glommed onto the Mannings after they’d left the White House. Old friends liked the power; new friends like the fame.
“We just think you’re the greatest,” Mrs. Talbot gushes, her eyes solely on the First Lady. It’s never bothered Manning. Dr. First Lady has always been a part of their political package — and thanks to her science background, the better at analyzing poll numbers, which is why some say she was even more crushed than the President when they handed over their keys to the White House. Still, as someone who was with the President that day as he flew home to Florida, and placed his final call on Air Force One, and lingered on the line just long enough to say his final good-bye to the phone operator, I can’t help but disagree. Manning went from having a steward who used to wear a pager just to bring him coffee, to lugging his own suitcases back to his garage. You can’t give away all that power without some pain.
“What’m I, chopped herring all of a sudden?” Manning asks.
“What do you mean, all of a sudden?” the First Lady replies as they all cocktail-party laugh. It’s the kind of joke that’ll be repeated for the rest of the social season, turning the Talbots into minor wine and cheese stars, and simultaneously ensuring that Palm Beach society keeps coming to these thousand-dollar-a-plate charity shindigs.
“On three,” the photographer calls out as I squeeze the Talbots between the Mannings. “One… two…”
The flashbulb pops, and I race back to the receiving line to palm the next donor’s elbow. Manning’s look is exactly the same.
“Mr. President, you remember Liz Westbrook…”
In the White House, we called it the push/pull. I pull Mrs. Westbrook toward the President, which pushes the Talbots out of the way, forcing them to stop gawking and say their good-byes. True to form, it works perfectly — until someone pushes back.
“You’re trying the push/pull with me? I invented it!” a familiar voice calls out as the flashbulb pops. By the time I spin back toward the line, Dreidel’s already halfway to the President with a huge smile on his face.
Manning lights up like he’s seeing his childhood pet. I know better than to get in the way of that. “My boy!” Manning says, embracing Dreidel. I still get a handshake. Dreidel gets a hug.
“We wanted it to be a surprise,” I offer, shooting a look at Dreidel.
Behind him, the honcho line is no longer moving. Over the President’s shoulder, the First Lady glares my way. I also know better than to get in the way of that.
“Sir… we should really…”
“I hope you’re staying for the event,” Manning interrupts as he backs up toward his wife.
“Of course, sir,” Dreidel says.
“Mr. President, you remember the Lindzons,” I say, pulling the next set of donors into place. Manning fake-smiles and shoots me a look. I promised him it was only fifty clicks tonight. He’s clearly been counting. This is souvenir photo number 58. As I head back to the line, Dreidel’s right there with me.
“How many clicks you over?” Dreidel asks.
“Eight,” I whisper. “What happened to your fundraiser?”
“It was cocktails. We finished early, so I figured I’d come say hello. What happened with the gossip columnist?”
“All taken care of.”
A flashbulb pops, and I grab the elbow of the next honcho, an overweight woman in a red pants suit. Falling back into old form, Dreidel puts a hand on the shoulder of her husband and motions him forward.
“Mr. President, you remember Stan Joseph,” I announce as we drop him off for click number 59. Whispering to Dreidel, I add, “I also snagged Boyle’s London address and his last request from the library.”