I watch him as I pass, but he still doesn’t give me a syllable. It’s like the guard outside the parking lot. The more the FBI gets involved, the more strange looks I get. Trying not to think about it, I pass Phil, make a sharp right, and head down a short flight of stairs. After another quick right, I find myself standing outside the Sit Room.
The regular haunt of National Security Council bigwigs, the Situation Room is the most secure location in the White House complex. One rumor holds that as you pass through the door, you’re bathed in a thin band of invisible laser light that scans your body for chemical weaponry. Stepping inside, I don’t believe a word of it. We’re good, but we’re not that good.
“I’m looking for Randall Adenauer,” I explain to the first receptionist I see.
“And your name?” she asks, checking her scheduling book.
“Michael Garrick.”
She looks up, startled. “Oh… Mr. Garrick… right this way.”
My stomach drops out from under me. I lock my jaw to slow my breathing and follow the receptionist to what I assume will be one of the small peripheral offices. Instead, we stop at the closed door of the main conference room. Another bad sign. Rather than bringing me to the FBI’s fifth-floor office in the OEOB, he’s got me in the most secure room in the complex. It’s where Kennedy’s staff weighed in on the Cuban Missile Crisis, and where Reagan’s staff fought viciously over who should be running the country when the President was shot. Set up in here, Adenauer has something serious to hide.
The click of a magnetic lock grants me access to the room. I open the door and step inside. Visually, it’s an ordinary conference room: long mahogany table, leather chairs, a few pitchers of water. Technologically speaking, it’s much more. The lining of the room is rumored to keep out everything from infrared spy satellites to electromagnetic surveillance systems that measure telephone, serial, network, or power cable emanations. Whatever’s about to happen, there aren’t going to be any witnesses.
When the door closes behind me, I notice the soft humming that pervades the room. Sounds like sitting next to a copier, but it’s actually a white noise generator. If I’m wearing a wiretap or I’m bugged, the noise drowns it out. He’s not taking any chances.
“Thanks for coming down,” Adenauer says. He looks different than the last time I saw him. His sandy hair, his slightly off-center jaw-without Caroline’s body in the background, both somehow seem softer. Like before, the top button of his shirt is opened. His tie’s slightly loose. Nothing intimidating. He’s got a red file folder in front of him, but as he sits across the table, his right hand is palm-up and wide open. An outstretched offer to help.
“Is something bothering you, Michael?”
“I’m just wondering why you’re doing this here. You could’ve had me come up to your office.”
“Someone’s already using it, and if I had you come down to the main office, you would’ve been seen by every reporter who stakes out our building. At least here, I can keep you safe.”
It’s a good point.
“I’m not here to accuse you, Michael. I don’t believe in scapegoats,” he promises in his soft Virginia accent. Unlike last time, he doesn’t try to reach out and touch my shoulder, which is one of the real reasons I think he’s serious. As he speaks, he’s got a fussy professionalism to his voice. It matches his tweed suit-and reminds me of an old high school English teacher. No, not just a teacher. A friend.
“Why don’t you take a seat?” Adenauer asks. He points to the chair at the corner of the conference table and I follow his lead. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll make it quick.”
He’s certainly taking it easy. When I’m seated, he opens the red file folder. Down to business. “So, Michael, do you still maintain that all you did was find the body?”
My head jerks up before he even finishes the question. “What’re you-”
“It’s just a formality,” he promises. “No need to get upset.”
I force a smile and take his word for it. But in his eyes… the way they narrow… he’s looking a little too amused.
“All I did was find her,” I insist.
“Terrific,” he replies, his expression unchanged. All around me, the humming white noise is getting irritating. “Now tell me what you know about Patrick Vaughn,” he says, once again relying on old interrogation tricks. Rather than asking if I know Vaughn, he bluffs it into the question. But my guard’s up. P. Vaughn. First name Patrick. The guy who slipped the note under my door. Hoping for more, I tell Adenauer the truth.
“Don’t know the guy.”
“Patrick Vaughn,” he repeats.
“I heard you the first time. I have no idea who he is.”
“C’mon, Michael, don’t do it like this. You’re smarter than that.”
I don’t like the sound of that one-it’s not a trick-there’s real concern in his voice. Which means he has a good reason to believe that I should know this guy Vaughn. Time to fish. “I swear, I’m trying my best. Help me out a little. What’s he look like?”
Adenauer reaches into the folder and pulls out a black-and-white mug shot. Vaughn’s a short guy with a thin, gang-TV-movie mustache, and slicked-back greasy hair. The identification card he’s holding in front of his chest lists a police arrest number and his date of birth. The last line of the card reads “Wayne County,” which tells me he’s spent some time in Detroit.
“Ringing any bells?” Adenauer asks.
I think back to my neighbor’s description of the guy with the gold chains.
“I asked you a question, Michael.”
My brain’s still stuck on the note under my door. If the guy with the chains… if he was Vaughn, why’s he asking my neighbor questions? Is he trying to help? Or is he trying to set me up? Until I know the answer, I’m not taking the risk. “I’m telling you, I have no idea who this guy is. Never seen him in my life.” It’s a lawyer’s answer, but it’s still the truth. I stare at the mug shot and cast another line. “What was he arrested for?”
Adenauer doesn’t move a muscle. “Don’t piss on my shoes, boy.”
“I’m not… I don’t know what you want me to say. What’d he do?”
The leather crackles as he leans forward in his seat. He’s moving in for the kill. “Take a wild guess… I mean, you were first on the scene.”
Oh, God. “He’s a murderer? This is the guy you think killed Caroline?”
He snatches the photo from my hands. “I gave you your chance, Michael.”
“What? You think I know him?”
“I’m not answering that question.”
Now I’m starting to sweat. There’s something he’s not saying. Is this the guy Simon hired? Maybe Simon’s using him to point a finger at me. The white noise is making it harder to think. “Did someone tell you something?”
“Forget it, Michael. Let’s move on.”
“I don’t want to move on. Tell me what’s making you think that? My father? Is it something with him? Is it because this guy’s from Detroit? That we’re both from Michi-?”
“What if I told you he’s been bagged twice in D.C. for selling drugs?” Adenauer interrupts. “That ring any bells?”
I already don’t like where this one’s going. “Should it?”
“You tell me-two drug arrests here, and a murder trial two years ago in Michigan. That sound like anyone you know?”
Focused on the drugs, I try not to think about the answer.
“By the way,” Adenauer says with a grin. “Did you see that article about Nora in the Herald this morning? What’d you think about them calling her the First Freeloader?”
I try to keep it calm. “Excuse me?”
“Y’know, I just figured with you guys dating and all-is it hard having to always share her with the world like that?”