Pierce let out a low whistle. “Phone records?”
“The guy’s landline and cell records don’t show anything unusual. Certainly no calls to the Agency, just routine stuff you’d expect. Nothing stands out in the way of frequent contacts with any one individual or government department. Let me clarify that slightly as saying his registered cell doesn’t turn up anything odd.”
“Explain.”
“His credit-card record showed he purchased a couple of cheap, prepaid cells at a Walmart in Maryland two months ago. His registered one is a BlackBerry.”
“He doesn’t strike me as the Walmart type, but maybe he got them for his kids or something.”
“Possibly as gifts,” Reno said. “Though his one son is grown and has a good job, and his wife already has an iPhone5.”
“Anything else?”
Reno shook his head. “Nothing significant. No criminal record, aside from a DUI a couple years ago that was hushed up.”
“I’ll put out some feelers with my contacts in Defense, the Bureau, and Homeland Security. See if they have anything additional,” Pierce said. “When Shield calls back, I’ll transfer her to you.”
“Roger that. Hope she’s wrong about Agency involvement,” Reno said as he got up to leave.
“Calling in favors from the CIA should really be a last resort,” Pierce replied. “We need to exclude every other possibility before we do that. But we need to do it in a hurry because Shield is at risk until we know, and we don’t want to spin our wheels only to find out the Agency will just cover it up again.”
Chapter Thirteen
The White House
That evening
As Ryden ate her dinner in the private second-floor dining room across from her bedroom, she wondered why Kennedy—who’d been with her all day—had now been replaced by a Secret Service agent named Jason. She sat alone at the long table, two waiters catering to her, while he read a magazine from a chair by the door.
Tonight’s fare included Caesar salad, beef bourguignonne, potatoes Florentine, and fresh asparagus with a balsamic reduction. She always ate until she was stuffed and included dessert with lunch and dinner, because her fast metabolism, combined with the stress she was under, burned up the calories with alarming speed. She’d already lost five pounds since she’d been here.
Ryden had never eaten a bigger variety of delicious meals. Betty always asked her in generic terms if she would prefer this or that—chicken or fish, potatoes or rice—but when the waiter served at dinnertime and announced the menu it was like listening to a foreign language. She’d never been to expensive restaurants, and although her crash course in French and culinary cuisine helped decipher some of the dishes, she still had no idea what to expect.
The same applied to the different wines they would present her with and expect her to choose from. As far as Ryden was concerned, they all tasted good, and since she really couldn’t tell the difference, she usually left it up to the White House sommelier.
She liked to take her meals here. The view of the grounds was compelling, and she could shed Thomas’s high heels and designer suits for more comfortable slippers and loungewear without fear of being seen by anyone but her servers and guards. But something was missing tonight. She’d gotten used to Kennedy’s presence during dinner. The bodyguard would either stand or sit by the window and occasionally look outside. Although they rarely said anything, Ryden found comfort in her calm presence and silence. It wasn’t until Kennedy became her shadow that she realized how tired she had grown of eating alone in her small apartment or in diners.
As a child, she would have dinner with whatever foster family she was placed with, which was her least favorite time of the day. Either her foster parents would find it the most appropriate time to argue, or the other foster kids would massacre each other over who got the larger serving. The only other person she had ever shared a meal with was Magda, during work in the back. She had found Magda’s constant need to gossip about their customers tiring and only seldom amusing.
Even though Ratman had probably hired Kennedy, the bodyguard was the only one of the two of them who, despite the truth, still treated Ryden with respect. For some unknown reason, she felt safe when Kennedy was around, though vulnerable.
Kennedy had stayed at her post all day, but Ryden had seen little of her because she’d spent most of her time in closed-door meetings. She was sure Kennedy’s absence now, when they would have been alone, had to do with the horrible way she’d treated her at the dinner event last night. Had Kennedy been allowed to quit? And if so, wasn’t someone obliged to inform her of that fact? She looked at the male agent and cleared her throat.
“Yes, Madam President?” He immediately set aside his magazine and stood.
“What happened to Kennedy?” she asked nonchalantly.
“She’ll resume her duties later tonight, Madam President.”
“I see.” Ryden felt relieved. “So, she’s taking a break from me?”
Jason smiled. “Not from you, Madam President.”
“Whom else?” Ryden smiled back. Why couldn’t she let it go?
“I think she needed some private time.”
“Oh? Is she all right?”
“Nothing serious, I suppose, since she’s still in the House.”
Ryden scooped up the last of her dessert—tiramisu this evening—and chewed slowly. Was Kennedy avoiding her until she was off to bed so she didn’t have to face her? And if so, was she even allowed to? Sure, Ryden had snapped at her, but that was no excuse to forgo her duties and…ignore her. “Do you know where she is?”
The guard had remained standing. “I’m sorry, I don’t, Madam President. I can find out in just a moment.”
Ryden finished her wine and got up. “Don’t bother. I’m going to retire early tonight.”
Jason followed her toward the bedroom. She had just reached the door when she saw Kennedy walk out of the Yellow Oval Room farther down the corridor still wearing her trademark dark pantsuit and starched white shirt.
*
Shield had requested a time out for personal reasons without further explanation. She’d used the time to call the EOO for any news and to plant a listening device in Thomas’s bedroom, using the adjoining door from her room while the president was eating dinner across the hall. She hadn’t mentioned the eavesdropping to Pierce, but no risk was involved. Since she was the president’s primary and the one responsible for the routine, weekly sweep of the room for bugs, the Secret Service wouldn’t find the device by chance. She might, however, be able to overhear a private conversation between Thomas and Moore.
She’d eaten dinner then and was headed to her bedroom to get her cell for another call to Pierce, when she spotted the president leaving the private dining room.
“Does this mean you’re on duty again?” Thomas asked her.
Shield was used to the cold, formal attitude of her subjects and even found it interesting when it came to attractive women, but Thomas had pushed all the wrong buttons when she’d accused her of playing on the job. Shield knew she had to be a professional and swallow her pride when it came to difficult and downright rude individuals, but nothing vexed her more than unfairness. That, combined with the fact that the EOO hadn’t been able to offer any news yet in response to her inquiry, had put her in a less than pleasant mood. “Yes, it does, Madam President.”