A Hideous Beauty (31 page)

So I tried not to look at any of them.

But I wanted to look at them—Jana with her dark, full hair cascading to her shoulders, her charismatic smile and radiating sensuality; Christina with her East Coast professionalism and sparkling, energetic blue eyes; and Sue Ling, quiet, sweet, and brilliant.

I was a dead man.

“Isn't this great, Grant?” Christina exclaimed. “We've all heard each other in the background of your phone conversations, and now we have a chance to get to know each other.”

“Um . . . yeah . . . great,” I said. “Listen, Christina, about
what you saw upstairs in the hallway. I had a late night and Jana and Sue had just stopped by when you—”

Christina waved off my explanation. “Oh, we've already been through all that,” she said cheerily. “However, they did inform me that the previous time they were with you in your hotel room, you at least had the decency to wear a robe.”

A gray-haired woman in the booth next to us glared at me with disgust.

Jana, Christina, and Sue laughed.

“We are all in agreement on one thing, though,” Sue added. “You have nice legs.”

They fell against each other laughing.

I tried to be a good sport, to laugh with them, but all I could manage was half of a smile. I craned my neck to see if I could find a waiter. I could really use a cup of coffee.

“There it is,” Jana said, leveling an index finger at me.

“You're right,” Christina agreed.

“What?” I asked.

“A few moments ago I was asking Christina if she noticed how quick you are to find the humor in someone else's discomfort, but when it's you who are uncomfortable, for some reason it's not funny.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I said, fidgeting in my seat.

“For me,” Jana said. “It was a run in my stocking at the Senior Prom. I tried to get Grant to take me home so I could put on a new pair. He refused.”

“You monster!” Sue Ling cried.

“Instead, he took it upon himself to do an informal survey of every guy who walked by our table. He even had me stand up and show them the run. His conclusion? Nine out of ten guys didn't think the run made me any less attractive. He honestly thought that would make me feel better.”

“Well, I did . . . at the time,” I said weakly.

My only hope now was to get a last-minute reprieve from the governor.

“He did a similar thing to me,” Christina said. “We were sitting in a restaurant just a few blocks from the Capitol, for an important lunch meeting with the senator from Massachusetts. The waiter spilled coffee on the sleeve of my two-piece suit.”

Jana and Sue gasped.

“It was too late to do anything about it. I had no choice but to remove the jacket and proceed with the meeting. Do you know what Grant did during the entire lunch? He kept commenting about how cold it was in the restaurant and asked me if I wanted help putting my jacket on.”

“Grant!” Jana and Sue chimed in.

I felt like a worm. Like the underbelly of a worm. Like a parasite crawling on the underbelly of a worm.

“And have you noticed how Grant gets moody when he doesn't get his way?” Sue Ling said.

“He does!” Christina said, surprised. “How long have you known Grant?”

“Just a few days.”

“You're absolutely right, though. He does,” Christina said.

“I do not,” I objected moodily.

“Yes, you do,” Jana said, making it unanimous.

With cup in hand, I turned to look for the waiter, needing that coffee desperately now.

“All right, ladies,” Jana said. “Let's get down to business.”

“Business?” I said.

“Grant, we're here to help you,” Sue Ling assured me.

“Help me?”

“You are one lucky guy, Grant Austin,” Jana said. “Three gorgeous and talented women show up on your doorstep with a single thought. To help you.”

“Lucky me.”

“Christina, you've come the farthest,” Jana said, “you go first.” To me, she added, “Christina flew all the way across the United States to bring you some news, and she took personal time off from work to do it. I hope you appreciate what a good girlfriend she is.”

“Ex-girlfriend,” Christina and I said in unison.

“But I do have good news,” Christina continued, smiling at me. “I discovered who doctored the manuscript.”

“You're kidding!” I cried. “Who?”

“Sylvia Jakes.”

The name clunked onto the table meaninglessly. Who was Sylvia Jakes? “It might have been her handwriting,” I said, “but someone else orchestrated the changes, right?”

Christina nodded, still smiling.

“Ingraham?”

She shook her head. “Margaret.”

“Margaret!”

“Who's Margaret?” Sue Ling asked.

“Chief of Staff Ingraham's personal secretary,” I explained. “Are you sure this Sylvia person wasn't working under Ingraham's orders?”

“Positive,” Christina said. “And if needed, Sylvia has agreed to testify that you had nothing to do with it. You're off the hook.”

“Thank you, Christina,” I said with emotion, because indeed a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. “What does Margaret have to say about it?”

Christina hooked her hair behind an ear. It was an endearing gesture, the equivalent of a man rolling up his sleeves to work. “We don't know,” she replied.

“What do you mean, you don't know?”

“Margaret has disappeared. I mean, literally, Grant. I followed her into the supply closet, and when I got there, she was gone. I couldn't have been more than a second behind her. It's the supply closet at the end of the hall where you had your desk.”

I was familiar with it. There's only one way in or out of that supply closet.

“The mystery deepened when we went that night hoping to find her at her town house. The place was so proper and neat, it looked like a model house or a showroom of some kind. But no Margaret.”

“I wanted to tell you the other night when I called.”

“Why didn't you?”

Even as I asked the question, I knew why. She hung up when she heard Jana's and Sue's voices in my hotel room.

“You flew out here to check up on me!” I cried.

“I did not!” Christina objected. “I had a message to deliver and needed to get away for a while. What better place than San Diego?”

“I believe her,” Jana said.

“So do I,” Sue said.

I pondered the realization that Christina still cared for me. I wasn't sure how I felt about that.

Jana reassumed control. “Sue, you're up next.”

“Mine's not a big thing like Christina's and Jana's,” Sue began, “but I've been thinking about the coded phrase in your book. Even though you can prove you didn't write it, its placement and the phrase itself was meant to implicate you, which means it's still a clue as to what's in store for the president. Do you still want to talk to him?”

“I do,” I said. “I may be off the hook, but I still have questions for the president. If there will be an assassination attempt—and I'm confident there will be—I want to stop it.”

“If you ask me, it'll take place in San Diego,” Christina said. “You wouldn't believe how crazy it's been around the White House. Something big is happening. Besides, the president warned Grant away from San Diego to protect him. The attempt will be made here, you can count on it.”

“And Myles Shepherd told me the president himself was in on the plot,” I added.

“What?” Jana cried. “When did he tell you that?”

“The day of my speech.”

“And you've been sitting on that information all this time?”

“I didn't want to believe it,” I said, which was true. I only hoped Jana wouldn't press any further.

“You didn't tell me because I'm a reporter, isn't that right?” Jana said. “You didn't trust me.”

Three angry faces glared at me.

I was without defense.

Mercifully, Sue Ling continued with her contribution. “To remind everyone of the sentence, it read: ‘When he is suspended between earth and heaven I will kill the president.' The timing of the assassination is dictated by the place, ‘suspended between earth and heaven.' ”

“We considered places like the Skytower at Sea World—it's two hundred and sixty feet high,” Jana said, “but the president's itinerary doesn't place him anywhere near Sea World.”

“What about a high-rise?” I suggested. “He's staying at the U.S. Grant Hotel, it has a rooftop terrace.”

“We considered that as a possibility,” Sue said.

“But not likely,” Christina added. “The president doesn't usually wander outside of his hotel when he travels unless it's to go someplace specific.”

“He did some wandering the night you found him with the manuscript copy,” I said, “and if he really is planning it himself, he would have to take the Secret Service by surprise.”

“Remembering that the plan was to implicate you, Grant,” Sue said, “it would mean you would have to be on a rooftop or in a helicopter to get some kind of shot at him on the terrace. Do you have any plans to be on a rooftop?”

“No.”

I didn't tell her that I had recently been on the roof of the Emerald Plaza towers.

“Given the president's itinerary,” Sue said, “we think the phrase
between earth and heaven
most likely refers to Air Force One.”

“That certainly fits the description,” I said, “but how would I—”

“Before we go there,” Jana interrupted, “let me show you the itinerary.” She shoved a piece of paper in front of me and proceeded to go down the list. “There are two scheduled fund-raisers,” she said. “The first, a private reception at the home of Gerald Keneally in La Costa.”

“The computer-chip millionaire,” I said, recognizing the name.

“It's a single-story residence and Del Mar Road is the only access into and out of the neighborhood.”

“There is an adjoining polo field,” Christina added, “which means the president will most likely arrive by helicopter.”

“Which flies between earth and heaven . . . ,” I said.

“But the chances of you getting anywhere close to that polo field are remote,” Christina replied.

Jana continued, “Then, there's a dinner at the convention center, which will be preceded by the president throwing the first pitch at Petco Park. The Padres are playing the Nationals that night.”

“The ballpark is at sea level,” I mused.

“There will be a designated area for protesters,” Christina said.

“The president's third and final appearance is not a fund-raiser, but a huge send-off on Coronado Island. The president will visit the USS
Ronald Reagan
aircraft carrier and there will be a public rally with plenty of bands and balloons and choirs.”

“The place where you will most likely be able to get close to the president,” Sue said.

“And Air Force One takes off right there from North Island Naval Air Station,” I said.

“That's right,” Jana replied.

“But how would I kill the president while Air Force One is taking off?” I asked.

Sue sighed. “We didn't say we had it all figured out,” she said, “only that by putting one and one together—you in proximity to the president and him suspended between earth and heaven—the most likely scenario is the closing rally.”

“Which means I have three days in which to reach him and talk him out of it,” I said. “Thank you,” I said to all three of them. “Thank you all. At least now I know what I'm up against.”

Jana wasn't listening. “Christina, have you ever been shopping at Fashion Valley?” she said. “I have an hour before I have to get back to the station.”

“Wait . . . Jana . . .” My mind was still on the president's schedule. “This itinerary. It isn't much for a three-day visit. Are there any meetings or conferences between these events?”

Jana shook her head. “Just these. People at the news station made the same observation. Usually these whirlwind tours are packed with meetings. Everybody wants five minutes with the president.”

I think I knew why the schedule was so sparse. In my mind's eye I could see Doc Palmer working feverishly to patch together a drug-addicted president so that he would present a suitable public image for a few hours.

The girls were sliding out of the booth.

“Take care of the tab, will you, Grant?” Christina said as she passed me.

“You're welcome,” Jana said, referring to the itinerary.

“You have good taste in women, Grant,” Sue said. “I like them. They're fun.”

I remained behind and paid the check, but not before I got my cup of coffee.

CHAPTER
26

A
senator once told me that protestors were macaws. Colorful, loud, and demanding, but harmless. “Who takes macaws seriously?”

Standing at the polo field in Del Mar, I had to agree with him. Most of the protestors seemed to operate under the assumption that if you waved a sign and shouted loud enough, the president would change any domestic or foreign policy. It was all in the volume.

I stood in the midst of a whole flock of macaws holding my sign:
DOC PALMER IS ALIVE.
I was surrounded by protestors of offshore oil drilling, the president's handling of the wars in Lebanon and Venezuela, the Save Our Penguins brigade, and a man who wanted the president to investigate irregularities in the handling of his son's Little League candy sales.

In every other attempt to reach the president, I'd struck out. A man who is hesitant about revealing his true identity has few options when contacting a head of state. This was my last-gasp effort, futile as it was. I felt ridiculous standing here.