The Book of Fate (12 page)
“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.
Washington,
D.C.
Y
ou 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.”
Palm Beach, Florida
W
here 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.
“And is that my old desk out there in your reception area?”
“Yeah. I picked it up when you threw it away.”
“Rogo, I left that desk for charity.”
“And I thank you for that. Now would you like to tell me what the hell you’re talking about with your dead former coworker?”
“I swear to you—I saw him . . . I spoke to him.”
“Did he look—?”
“He got plastic surgery.”
“Well, who wouldn’t?”
“I’m serious. The shooting . . . that day at the speedway . . . it was . . . it wasn’t how it looked.”
It takes me almost a half hour to fill him in on the rest of the details, from backstage in Malaysia, to Dreidel’s info about the O-negative blood, to the FBI cornering me on the beach and asking me about The Roman and The Three. Forever a lawyer, he never interrupts. Forever Rogo, his reaction is instantaneous.
“You told Dreidel before
me
?”
“Oh, please . . .”
“I was in the car with you this morning. What, you were so enraptured by classic hits from the eighties, nineties, and today that you forget to mention, ‘Oh, by the way, that guy who died and cratered my life? Well, he must be on some all-bran diet, because he’s actually
living
’?”
“Rogo . . .”
“Can I just say one more thing?”
“Is it about Dreidel?”
He crosses his arms against his chest. “No.”
“Okay, then just—”
“You’re in trouble, Wes.”
I blink about four times trying to digest the words. Coming from Rogo, they hit even harder than the waves on the beach.
“I’m serious,” Rogo continues. “They pinned you. Just by seeing Boyle, the FBI now thinks you’re part of this. You don’t help them and they stick you as an accessory to whatever Boyle and Manning were up to. You do help ’em and . . .”
“. . . I kiss away whatever life I have left. What d’you think I’m doing here? I need help.”
When I asked Dreidel, he hesitated, weighing the personal and political consequences. Rogo’s always been built a little bit differently. “Just tell me who to punch.”
For the first time in the last forty-eight hours, I actually half smile.
“What,” he asks, “you think I’m letting you get beat up all by yourself?”
“I was thinking of going to Manning,” I tell him.
“And I was thinking you should start worrying about yourself for once.”
“Will you stop with that?”
“Then stop being the buttboy. Didn’t you hear what the FBI said? The President was in on it, whatever the hell
it
is! I mean, how else do you explain Nico getting that close and sneaking a gun past all those Secret Service agents? Y’smell that? That’s the whiff of an inside job.”
“Maybe that’s where The Roman and The Three come in.”
“And those’re the names the FBI mentioned?”
“That’s why I want to go to Manning first. Maybe he’ll—”
“Do you even hear yourself when you speak!? You go to Manning and you risk alerting the one person who has the best reason of all to put you in the guillotine. Now I’m sorry if that ruins the tiny safe haven you’ve built for yourself over the past eight years, but it’s time to pay attention. The scars on your face, despite what you think, are
not penance.
You don’t owe anybody anything.”
“That’s not the point.”
“No, the point is: Leland Manning is a good man. Even a great man. But like any other man—especially one who runs for office—he will lie
straight to your face
when he needs to. Just do the math, Wes: How many U.S. Presidents you ever seen in jail? Now how many lower-level aides who swear they’re innocent?”
For the first time, I don’t answer.
“Exactly,” Rogo continues. “Taking down a President is like demolishing a building—very little explosion and lots of gravity. Right now you’re too damn close to getting sucked in the hole.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s a monster.”
“Please, you wouldn’t even be here if you didn’t think there were crawdads in your bed.”
Sitting across from him, I keep my eyes on the carpet. During our final week in office, former Presidents Bush, Clinton, all of them called. But it was Bush Senior who gave Manning the best advice. He told him that “when you get off Air Force One, wave from the top of the steps . . . and when the lonely TV interviewer standing on the tarmac asks, ‘How does it feel to be home?’ you go, ‘Great to be back!’ And you look ahead and you try not to think what it used to be like just four or five hours before.” When our plane touched down, Manning did just that. He told that lie with ease and a perfect grin.
Rogo watches me carefully as I bite at the callus on my hand.
“I know what he means to you, Wes.”
“No. You don’t.” I shove my hand under my thigh. “Just tell me what you think I should do.”
“You already know what I think,” Rogo says with a grin. Even when he used to get his ass kicked, he’s always loved a good fight. He pulls a notepad from his desk and starts hunting for a pen. “Y’know why I get a 96 percent dismissal rate on speeding tickets? Or 92 percent on illegal U-turns? Because I dig, dig, dig, and dig some more. Check the details, Wes: If the cop puts the wrong statute number on the ticket, dismiss. If he doesn’t bring his ticket log, dismiss. Always comes down to the details—which is why I wanna know who the hell The Three and this guy The Roman are.”
“You still have that buddy at the police station?”
“How else you think I get the list of speeding ticket violators two hours before anyone else? He’ll run whoever we need.”
“Dreidel said he’d look up some of the other stuff too. He’s always good at—”
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Flipping it open, I spot a familiar number. Perfect timing.
“Any news?” I ask, picking up.
“Did you tip her?” Dreidel blurts, his voice racing.
“Excuse me?”
“The reporter—Lisbeth something—from the
Palm Beach Post
. . .” He takes a breath to stay calm. All it does is tell me something’s wrong. “Did you call her this morning?”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
It’s okay if you did . . . I’m not mad . . . I just need to know what you said.”
It’s the second time he’s cut me off. And like any other young politician, the moment he says he’s not mad is the exact same moment he’ll rip your tongue out.
“Dreidel, I swear, I didn’t—”
“Then how’d she know we were meeting!? She had that I drank coffee and ate some of your toast! Who’d you . . . ?” Catching himself, he again lowers his voice. “Just . . . who else did you tell?”
I look over at Rogo. “No one. No one that could’ve called her. I swear . . .”
“Okay, it’s okay,” he tells himself more than me. “I just . . . I need you to kill the story, okay? She’s calling you now for a quote. Can you do me that favor and kill it?” I’ve known Dreidel for almost a decade. Last time I heard him this panicked, he had the First Lady screaming at him. “Please, Wes.”
“Fine . . . that’s fine . . . but why’re you so nervous about some dumb breakfast?”
“No, not a breakfast. A breakfast in Palm Beach.
Florida
. . . when my wife thought I was still checking out of my hotel from the meeting I had yesterday. In
Atlanta.
” He gives me a minute to connect the dots.
“Wait, so that woman . . . You didn’t just meet her at a bar . . .”
“Jean. Her name’s Jean. And yes, I left Atlanta and flew in early for her. I met her a few months ago. Okay? You happy? Now you got all the juice. All I’m asking is that you keep it away from this gossip woman, because if that story runs tomorrow and Ellen sees it—”
There’s a click on my phone.
“That’s her,” Dreidel says. “All you have to do is bury it. Trade her something . . . give her ten minutes with Manning. Please, Wes—my family—just think of Ali,” he adds, referring to his daughter. “And my State Senate race.”
Before I can even react, there’s another click. I hit the
Send
button on my phone and pick up the other line.
“Wes here,” I answer.
“Mr. Holloway, Gerald Lang here,” he says, his tone dry and professorial. “From the curator’s office,” he explains, referring to the Manning Presidential Library. “Claudia suggested I ring you and—”
“Now’s not actually the best time.”
“It’ll only take a moment, sir. See, we’re putting together a new exhibit about presidential service, with a particular focus on the long history of the young men who have served as presidential aides. Sort of a . . . true retrospective, if you can imagine . . . everyone from Meriwether Lewis, who served under Thomas Jefferson, to Jack Valenti, who worked with LBJ, to eventually, hopefully, well . . . yourself.”
“Wait . . . this exhibit’s about . . .
me?
”
“Actually, more the others, of course. A true retrospective.”
He’s already backpedaling, which means he knows the rules. My job is to be the closest man to the President. Right beside him. But never in front of him. “I appreciate the offer, Mr. Lang . . .”
