The Gemini Deception (26 page)

The big guy took a quick look behind him and turned back to her. “I don’t think so. If you want to come in, I’m gonna have to see a warrant.”

These were the times Shield regretted working under her own name instead of a cover. Under other circumstances, the door would be hanging on its hinges and the fat guy would be sweating on the couch with her gun in his face. Shield took a deep breath. “Look, I’m not here to make any trouble for you. I just need to talk to Dennis.”

“What about?”

“I want to ask him some questions about a past employer.”

Brinker looked away briefly again. Shield was sure he was checking with Weitman about whether to let her in.

“I’d help, lady, but I don’t kow where he is.”

“Very well then, you don’t leave me a choice. I’ll be back in an hour.” Shield returned to her rental sedan, certain that it wouldn’t take long for Weitman to come running out, looking for a place to hide. She drove away and parked around the corner where her car would be concealed but positioned so she had a view of the front porch through the shrubbery.

The door opened five minutes later and Brinker emerged to scan the area. His mouth moved; he said something aloud and then Weitman came out, small duffel bag and car keys in hand. He hurried to an older Plymouth and took off. Shield waited a few seconds to follow him.

Weitman pulled onto the freeway and headed north at the speed limit, with Shield pacing him several cars behind. As they followed the signs toward Salem, rapidly eating up miles, she realized that the car directly behind the Plymouth—a silver Ford sedan—wasn’t following the natural flow of traffic, but was altering its speed to keep its position. Someone else was also following Weitman.

Shield called Reno and asked him to trace the plates on the Ford. He reported back that it had been reported stolen an hour earlier.

Weitman exited the freeway and turned into a deserted parking lot behind an after-hours strip joint. The silver sedan kept pace until he did, then continued down the road past the club.

Shield grabbed her gun from the dash as she stepped on the gas and stopped right behind the Plymouth, trapping Weitman between her car and the wall of the building. She jumped out and pointed the gun at him. “Secret Service. Show me your hands.”

“I’m unarmed,” he shouted, and put his hands on his head.

“Get out of the car.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“I have nothing to say.”

Shield opened the door for him and grabbed him by the collar.

“Chill,” he said, “I’m coming out.”

“Keep your hands where they are.”

“I didn’t do anything.” He slid out of the driver’s seat with his hands still on his head.

“I want to talk about Thomas.”

He leaned against the car. “I don’t know any Tho—”

Weitman’s eyes went blank as blood oozed from a small hole that suddenly appeared above his left eyebrow. Almost simultaneously, Shield heard the muffled discharge of a weapon. As Weitman dropped to his knees in front of her, Shield immediately ducked and fired over the car in the direction where the gunshot had come from. No more shots came her way, but she heard a car take off in the distance.

Weitman lay limp on his side in front of the open door of the Plymouth, his eyes wide open and a growing puddle of blood under his head. So, the ex-girlfriend hadn’t been angry enough with him to not warn him. Too bad Weitman had to alarm whoever had hired him.

Shield wasn’t exactly heartbroken by his demise, but she did regret not getting the chance to make him talk. She dialed 911 from the pay phone outside the club and told the operator a man was down and gave them the address. She wasn’t about to get involved or offer any information that would wake any sleeping dogs to her suspicions concerning Jeffrey Thomas’s death. So far, she had little to no proof, and any media and fed attention would lead to a wild goose chase that would only alarm those behind Thomas’s death and hamper her search.

Whoever killed Weitman hadn’t stuck around to kill her as well. Either they hadn’t been ordered to or they didn’t want to stir up trouble by killing White House security—something that would certainly trigger an extensive investigation. Shield pulled out of the parking lot and took off in the direction she’d heard the car speed away. She was sure it was the silver sedan that had been following Weitman.

She drove around for an hour before deciding to give up. Whoever had shot Weitman had probably ditched the stolen car.

“Weitman’s dead,” she told Reno as she headed slowly toward Logan Airport, still watching out for the Ford.

“You okay?” He sounded concerned.

“I’m fine. They dropped him right in front of me just as he was getting out of the car.”

“Before or after he gave you a name?”

“Before.”

“Did you see who shot him?”

“They snipered him. I’m sure it was the guy from the stolen car. I tried to find him, but no luck.”

“Crap. What do we do now?”

“You’re going to book me on the next flight out of Logan. I have to get back to Washington.”

“The president awaits.”

“Yeah.” She heard Reno typing away at his computer in the background.

“How is she to be around?”

“She’s hard to read. High-strung most of the time.”

“She’s pretty attractive for a president,” he said.

“She’s even better in person.”

“Is she any fun?”

“She can be when she’s not nervous or irritated with me,” Shield replied.

“Why you?”

“It’s complicated.” She thought back to the night she almost kissed Thomas.

“What did you do?”

“My job.”

“I guess she doesn’t like being babysat.”

“Frankly I don’t know what she likes,” she said distractedly. “She’s…not what I expected.”

“What does that mean?”

“She’s very sensitive and almost innocent, in a way a woman her age shouldn’t be. Like she doesn’t fit the role.”

“She sounds too good to be a president.”

Shield sighed. “She is. She’s unpretentiously charming, almost disarming.”

“We are talking about the U.S. president, right?”

“Hey, I’ll catch you later.”

“Shield?”

“Yeah?” She was still scanning the streets for the silver sedan.

“Are you all right?”

“You mean conspiracy and Jeffrey Thomas’s assassin getting killed in front of me, aside?”

“That, too, but are you all right with Thomas?”

“Sure.”

“Sounds to me like you like her. A lot.”

“Later, Reno. Text me the ticket info.” Shield hung up.

The White House

Ryden had managed to get through her closed-door session with the Argentine president, and several important meetings that followed, to Ratman’s satisfaction. But she still had three more to go before she was done for the day, and she wondered how she’d manage. She felt pushed to the very limit of her patience. After running a brush through her hair, she glanced at her schedule and wearily pushed herself up from the vanity. The next item on her agenda, a briefing from Homeland Security in the Roosevelt Room, would likely involve an elaborate multimedia presentation of some sort.

She found the backup Secret Service agent outside her door in the same position she’d left him, like he hadn’t dared to move. “When is Kennedy expected to return, Jason?” she asked.

He cleared his throat. “She didn’t say, Madam President.”

“Of course not. I mean, why bother? It’s not like she has a job to do.”

“I…I’m…I don’t…”

“Tell Kennedy I want to see her.”

“Of course, Madam President.”

She was wired so tight, her responses had become abrupt even to Ratman, but at this point, his menacing stare didn’t affect her. Every time she’d exited one meeting to go to another today, she’d expected to find Kennedy waiting for her outside the door. Instead, she would find her backup agent, who’d jump to attention at the sight of her. His expression was usually a mixture of frustration and fear she might ask him about Kennedy.

The twenty minutes alone in her room, her first real break, had done little to soothe her frayed nerves. Ratman had been at her side the entire endless day, beginning with her meeting with Juan Carlos and continuing through appointments with the joint chiefs of staff and several cabinet members. He had made sure she followed her script and gave them all the correct answers, and in between each appointment, he’d grill her to make sure she’d done her homework about whatever was coming next.

Around nine p.m., after her last meeting, she announced to that miserable excuse of a human that she was retiring for the night.

“I’ll walk you to your room.” Ratman’s tone was smooth, almost flirtatious, as he followed just behind her toward the stairway to the second floor.

“Thank you, but that’s not necessary.”

“I know,” he replied with a smile.

“Whatever,” she said under her breath as she headed up the steps. She couldn’t be bothered to argue with him. She was too tired and too irritated for a confrontation. “I need to be alone. It’s been a long, draining day, and frankly, I’m in no mood for threats or advances or whatever else you have in mind.”

His smile instantly disappeared, and he grabbed her arm as they reached the upper corridor. To all appearances, it was a benign gesture for her to slow down, but his pointy little fingers dug hard and deep into her flesh. “Don’t push it,” he whispered. “Just because they can hear and see us doesn’t mean you can talk to me like that, florist.”

Ryden stopped and smiled. Her bodyguard was a good distance out of earshot. “You know, you used to scare me, but…” She shrugged. “I got over it.”

“Did you, now?”

“The way I see it, you need me. And
will
need me until I get the job done. So get your ratty little fingers off me and leave me the hell alone until it’s absolutely necessary to burden me with your foul existence.”

“Ah, she has a backbone.” He released her and clapped three times but remained serious. “One I can snap in two.”

“You could, but you won’t, because you need me.”

He leaned in. “What happens when I don’t?”

“Is that a threat?” She raised an eyebrow. “Because, according to our agreement, you can’t touch me once I’m done with this charade.”

“You’re right,” he replied. “
I
can’t.”

“Good. Now act your role and fuck off, because the president told you to.”

Ratman turned on his heel and walked down the stairs.

Ryden went to her bedroom and locked the door, then leaned her back against it and released a long breath. She didn’t know where or how she’d bought the balls to talk to that despicable man the way she did, but right now and all day, for that matter, she’d felt too irritated to care about what anyone thought. She was annoyed, and tired, and…where the hell was Kennedy?

She practically ripped her clothes off with disgust. She didn’t want any part of her present life permeating her skin, reminding her how weak she was for letting herself get involved and manipulated into playing the role of a strong, powerful, elegant woman. A woman who had nothing in common with the type of woman
she
was.

Ryden took her time in the shower and, still refusing to wear anything that was Thomas’s, sat on the bed with nothing on beyond her underwear. Her conversation with Ratman had given her the strength, and enhanced her need, to be the woman she’d always wanted to run away from and change—a simple person who craved simple pleasures and didn’t have to answer to anyone. So what if Kennedy would never desire someone as plain as Ryden the florist? She was a good, decent, hardworking woman, and as long as
she
was proud of herself and the difficulties she’d overcome, then screw Kennedy and every other Kennedy for wishing her to be someone else. Someone refined, with immaculate table manners and knowledge of expensive wines, and… “I could use a glass of wine right about now.”

She eyed the adjoining door to Kennedy’s room. “You think you can play with people. Does that make you feel special?” Ryden got up. “Special, my ass. You wouldn’t know a good, decent woman if she slapped you on the ass. How dare you try to kiss me and then…how dare you manipulate me, too?”

Ryden got up and knocked on the door. She waited, biting her lip and prepared to give Kennedy a piece of her mind. But when no answer came, she did something completely out of character. She tried the door to see if it was unlocked.

It was. Of course it was. Kennedy had to be able to reach her immediately at any hint of danger.

Ryden knocked one more time, her hand on the knob, before she entered Kennedy’s room. It was too dark to see anything, so she made her way toward the light switch, hoping it was where her own was. “Crap it all to hell,” she shouted when she stubbed her toe on something. Limping, she found the switch.

Except for a few items on the dresser, the room was seemingly devoid of anything personal except for the musky, alluring scent that was Kennedy. Ryden opened the closet and found three black suits and two blue ones, an array of shirts, three belts, and a few pairs of black shoes. Every item appeared well sewn and the fabrics and leather expensive. “Looks like the wine business is doing well.”

Part of her wanted to feel guilty for what she was doing, but the other half couldn’t and didn’t want to resist. She didn’t know why she was in Kennedy’s room, and although she’d feel completely embarrassed if Kennedy walked in and found her there, practically naked, Ryden almost wished she would.
I wonder what her pillow smells like.
“Okay, now you’re just being scary.”

And why the hell did it matter what it smelled like, anyway? Kennedy was just another manipulative idiot. Ryden spotted a bottle of wine on the bedside table and picked it up. “Il Grigio Angelo.” But not the one she’d tried that day with Kennedy. This one had a gold label that said S
PECIAL
C
OLLECTION
. Kennedy must have gotten it from the White House’s wine cellar. “If it’s fit for a president, then it’s fit for a florist. Besides,” she said, raising the bottle toward Kennedy’s neat rack of suits, “you shouldn’t be drinking on the job anyway.”