The Next President (5 page)

“Sooner or later,” Jenny said, agreeing with Don’s assessment of mortality.

“I’m sorry I woke you.”

“It’s okay, I wasn’t actually asleep.”

“I knew you’d be busy after what happened today. But I wanted to talk to you. To tell you that I’m going to be looking out for you.” Don Ward laughed again.

“And I don’t mean from the Great Beyond.”

“What do you mean?” Jenny asked, a note of concern entering her voice.

“I mean, I was asking myself just this morning if there was really any purpose in prolonging my pain. I couldn’t think of one. Then I heard the news about Senator Rawley, and suddenly I saw a reason to keep going a little longer. I have complete faith in your abilities, Jenny, but I’m going to help you. There’s a man out there who’s trying to keep your candidate from reaching his goal. I intend to work very quietly behind the scenes, like the wraith I nearly am, to thwart that man.”

Her first impulse was to warn her old friend of the danger involved in hunting an assassin… but he’d clearly implied he’d been thinking of suicide only that morning.

In his own way, Don was a brilliant investigator. It had been said Hunter Ward could dig up the dirt on Santa Claus. So if he wanted to use his amazing mind one more time, for her benefit, before the cancer ate it away, who was she to tell him no?

“Thank you, Don.”

“Sleep well, dear Jenny.”

After deplaning at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas, J. D. Cade found a pay phone and discreetly looked around. Nobody gave him a second glance. He dropped a handful of coins into the phone and called his mother’s number in Carbondale. As the relays clicked and his call was routed across the country, he did his best to clear his mind of what he’d done that day. He didn’t want even the tone of his voice to hint to his mother or-His son answered, “Hello.”

J. D. had to clear his throat before he could respond.

“Hello, Evan.”

“Dad! Is it good to hear from you.”

From the day Evan had first bur bled “Da,” J. D. had never failed to be gladdened by hearing his son greet him, and this time was no different. And for as long as his son had been talking, J. D. had been able to hear when his voice carried a note of distress. He asked, “What’s wrong?”

There was a moment’s hesitation and then, “Two cops came banging on Grandma’s door a few hours ago.”

“What?” J. D. asked.

“What for?”

“It’s okay, Dad. I got rid of them, and Grandma called her lawyer.”

J. D. was less than comforted.

“Evan, what did they want?”

His son’s tone said no big deal; his message directly contradicted the feigned nonchalance.

“Somebody called the cops and said I killed a guy named Ivar McCray.”

White-hot anger engorged J. D. and he was silent for the long moment it took to repress it.

“I didn’t do it, Dad,” Evan told him firmly.

“I know, Ev,” J. D. replied with quiet certainty.

“I know who you are and who you’re not.” Now Evan was silent. J. D. knew that no young person ever wanted to think he could be completely understood.

But Evan let that pass and continued with his explanation.

“I never knew this McCray guy at all. Never laid eyes on him. The whole thing is crazy.”

J. D. felt his soul wither.

“I’ll take care of everything,” he said.

“Anything you ” “No.” A new defensive tone entered his son’s response.

“Listen, Dad, I know all this sounds pretty’ scary. Hell, it ;s pretty-scary. But I’m taking care of it. It’s my problem, not yours.”

Evan was wrong about that. J. D. had brought this on his son. He’d placed the person he loved most in mortal jeopardy.

He’d done it by an act now more than thirty’ years old.

He’d done it by missing his shot today in Chicago.

Right now the only way he could see to save his son was to make sure he didn’t miss the next time he had Senator Franklin Delano Rawley in his sights.

But Evan assured him once more, “I’ll take care of it, Dad.”

Monday, September 13, 2004

J. D. knew that his only hope was to get ahead of the Rawley campaign and let it come to him. The surest way for the Secret Service to catch him would be for him to follow along behind, searching for another sniper shot. He was certain that there would be no more opportunities for a long-distance kill.

This time he’d have to get in close.

He pulled his car into the parking structure behind the office tower on the Avenue of the Stars in Los Angeles where the Rawley campaign headquarters for California was located. He found his way to a uniformed man at the information desk in the building’s lobby and asked for the suite number of the Rawley campaign. The man told him with a smile, never inquiring as to the nature of J. D.‘s business.

J. D. wore a dark blue suit, tailored more closely than was the current style. He’d shaved off the mustache that had accompanied him to Las Vegas.

He’d had his hair cut two days ago, and when the stylist had asked if he wanted the traces of gray at his temples touched up to match his natural color, he’d said no. Instead, he had the gray silvered subtly. He wore a wafer thing gold Omega watch with a black leather band. His shoes were gleaming handmade loafers.

His appearance, like most in L.A.” was carefully calculated. Rich white guy, trim enough for the tapered cut of his suit, relaxed enough not to worry about the gray encroaching on his hair. A man to be approached, not feared.

Still, he found it interesting that he hadn’t been questioned about his

interest in the Rawley campaign, and there were no overt security precautions for an organization whose principal had almost been killed only a week ago.

Looking around casually as he waited for the elevator, he noticed two discreetly placed surveillance cameras, but they were standard equipment for any modern office building. What he didn’t see was anyone resembling security personnel.

Not until the elevator doors opened on the twenty-ninth floor, where the Rawley campaign was located. Then two strongly built men with cropped hair, earphones, sunglasses, and good suits held the door open for him. They gave J. D. a serious once-over and one of them gestured for him to leave the car, saying, “Please step out, sir.”

Betraying none of the tension that had welled up inside of him, J. D. exited the elevator. He saw a wedge of other bodyguards heading his way, obviously shielding somebody of great importance. Rawley here already? That was sooner than J. D. expected. The morning paper still had him in Colorado He stepped aside to watch, and he noticed that everyone he could see through the open door of the campaign office was looking on with great interest too.

But as the security people passed by him he saw it wasn’t Del Rawley they were protecting but a legendary singing diva known for her interest in politics. The entertainer was accompanied by a pretty auburn-haired woman in a smart business suit. One of the star’s escorts spoke into a tiny microphone at his wrist and J. D. overheard him alerting someone at ground level to have the car ready.

The diva shook the hand of the auburn-haired woman and got into the elevator When the performer turned, she caught sight of J. D. She lowered her sunglasses for a better look and J. D. saw a canary-eating grin appear on her feline face just as the elevator doors closed.

Then the auburn-haired woman was standing next to him and she, too, had a mischievous smile on her face.

“Consider yourself flattered,” she told J. D. with a small dollop of the South in her voice.

“There aren’t many who get a second look from Marva, much less a smile.” The woman extended her hand.

“I’m Vandy Ellison. Is there anything I can do for you?”

J. D. shook her hand.

“J. D. Cade. If you’re with the senator’s campaign, I just stopped by to make a contribution. Perhaps you might point me in the right direction.”

“I am the right direction,” she said, her smile brightening. She took J. D.‘s arm.

“I’m Senator Rawley’s chief fundraiser for California, and I’d be de lighted to show you to my office.”

She led him into the suite of offices. The rest of the campaign staff found J. D. far less compelling than the departed diva, and they were getting back to work. The only person paying attention to him and the honey-voiced Ms. Ellison was a broad-shouldered man with short, wiry black hair, brooding dark eyes, and an aggressively hooked nose. He looked like he might have been one of the singer’s security people who’d been left behind, except his suit wasn’t good enough and his face was too hard.

The man sat at a desk at the back of the bullpen area, isolated from the rest of the staff, and he watched J. D. and Vandy approach without blinking.

Or smiling. When they turned down a corridor to the left, J. D. could feel the man’s eyes on his back.

Vandy gestured J. D. into a large office with a view that went all the way to the ocean. She got him seated comfortably in front of her desk, and after she made absolutely sure he didn’t care for any sort of refreshment, she closed the door.

Just as soon as she seated herself, j D. asked, keeping his tone light, “Who’s the guy outside, the one who looks like a hit man with a toothache?”

The corners of Vandy Ellison’s mouth turned down.

“You don’t want to know about him. I don’t want to know about him. Or why he’s even still around. He’s not important, believe me.”

“Okay,” J. D. said mildly.

But he could see he’d hit a nerve. Even taking out his checkbook didn’t bring back Vandy Ellison’s smile. She looked down and drummed her fingers on her desk, trying to regain her composure.

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” J. D. told her.

“No, no, it’s not you,” she said, shaking her head. Then she looked up at

J. D.

“Do you know what that man wanted to do?”

“No.”

“He wanted to look in Marva’s handbag.” She gave him a minute to plumb the depths of that outrage, and then repeated it in case he couldn’t quite believe his ears.

“He wanted to look in Marva Weisman’s handbag!”

It took J. D. a moment to remember that Marva Weisman was the diva’s name.

“Did he get his way?” J. D. asked.

“He did not!” Vandy Ellison said stoutly.

“He also wanted to disarm her security escort before they entered our offices. Can you imagine? He didn’t get that, either.”

“He’s with campaign security, then? Secret Service?”

“That man,” she said, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “is Special Agent Formerly in Charge Dante DeVito He’s the sonofabitch who almost let Senator Raw-ley get killed in Chicago.”

J. D. frowned.

“I have to admit, I can’t see why someone like him would be kept on.”

“Del is just a sweetheart, sometimes too much of a soft touch for his own good. He—” Vandy caught herself, realizing she was talking out of turn to a complete stranger.

“It doesn’t matter, really. That man actually still has his title, special agent in charge, but he’s effectively been left with nothing to do.

Of course, maybe that’s why he was trying to mess up the biggest coup I—” She caught herself again and apologized to J. D. “I guess I’m really wound up right now, that’s all.” She paused and forced her smile to return.

“Now, did I hear you say something about making a contribution?”

J. D. raised his checkbook.

“I thought I’d donate ten thousand dollars to the cause.”

Vandy Ellison beamed—and she told him for just fifteen thousand more he could be invited to a very special performance that Marva would be giving at her Bel-Air home for Del. And, of course, Del would be there as the guest of honor.

J. D. looked up from the check he was writing.

“Am I pushing too hard?” Vandy asked with the same impish grin she’d showed him before.

“I’ll let you know when I get uncomfortable,” J. D. replied. He signed his name to the check.

“The thing is, with apologies to you and Ms. Weisman, my taste in music lies elsewhere.”

He handed the check to Vandy Ellison and she accepted both his ten thousand dollars and his decision with good grace. She noticed the Santa Barbara address on the check and commented on how beautiful it was up there.

“Would you mind if I put you on our mailing list?” Vandy asked.

“That would be fine, but I should give you my new address. I’ve just moved to L.A.” He gave her the address of the house he was leasing.

Vandy jotted it down, looking like an angler who’d just landed a trophy catch.

“Well, that’s nice,” she said.

“You’re so nearby, maybe we’ll see each other again.”

She had the savvy to let matters rest there. As she opened the door to her office for J. D.” she suggested that he might like to leave by the rear exit.

“Why would I … oh, our frowning friend? Never let someone like that see you’re afraid of him,” he counseled Vandy.

The disgraced agent still sat at his desk. He picked up on J. D. and Vandy as soon as they left her office. Vandy pointedly avoided meeting his gaze;

J. D. took it in and returned it without concern or challenge. He might have been looking at a potted plant.

“You forgot your nails,” DeVito said in a flat voice just as they were about to pass him.

Vandy stopped and impaled the man with a frigid look.

“I beg your pardon.”

“Not you, him.” He nodded to where J. D. stood.

“Guy like you, he needs his nails done to complete the look.”

Now there was an element of challenge in the stare the two men exchanged.

Then J. D. shrugged and said, “My manicurist died… but thanks for caring.”

Vandy laughed wickedly, and DeVito turned to glare at her, his face flushed with anger. He pushed back from his desk and stormed past them.

Vandy took J. D.‘s arm again and he felt her brush a breast against it in a way that was too emphatic to be accidental.

“Oh, my,” she said, still chuckling.

“You don’t know how much good that did me.” She walked him to the elevator bank, waited for a car to arrive, and held his hand in both of hers before letting him go.