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“Then it was even more gracious of you to turn her down personally. I guess she thought there was no harm in asking for an exclusive with you to discuss your campaign strategy. Apparently she’s now on a first-name basis with Vanessa, and you sent her those flowers. It’s natural for her to think she has an inside track to the Oval Office.”

  David Merritt stared through the windows overlooking the carefully tended grounds of the White House. Visitors were queued up along the iron picket fence, waiting to take the standard tour, during which they’d gawk at the dinnerware of former presidents.

  Privately, he scorned the American public, but he loved being their president, and he was going to hate relinquishing this address, even after his second term. He never considered that there wouldn’t be a second. Being reelected was a foregone conclusion. It was in the program he’d set for himself back in that trailer park in Biloxi. With very few deviations, everything had gone according to his master plan. Nothing would be allowed to interfere with the future that David Malcomb Merritt had outlined for himself. Nothing.

  As though reading his mind, Spence said, “Wonder why she threw in that last question about Vanessa.”

  “My wife’s well-being is on everybody’s mind these days. It would have been more suspicious if she hadn’t mentioned her.”

  “I suppose,” Spence said.

  His lack of conviction brought Merritt around, a question in his expression.

  Spence shrugged. “It’s just that several weeks ago, Barrie Travis appeared out of nowhere. Now, every time we turn around, she pops up.” He swore beneath his breath. “What was Vanessa thinking when she pulled that stunt? And why is this reporter still hungry? I can understand her snooping around D.C. General before her SIDS series, but why after?”

  “That bothered me, too,” Merritt admitted. “But her source was made to see the error of her ways. I think Ms. Travis will find it very hard to cultivate another source at that hospital.”

  Barrie Travis might think her sources were secret, but Spence’s were more so. The President hadn’t asked in what manner or by whom Anna Chen had been confronted about leaking confidential information to the press. He’d merely been assured by Spence that the matter had been handled—and if that’s what Spence said, it was safe to etch it in stone.

  Spence was good that way. If a problem arose, he took care of it. No explanation required. No rationalization. No argument. Spence was hassle-free. Unlike their friend Gray Bondurant, who had insisted on knowing the why and wherefore of every damn executive request.

  When action was called for, David Merritt wanted action without having to justify it. He wanted expediency and didn’t give a damn about the integrity of the deed. Gray did. Integrity was a big thing to Gray.

  “I think Barrie Travis is just an overzealous reporter. She had her fifteen minutes—and that’s stretching it—and now she’s trying to maximize her brush with fame. Unfortunately, she’s become a nuisance.” The President chuckled. “She’s a screw-up and everybody knows it. Relax. She’s not smart enough to do any serious damage.”

  “I don’t know, David,” Spence said worriedly. “I think she’s smarter than she’s given credit for. If not for that one well-publicized gaffe, she could have been a media force to contend with. Her damned tenacity speaks volumes about her character.”

  “Or her recklessness and blind ambition.”

  “Either way, if she stays on this, it could hurt us.”

  Merritt looked at his adviser. Words between them were often unnecessary. Like guerrilla fighters picking their way through an enemy-infested jungle, they could communicate without words, their eyes alone warning each other of possible hazards. This was one of those times.

  “If you’d feel better about it, Spence, stay on top of it.”

  “I’d feel better about it.”

  * * *

  Barrie stared thoughtfully at her shorthand transcript of her telephone conversation with President Merritt. She could find no fault with anything he’d said or how he’d said it. It had been a friendly little chat. He’d been firm but polite when refusing her request for an exclusive interview, but that hadn’t disappointed or even surprised her. Asking for one had only been a pretext. The purpose of the call had been to inquire about the First Lady.

  Since that windy, cloudy day when she’d met Vanessa Merritt for cappuccino, Barrie had been looking for drama beneath every brick in Washington. There was none to be found. Sources had turned mute. The pager she wore twenty-four hours a day, the number of which only her sources and Daily knew, hadn’t beeped once, so she’d broken the rules and phoned them. Nobody knew a thing. She’d been ready to concede that her imagination had run away with her, and not for the first time.

  Then the mysterious incident with Anna Chen had jump-started her sputtering conviction. The very next morning, Dalton Neely had called a press conference to announce that Mrs. Merritt was going into seclusion for an unspecified period of time. Following that shocking opener, he’d read a brief statement from the President:

  “Senator Armbruster and I believe that Vanessa’s responsibilities as First Lady haven’t allowed her time to wholly recover from the tragic demise of our son. We’ve impressed upon her how valuable she is to us as an individual and as a patriot. She owes it to her family and to her country to be fully restored, physically and emotionally, before resuming the grueling schedule she imposes upon herself. For that purpose, she’s taking an extended rest.”

  Questions from the floor had been entertained. This recuperative rest would be under Dr. George Allan’s supervision, Neely had said in response to one. He had flatly denied that any alcohol or other substance abuse was involved. Barrie herself had shouted above her colleagues to ask when the First Lady might return; she’d been told it was too soon to speculate.

  Since then, Neely had given the news-starved media periodic updates on Mrs. Merritt’s condition. According to Dr. Allan, she was responding favorably to the rest and relaxation. This morning, when Barrie had spoken to the President, he had thanked her for asking after his wife and promised to pass along her regards. She was improving rapidly, doing exceptionally well. He couldn’t be more pleased by her progress.

  Everything was just so peachy-fucking-keen.

  “Like hell it is,” Barrie muttered. The back of her neck was itching again. Something wasn’t right. She reached for her telephone.

  “D.C. General. How may I direct your call?”

  “Anna Chen, please.”

  “Ms. Chen no longer works here.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Ms. Chen no longer works here. Can someone else help you?”

  “Uh, no. Thanks.”

  Barrie hung up quickly and tried Anna Chen’s home number. A pleasant, computer-generated voice told her the number was no longer in service. In less than five minutes Barrie was in her car, speeding to Anna Chen’s apartment building. She jogged up the three flights of stairs and pressed the bell on the door of 3C. After ringing it several times, it became apparent that the apartment was empty.

  Frustrated, she rang the doorbell of the neighbor across the hall. Pressing her ear to the door, she heard motion inside and a whispered conversation. “Hello?” she called out, knocking on the door. “I’m looking for Ms. Chen.”

  The neighbor was a young executive type with a sleek ponytail and a monogrammed shirt, opened to the waistband of his slacks, which obviously had been hastily zipped; a corner of his shirttail was caught in the fly. Looking beyond his shoulder, Barrie saw that he was entertaining a young lady. They were having a picnic lunch on the living room floor.

  “I’m sorry to disturb—”

  “If you’re looking for Anna, she moved,” he said, obviously in a hurry to return to lunch. Or whatever.

  “When?”

  “Sometime last week. Friday, Thursday maybe. Before the weekend, because the super had the apartment cleaned on Saturday. There were workmen in and out all day.”

  “Do you have any idea�
��”

  “Where she moved? No. But she works at D.C. General.”

  “Not any longer, she doesn’t.”

  “Huh. Then I’m clueless.”

  * * *

  “Thanks for coming, Daily.” Barrie entered her house through the back door. The kitchen was filled with aromatic steam.

  “How could I resist such a gracious invitation? ‘Be there at seven. Start dinner.’ ”

  Daily was at the stove, stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce, a Christmas apron tied around his waist. She vaguely remembered getting the apron as a gift a couple of years ago and hadn’t seen it since. She wondered where Daily had found it.

  “Smells delicious.” She batted down Cronkite, who was in a frenzy over her arrival. “Have you fed him?”

  “A raw meatball, which he swallowed whole.” Daily set aside his spoon and turned to her. “How come I had to get out at the corner, walk down the alley, and come in through the back door? Are we playing spy, or what?”

  “After dinner.”

  He held her to that promise. As soon as the dishes were cleared, they made themselves comfortable in her living room. At least Daily was comfortable, seated in an over-stuffed armchair, Cronkite’s large head resting in his lap. Barrie moved about the room restlessly. Twice she checked the front door to see that it was locked and bolted. She closed the window blinds, making it impossible for anyone outside to see in.

  “What in hell is going on?” Daily asked.

  She held her finger vertically against her lips and turned on the TV. She set the volume at an earsplitting level, then moved an ottoman close to Daily’s chair.

  “You’ll probably think I’m overdramatizing,” she said, “but I think I’m being watched. I had my cell phone disconnected this afternoon. From here on, I don’t want any phone records. When we talk, we have to be very careful about what we say, especially about Vanessa Merritt.”

  He nodded toward the blaring television set. “You think the house has been bugged?”

  “Nothing would surprise me.” She filled him in on Anna Chen’s disappearance, adding, “I talked to the super of the building. She gave no notice, just paid out her lease, packed up, and took off.”

  “She could have a dozen reasons for leaving. Another job, another apartment.”

  “She left no forwarding address either at the hospital or with the super. That’s odd for someone who’s just relocating.”

  “Maybe she’s trying to shake a bad-tempered boyfriend.”

  “She was frightened, but not of a violent ex-boyfriend. She was afraid of being seen talking to me. Somebody knew she’d leaked information to me, and she’d been spooked into shutting up.”

  Daily tugged at his lower lip, saying nothing.

  “Why wasn’t an autopsy performed on that baby?” Barrie continued. “Dr. Allan wasn’t present when he died. In an accidental death, law mandates an autopsy to determine the cause.”

  “We’re talking about the President and First Lady of the United States, Barrie. The law can be bent.”

  “If your child had suddenly died for no apparent reason, wouldn’t you want to know exactly why? Why would the Merritts object to an autopsy if they had nothing to hide?”

  “Lots of people object to autopsies.” Daily waved his hand in dismissal. “Next argument.”

  “I keep going back to Vanessa’s strange messages to me. Could they have been implied confessions?”

  “If she murdered her baby, why would she confess?”

  “Deep down, she wants her crime to be exposed. She wants to be punished.”

  “You know, the more you talk, the sicker she gets.”

  “And where is she?” Barrie asked impatiently, while still keeping her voice low. “At Highpoint?” The Merritts’ private getaway on the Shenandoah River was a couple of hours’ drive southwest of Washington.

  “That would stand to reason,” Daily said, “although the official word is that she’s resting in an ‘undisclosed location.’ ”

  “If she’s only resting, and is otherwise healthy, why all the secrecy?”

  “If his daughter was seriously ill, Clete Armbruster would be right in the middle of it,” Daily said. “He’d have her in the best medical facility in the country, undergoing every kind of test they’ve got. Have you talked to anyone in his office?”

  “I’ve tried. Neely’s statements have become his staff’s mantra.”

  “If her health was at risk, the senator wouldn’t be satisfied with an extended rest. He’d fight hell or high water to get the best treatment available.”

  “Likewise, if the senator knew that she had committed murder, he would fight equally hard to cover it up and protect her.”

  “Shit,” Daily said. “I walked right into that one.”

  “You keep placing these obstacles in my path,” she said crossly. “You don’t want me to be right.”

  “I don’t want you to be wrong. I don’t want you to go out on a limb with a chain saw in your hand like you did with the Justice Green story. And others.”

  “This bears no resemblance to those. None at all.”

  “And I don’t want it to. After a series of fiascoes, you’re just now regaining some credibility. Can you imagine the shit storm these theories of yours will create if they get leaked?”

  “Can you imagine how far and fast my career will soar if my theories prove to be right?”

  “Before you start fantasizing about your own magazine show, you’d better acknowledge what you’ve got. A hunch, Barrie. That’s it. A hunch, which in journalism amounts to zero.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” she argued emphatically. “Unless you’re actually there when somebody jumps off a ledge, or an airplane crashes, or a killer is caught standing over the body with a smoking gun in his hand, every good story begins with a hunch, a gut instinct that tells you there’s more to the situation than meets the eye.

  “You probably won’t believe this, Daily, but my motives aren’t purely selfish. I’m concerned for Vanessa. She was stretched about as thin as I’ve ever seen anyone stretched. Say I’m way off base and the baby died of SIDS, as reported. Maybe grief has driven her insane. If she’s becoming an embarrassment to the White House, isn’t it possible that they shuttled her off somewhere to keep her out of the public eye?”

  “You think the President is holding her against her will?”

  Put that way, her hypothesis sounded ludicrous. “That would be totally implausible, wouldn’t it?”

  “No more implausible than anything else we’ve tossed around.” He thought about it for a moment. “Then again, power has its own unique psychology. History has shown that to some presidents, any means justified the end. I guess that could extend to the sequestering of an emotionally unbalanced first lady who might stand in the way of reelection.”

  Barrie shuddered. “God, our theories only get worse.”

  “They’re still just theories, Barrie.”

  “Stop reminding me,” she muttered.

  “That’s my job.”

  “You’re no longer my boss.”

  “True. I’m just your friend. Look, Barrie.” He paused to take a few wheezing breaths. “You’ve got the world’s approval now. For once, go easy on yourself.”

  She resented his tone. “Psychology time, Daily? Time to open up Barrie’s head and see what makes her tick?”

  “I already know what makes you tick. More importantly, you know, too.”

  “Then why discuss it?” she said angrily.

  “Can you look me in the eye and tell me that your motivation for pushing forward with this dangerous story has nothing to do with winning the approval of two people who—”

  “Yes, I can look you in the eye and tell you that. Besides, no matter what my motivation is, it’s a story that needs to be told. Agreed?”

  “If the story is indeed there, yes,” he answered grudgingly.

  “Okay, so stop bringing up my scar-inflicting childhood and help me.”

 
; “How?”

  “Who would talk to me? Senator Armbruster?”

  Daily shook his head. “No matter what he believed in his heart, he’d take the company line and defend it with his dying breath. He’s a politician down to his toenails. He wouldn’t malign anybody his party placed in the White House, even if it was Jack the Ripper. And certainly not his son-in-law. Almost singlehandedly, he put David Merritt in office.”

  “Okay. So, who else knows the Merritts that intimately? If there was someone close to them who’d had a falling out. Or someone who—” Suddenly a fresh thought yanked her up straight. “That—that… soldier who rescued the hostages.”

  “Bondurant?”

  “Bondurant! Yes! Gary Bondurant.”

  “Gray.”

  “Right. Gray. He was thick as thieves with the Merritts. Maybe he’d talk to me.”

  It hurt Barrie to hear the rasp-gasp-rattle in Daily’s laugh. “You’d have better luck getting an interview with one of the faces on Mount Rushmore. They’re a lot friendlier and more talkative than Bondurant. He’s about as approachable as a cobra.”

  “What’s his story? Where’d he come from?”

  Daily shrugged. “Your guess is as good as anybody’s.”

  “He didn’t just materialize when Merritt appointed him as adviser,” she said with frustration.

  “But it looks that way,” Daily remarked. “Spencer Martin is just as secretive. What’s known about them before the Merritt administration wouldn’t fill a thimble. My opinion—they cultivate that mysterious aura.”

  “What for?”

  “Effect, I imagine.”

  “What did Bondurant do before the rescue mission?”

  “Planned it, I guess. The three of them—Martin, Bondurant, and Merritt—had Marine recon training. Of the three, the President is the most polished, the natural politician. Spencer Martin is a devious sneak. He fits his role in the administration to a tee. And Bondurant… He’s the most complex of the trio. Want to know something? The guy always scared the shit out of me. Truth be known, I think he scared the shit out of the President, too.”

  “I thought Merritt fired him because he had become a little too attached to Vanessa.”