The second thing he noticed was the tall brunette across the room. She was downright stunning, even dressed in conservative funeral attire, but her eyes showed signs of fatigue, as if broadcasting to the world that she was Phil Grayson's daughter.
Jack's cell vibrated in his pocket. He checked the number. Theo--the guy had a sixth sense for interesting women. Jack stepped outside onto the porch to take the call.
"Dude, how's it going?" said Theo.
Bar noises from Sparky's Tavern were in the background, and Jack knew instantly that this was another one of those pointless calls that Theo made from work just to pass the time.
"It's about what you'd expect," said Jack.
"That bad, huh? Any babes?"
"Theo, I'm at a funeral."
"That sounds like a yes to me. Who is she?"
It was one of Theo's favorite games--getting men in committed relationships to admit that they could identify every beautiful woman in any room they ever entered, whether it was a wedding or a funeral. Jack could never fool him, so he just gave it up.
"All right. You got me. Grayson's daughter is a knockout."
"You gonna get her number?"
"No."
"Jack, Jack. You disappoint me."
"First of all, I'm dating Andie. So why are we even having this conversation?"
"Because you're not married, and you automatically assume that a gorgeous woman is off-limits. That's wrong."
"Look, even if I wasn't seeing Andie, and even if this wasn't Phil Grayson's funeral, she's in her twenties and I'm, you know"-- Jack could barely say it--"hours away from forty."
"Dude, you don't understand. Every man her age has been addicted to Internet porn since high school and truly believes that the only conceivable way to pleasure a woman is to lay back and let her give him a blow job. You could be the Clark Gable to an entire generation of Sara Lees."
"Sara Lee is a pound cake, moron. The actress was Vivien Leigh."
"No--Tara Lee, wasn't it?"
"No, Tara was the plantation that Scarlett--"
"Forget Clark Gable. You're Steve McQueen with a new Mustang."
"Right. I gotta go."
"Loser."
"Pound cake."
Jack closed his flip phone and tucked it into his pocket. The mist had turned to a light drizzle, and Jack took a moment on the covered porch to listen to raindrops falling on kudzu. A door opened at the far end of the long porch. It was the vice president's widow stepping out for air. Jack didn't want to intrude on her quiet moment. He could scarcely imagine what the past five days had been like for her--the phone call from the Everglades, the emergency flight down from Washington, the rush to a Miami hospital, the news of her husband's death. And that was only the beginning. From there it was nonstop public appearances that left no time for private grief.
Jack remained at the porch rail, about fifty feet away from Marilyn Grayson. She dug into her pocketbook, foraged for a cigarette, and lit it. The patter of falling rain was almost hypnotic, and she was deep in thought, standing beside a pair of white rocking chairs, one of which had gone permanently still. Finally, she returned from wherever her mental journey had taken her, crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray beside the rocking chair, and walked over to thank Jack for coming.
It was strange to finally meet someone you'd seen thousands of times before, but only on television. Invariably, they were taller or shorter, wider or thinner, meaner or friendlier than even your high-definition television had led you to believe.
"You're Harry Swyteck's son, aren't you?"
"I am," said Jack as he approached. "Agnes is sorry she couldn't make it, but my father and I thought my coming might show how sorry the entire Swyteck family is for your loss."
"Thank you. It means a lot that you came to our home to tell me that."
She fell quiet and looked across the lawn toward a stand of fir and pecan trees. Jack got the distinct impression that the former Second Lady was positively tired of small talk, tired of all the ceremonies. She also seemed to appreciate the fact that Jack didn't mind the momentary silence--didn't feel compelled to spoil it with words that were just words.
"Do you think your father is going to take the job?" she said.
Jack was taken aback. No public announcement had been made, but of course she would have known about the impending nomination.
"Honestly, I think it's all up to Agnes. No one was happier about his retirement than she was."
"I can fully understand that," she said, "though I can't imagine a successor who would have pleased Phil more."
"That's very kind of you to say."
"But your father needs to go into this with eyes open."
"Not to worry," said Jack. "My father's a good man, but he's also a seasoned politician."
She turned to face him squarely, her voice lowering. "I will never say this directly to your father. From now on, I can't say anything to him that I don't want divulged in his public confirmation hearing. So I will tell it to you: I have serious questions about Phil's death."
Jack struggled for words, not wanting to insult her intelligence. "Mrs. Grayson, your husband had a heart attack."
"That's what they say."
She said the word they the way conspiracy theorists said it.
"You have reason to doubt that?" said Jack.
She considered it, then seemed to think twice about elaborating. "I know what you're thinking. I'm grief-stricken, my judgment clouded. But I've a feeling that, with the direction your father is headed, you might have some questions, too. If you do," she said, as she reached inside her pocketbook and removed her card, "call me."
She handed it to Jack, who had no idea how to respond. "As I say," she continued, "I have serious questions. And I intend to get answers."
She stepped away, and Jack watched in stunned silence as she went back inside the house, ever gracious toward her guests.
Chapter
6
President Keyes and the First Lady took center stage with Harry Swyteck and his wife, as the world awaited the televised address from the East Room of the Executive Mansion. It was the largest room in the White House with the least amount of furniture, truly multipurpose over the course of history, the place where Teddy Roosevelt's kids had once roller -
skated and the body of John F. Kennedy had lain in repose before being moved to the Capitol. It took some temporary rearranging of Christmas trees and the traditional White House creche to accommodate the invited guests, who were officially listed as the Keyes family, Governor Swyteck's son, cabinet officers, congressional leaders, members of the diplomatic corps, and "other dignitaries." A small number of White House correspondents were also invited, while the rest watched on a monitor from the press room in the West Wing.
Chloe watched from her living room, alone.
"My fellow Americans," the president said into the camera. "A little less than one week ago this country suffered a terrible loss."
Chloe was no longer among Washington's elite, no longer on anyone's list of rising journalistic stars. As a college student at Columbia she'd dreamed of becoming a White House correspondent. Snagging a coveted White House internship with the Keyes administration in the spring of her senior year had made that long-term career goal seem entirely achievable. Chloe had certainly shown the required dedication. Some interns arrived at 9:00 A . M
., went to lunch at noon, and headed out to see the sights at 5:00 P
. M
. Chloe was there before 8:00 A . M
., took lunch in the cafeteria when she could get it, and left when the rest of the office staff left, usually around 8:00 P
. M
. Her assignment was to the White House press office, where she knew a late night lay ahead whenever the speechwriters came back from a briefing with their Chinese food orders ready. Chloe never complained. She quickly learned that the good stuff happened after 6:00 P
. M
. Sometimes, the bad stuff did, too--bad enough to get her fired. Some said that her career and her life in general had gone downhill since then.
Chloe would have said it was more like falling off a cliff.
"Upon Vice President Grayson's death, I immediately met with the Speaker of the House and Senate majority leader and asked members of both houses of Congress to submit the names of possible nominees for the vice presidency."
Chloe poked at her dinner, a bowl of microwave popcorn and a tangerine. She was already too thin, down to one hundred pounds of anger and bitterness, and the mere sound of President Keyes' voice was enough to kill what little appetite she had. Her office had been in the Old Executive Office Building, next door to the White House, but before getting fired she'd earned herself a blue pass, which afforded access to all nonresidential parts of the White House. She was one of the lucky interns who'd actually gotten face time with the chief executive, and even though she would never forget what President Keyes looked like, the snowy image on her television screen made it difficult to discern his likeness as he delivered tonight's message from the East Room. The audio was fine, but the picture sucked. Her cable had been disconnected for nonpayment, and she was relying on rabbit ears.
"I also sought and received suggestions from my cabinet, staff, and other sources outside Congress."
To be fair, Chloe's loss of the White House gig had been only the start of her troubles--the first in a series of dominoes that had kicked her into the journalistic gutter. Two years ago she would have turned up her nose at a newspaper that didn't require its reporters to corroborate information from an anonymous source. Now, she worked for a rag that paid its sources in cash--lots of cash.
"I indicated just two qualifications for the job," the president told his television audience. "First, that the nominee be capable of serving as president; and second, that he or she be able to work with members of both parties in Congress and be capable of confirmation by both houses."
Chloe pushed the bowl of popcorn aside and brought up her e-mails on her laptop. Lucky for her, the downstairs neighbor had unsecured Internet. Chloe's Wi-Fi piggybacked onto it just fine, free of charge.
"In response to my request, the White House received hundreds of recommendations, including some very thoughtful suggestions from fifth and sixth graders at the Adams School in Lexington, Massachusetts."
Chloe scoffed. Nice line about the middle schools, but Chloe was losing interest in the rhetoric. She scrolled down on the LCD screen to the most recent e-mail from her source. She'd been going back and forth with him for at least two weeks now, ever since her editor had put her on the assignment.
"I studied each of these recommendations, and yesterday afternoon I returned to the White House with my mind made up."
Chloe reread the e-mail. It would be one hell of a story-- her biggest about a White House she'd been attacking since her abrupt dismissal. There was just one hitch: she had to convince her editor to pay for it. More money than they'd ever paid before. Much more.
"Two hundred fifty thousand," the e-mail read. "Final offer."
"My fellow Americans, it is my pleasure to tell you that my nominee to be your next vice president of the United States is my good friend, one of the most fair-minded men I have ever met, the former governor of Florida, Harry Swyteck."
Chloe switched off the television. It was time for something truly newsworthy.
She picked up the telephone, took a deep breath, and started to dial her editor. Then she hung up. She knew the answer would be a firm NO. "Find out if there's a story," her editor had told her, "and if it's as big as this joker claims it is, pay him twenty grand-- not a dime more."
Twenty thousand dollars. Her editor was an idiot. This story was too big to let a dolt like him screw it up. She'd made that mistake before, putting her trust in people far less capable than herself. Never again. It was time for her to take charge of her own life, play by her rules--not someone else's.
She banged out a short reply to her source's e-mail and hit
SEND.
"Let's meet," was all it said.
Chapter
7
"Some party, huh?" said Jack. "Sure," said Andie, "if you call a press party without Playgirl a party."
They were standing before the magnificently decorated Douglas fir in the White House Blue Room. Andie was gorgeous in her red dress, even if there were two other women wearing the same design.
Tonight's party for six hundred members of the press marked the halfway point of a presidential Iditarod of holiday receptions and dinners at the Executive Mansion. As always, the president and First Lady were fully committed to a two-hour block of handshakes, posed photographs, and thirty-second conversations that would test the superhuman strength of their smile muscles. It was a veritable Who's Who in White House press coverage, and Jack's unofficial business was to keep his ears open and find out who his father's friends and enemies were in advance of his congressional hearings. Jack looked off toward the Cross Hall, where guests were streaming through a forest of red poinsettias toward the State Dining Room. The sense of history here was inspiring, but Jack could see in their ambitious eyes that it was mostly about proximity to power. Some would have sacrificed a vital organ for the promise of an invitation to next year's party, and no matter how blase the regulars pretended to be about it, they would for months find a way to work into every conversation a sentence beginning with the words "When I was at the White House Christmas Party. . . ."