The Housewife Assassin's Ghost Protocol (18 page)

He chuckles. “If only I could move the West Wing permanently to Hilldale.”

I shake my head. “You’d only be transferring DC’s issues with it. Lion’s Lair would quickly lose its charm.”

He stares, stymied, if only for a moment. “It’s not this stucco monstrosity I find so charming. You know that.”

Yes, I do.
 

In his eyes, I am a friend—to his chagrin, with only one, albeit very important benefit:
 

I can save his presidency.

Or break it.

He places his hand on my arm in order to lead me in.
 

I am assured his cell phone is on him because he pulls it out in order to ring Janie’s new au pair. “Sally, please let Trisha know that her mom and I are on our way up to fetch her. And tell Janie no tantrums, or else Trisha won’t be allowed over during the rest of the time we’re here at home.” He clicks off, shaking his head in annoyance.
 

I look forward to meeting Sally. She’s got to be better than Janie’s last au pair, Frannie, who turned out to be a Quorum operative. The White House has had a hell of a time getting good help.
 

After texting Arnie the code phrase that warns him to look for the Trojan going live (“
Leaving soon to pick up groceries”),
I slip my hand into the pocket of my jacket to engage the app that may end Lee’s and my friendship once and for all.
 

I then count down the seconds until this may happen:
two-hundred seventy, two-hundred sixty-nine, two-hundred sixty-eight, two-hundred sixty-seven…

Lee walks at a leisurely pace: up the steps into the grand foyer, and toward the elevator that will take us to the top floor, where Janie’s bedroom suite is located.
 

Once the door closes, and he’s assured we’re away from prying eyes and perked ears, he mutters, “I wish Babette were half as strict with Janie as I am. It would make life easier. Instead, she encourages Janie to pit us against each other so that she can be viewed as the ‘good parent’.”

“That’s a shame,” I reply. “Although, I do understand her desire to stay close as Janie grows older.”

“You’ve got it all wrong. Babette’s fear isn’t about Janie growing older, but about her own aging. She doesn’t want to be the parent. She wants to be the indulgent older sister.”

Ouch. But, yeah, he’s got Babette pegged.

One-hundred forty-three, one-hundred forty-two, one-hundred forty-one…

“
Under any circumstances, it’s hard to bring up a child,” I point out. “With considerable wealth and all the trappings of the White House, it’s got to be nearly impossible to keep a child’s feet on the ground.”

“Please don’t make excuses for Babette. We both know she’s self-centered. I’d hoped another child in her life would change her for the better, but who am I kidding? She’ll always put herself first. It’s just…it’s just who she is.”
 

“Is Babette home?” I ask—a safe topic, I hope, but I doubt it.

“No. We’re hosting Drucker and his wife, Tilly. She took them to the Reagan Presidential Library. Drucker wanted to pay his respects graveside.” Lee’s eyes roll skyward. “It’s a great photo op for him, as you can imagine.”

I have to purse my lips to keep from laughing.
 

Lee’s not. He’s frowning. He turns to stare at the door again.

No better time to change the subject. “I’m so happy that Janie called Trisha. She hasn’t been sleeping well lately.”

Lee reaches for my hand and squeezes it sympathetically. “Really? Why is that?”

“She claims a ghost has been visiting her at night. Sadly, the ghost is Carl.”

“That’s not a dream. It’s a nightmare.”

How do I respond to that?
 

I can’t. We’ve both learned the hard way that what he said is the truth.

We make the rest of the trip in silence.

He doesn’t let got of my hand until the elevator door opens.

“Trisha doesn’t really want to go home.” This is Janie’s way of greeting me. “She’s afraid of her ghost dad.”

Trisha ducks her head over her friend’s indiscretion.
 

I take hold of my daughter’s hand. “If you want, I’ll sleep with you tonight. If he shows up again, I’ll tell him to go away, once and for all.”
 

Hearing this, Lee’s eyes open wide. I guess I wasn’t as successful as I’d hoped in keeping the hard edge out of my voice.

At least my declaration puts a hopeful smile on my daughter’s face. Grateful, she hugs my waist.

Lee puts a hand on Janie’s shoulder. “Let’s walk our guests to the front door.”
 

“No! I won’t have anyone to play with tonight—so I won’t come down to eat with our boring old guests! Sally can bring my food up here to me,” Janie shouts. As if it will help her make her point, she crosses her arms and turns her back on him.
 

Trisha’s eyes open in shock.

She isn’t the only one taken aback by Janie’s pout. Anger flashes across Lee’s face. “No, Janie, unless you join us—and behave yourself—there will be no dinner tonight.” He motions us toward the door. “Ladies, shall we leave Janie to enjoy her pouting session in peace?”

As we reach the hallway, my instinct is the same as Trisha’s: to look back at Janie.

Suddenly realizing Lee meant business, Janie turns around at that very moment. Fear has dampened her eyes with tears. Seeing that we are staring back at her, she drops her head in shame, but is too proud to take back her threat.

While I nudge Trisha down the hall and toward the elevator, my cell phone buzzes with a text message from Arnie.

His coded message—
We have no milk
—is a bit of good news—for Lee anyway, if not our mission: There is no evidence that his phone took the leaked photos of the Operation Hercules white papers, or that he sent anything at all to Salem’s email address.
 

Once again, we’re back to square one.

When the elevator opens on the ground floor, Eve is waiting for us.

After shaking my hand, she turns to her boss. “The first lady is running a half-hour late, Mr. President. The vice president wanted to take his time at the museum. Also, Mr. Reynolds and Mr. Courtland are waiting for you in your office. They say it’s a matter of utmost urgency.”

Lee frowns. He turns to me. “If you’ll excuse me, Donna. Eve will walk you out.”

“But of course, Mr. President.”

He parts with a wistful smile. Maybe it’ll broaden when he gets the news from Ryan that all the suspects have been cleared—including himself.
 

Ironically, it’ll also mean we’re back to square one: no suspects in the theft of the Operation Hercules research.

Eve waits until he’s further down the hall before turning to me. “Mrs. Craig, when we last met, you asked me to be on the lookout for any suspicious activity in the West Wing.”

She’s piqued my curiosity enough that I nod slightly.

She hesitates before finally murmuring, “I don’t know if what I found relates to your investigation, but I know the president feels he can trust you with his life, which is enough for me to hand it off to you.”

“What is it, exactly?”

“I didn’t find it in the West Wing, but here at Lion’s Lair, in my private quarters. Previously, they belonged to Eileen Woodley. If you follow me, you can see it for yourself.” She leads Trisha and I back into the elevator then pushes the button for the third floor, which holds Lion’s Lair’s guest quarters.

The suite overlooks the Chiffrays’ private golf course. It’s done up in a sunny yellow, and its furnishings are less formal than the museum pieces throughout the downstairs. It has its own living room, dining room, a bedroom, a bathroom, and a galley kitchen.
 

Eve walks over to a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Not all of its shelves are filled with tomes. Some contain curios. She pulls out one of the books: a John Le Carre novel:
The Night Manager
.
 

“I was looking for something to read,” she continues. “Instead, I found this.”
 

When she opens the novel, I see that the pages are centered out. The gap is square, and just large enough to hold something:

An iPad.

Yes, this is interesting.
 

Eve takes it out and hands it to me. “It needs a password to open it.”

“Do you know anything about Eileen Woodley’s departure from the president’s staff?”

“Before taking her place, I’d previously worked for the secretary of state, so I wasn’t part of the West Wing staff when…when Eileen passed. But I’d heard scuttlebutt: something to do with a breach of protocol, despite the fact that she’d been with him for years, even during his time in the private sector.” She looks down at the iPad. “I presume it was hidden in this manner for a reason that may jeopardize POTUS, should it be revealed in anything other than your investigation. As you requested, I want to ensure his hands are clean.”

“I’m sure the president would appreciate your actions in this regard. My hope is that once we break the password and determine what and why it was left in this manner, he’ll be able to thank you in person.”
 

I slip the iPad into my purse. “I guess you should walk us out.”

Eve looks down at her watch. “And the sooner the better. We want to get you down the hill before the others get back from Simi Valley.”

I get it. The last thing Eve needs is to be blamed yet again for my presence.

We reach Hilldale Avenue just as the first lady’s motorcade is pulling onto it from our gated community’s secure main gate.
 

Trisha slumps down in her seat. “Whew! That was close, Mommy!”

She’s telling
me.

Chapter 10

Dead Man Walking

In prison parlance, “dead man walking” is the term for a condemned prisoner making his last walk to the death chamber.

Popular culture also uses it as a way to indicate an unavoidable loss that is about to occur to an unsuspecting victim. You could use it as well, to describe:

• An employee who doesn’t know he’s about to get fired, despite the fact that the rest of his office has been clued in;
   
  
• A presidential candidate who goes through the motions of campaigning after Super Tuesday, in spite of the fact that poll results show he doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell; and
  
• Someone with no inkling that he has a target on his back.