Chapter Sixty-Two

The Series Finale

Jimmie had never seen the Lincoln Memorial at night before. The famous statue of Lincoln seated like Captain Picard in his captain’s chair was brilliantly lit from all sides. The stone columns supporting the ceiling cast majestic shadows across the wide cement staircase where Jimmie stood. He’d chosen to meet Cat here because it was the one place in the city Trump hadn’t fingered with his Midas touch. Lincoln was the lone president that Trump was on record as admiring—because, as Trump once said, “He’s the greatest vampire hunter our country has ever seen.”

But Jimmie wasn’t here to admire the unmolested monument. If everything went according to plan, there’d be time for admiration later.

“Where is everybody?” Cat asked, approaching from the south. She was walking with purpose. She wanted to get this over with as fast as possible.

That made two of them.

Jimmie rose to greet her. “It’s nine o’clock on the Sunday night before Labor Day,” he said. “They’re all at home watching the Game of Thrones series finale. Even G. R. R. Martin is watching to see how it ends.”

“I never understood that fantasy shit,” Cat said, keeping a few feet between them. That was fine by Jimmie—he had no interest in being smacked again or thrown to the ground.

“I don’t watch it either. I’m still on season two of The Wire,” he said. “I’m, like, five premium cable series behind.”

His choice of date and time had been deliberate. Once night had fallen, the Memorial and the adjoining National Mall had cleared out. An eerie calm had come over DC . . . an eerie calm that would soon be shattered.

“You said you know who killed Lester,” Cat said. “But that’s impossible. He committed suicide. He jumped off the roof of the White House. His body was found in the Rose Garden.”

“You said before that his death was news to you,” Jimmie said.

“I didn’t know if I could trust you.”

“So why didn’t you write about his death, then?” Jimmie said.

“You know as well as I do that this is a click-driven business.”

“So you didn’t even investigate it? He was your boyfriend.”

“Was my boyfriend. Remember that I’m a member of the White House press corps. I’m not paid to investigate,” Cat said. “Besides, ‘Old-School News Reporter Kills Self at White House’ isn’t exactly going to garner many views.”

“Let the people make that decision,” Jimmie said.

She shook her head. “The people did decide—years and years ago. Before the advent of blogging, before the advent of the Internet. There’s maybe some political intrigue there. Maybe. But it’s miniscule. Bottom line is reporters aren’t celebrities. Nobody cares when they drop dead.” Cat pulled a snub-nosed revolver from her handbag. “That’s why nobody’s going to care when you’re found facedown in the Reflecting Pool, drowned.”