I NEVER GOT to make up my own mind about what I thought of Lauren’s story—because the next morning, it was made up for me.
I was gassing up my rental at a 7-Eleven on L Street near home, mostly thinking about how I missed my own car. It was in the shop for new glass after the shootout in Alexandria, and I wanted it back—yesterday. There’s just no substitute for familiarity, the old faithful comfort zone, even the cup holder in just that spot where you automatically reach.
When the cell phone rang, it was a blocked number, but I’d been answering everything since Nana went into the hospital. I didn’t even think about it.
“Dr. Cross?” It was a woman’s voice, a little formal, no one I knew. “Please hold for the White House chief of staff.”
Before I could respond, I was put on hold. I was stunned—not just by the call itself but by the timing. What the hell was going on here? What now? The White House was calling? Could this be for real?
It didn’t take long for Gabriel Reese to come on the line. I recognized his distinctive voice right away, probably from seeing him on the news and the occasional Sunday morning show like Meet the Press.
“Hello, Detective Cross, how are you today?” he began in a chipper enough tone.
“I guess that depends, Mr. Reese. May I ask, how did you get my number?”
He didn’t answer, of course. “I’d like to meet with you as soon as possible. Here in my office would be best. It’s all been cleared up the line. How soon could you be available?”
I thought about Ned Mahoney and how agitated he had been the other day. How paranoid he had seemed about the records from the investigation getting out. Well—I guess they were out.
“Excuse me, Mr. Reese, but what is this about? Can I at least ask that?”
There was a pause on the line, carefully chosen, maybe; I wasn’t sure. Then Reese said, “I think you already know.”
Well, I did now.
“I can be there in about fifteen minutes,” I said.
Then Reese surprised me again.
“No. Tell me where you are. We’ll pick you up.”