KATE WAITED UNTIL SHE GOT HOME before she used her cell phone to call Lee Devlin. Lee’s company, District Discreet, was Kate’s go-to squad for quiet investigations and unobtrusive background checks. Lee and her partner, Sierra Dudicroft, had been instrumental in helping Kate uncover Charles Talbot’s unsavory past as well Emily’s. They had also asked no questions when Kate asked them to bury both sets of the secrets deep.
If anyone could ferret out information about the relationship between Timothy Colton and Maia Bari, it would be Lee.
When the investigator answered the phone, laughter tipped her voice, obviously thanks to caller ID. “As I live and breathe. Do I call you Chief Rosen or Madam Secretary or what?”
“Chief will do. Emily has already claimed ‘Her Highness.’”
“What can I do for you, Chief Assistant to the Honorable Her Highness?”
“The usual skulduggery. I need to put you on retainer.”
“Don’t you have watchdogs from the Secret Service, FBI, CIA, Homeland Security, all at your beck and call now that you’re an honest-to-goodness White House insider?”
“Sure. I control all the men in black now, too, especially the ones with the helicopters and memory-flashy thingies.” After they shared a laugh, Kate added, “This is more of a personal matter, Lee.”
The words personal matter weren’t a code phrase, per se, but the investigator knew that the time for jokes had vanished. Her voice changed, reflecting a much more serious attitude. “What can I do for you, Kate?” she asked quietly.
“First, there’s the matter of a retainer for legal purposes.”
“Hang on.” After a few seconds of clicking keys on a keyboard, Lee returned. “Your retainer of $1,000 has been duly charged to your credit card on file and noted in our ledger. Client confidentiality is now evoked.”
“Good. I take it you heard about the accident that happened on the night of the inaugural balls? Maia Bari and Timothy Colton?”
Lee whistled softly. “Who hasn’t? Until the crash, Washington had no idea they had an updated version of Carville and Matalin —love across the party lines. How sweet. Or in this case, how tragic.”
“Was it love?”
“You tell me. That’s the assumption the press is making. They were together in a car. That’s enough to fuel general speculation. I take it you weren’t convinced?”
“We’ll get to that. Speaking of press speculation, what have you heard beyond the official reports?”
“Why ask me? I thought you had your own Deep Throat for these matters.”
Kate did. Through luck, perseverance, and more luck, she’d cultivated the cooperation of the pinnacle of Washington insiders, Carmen del Rio, a woman who knew everything about everybody and kept most of it to herself. No gossip went uncollected, no news tip unfiled. Given two points, Carmen could not only draw a line, but a conclusion with 99.99 percent accuracy. Washingtonians of all profile levels from mildly important to holders of the highest offices kept Carmen happy and informed for fear of what she might do if she became less than enthralled with them. Such was the height of her real power that she seldom had to act.
Dubbed the “godmother of gossip” by one brave and probably now headless soul, Carmen usually held court every afternoon in the tearoom at the Willard Hotel, but a bad cold had interrupted that tradition for several weeks. Kate knew that even her singular nonreciprocal relationship with Carmen couldn’t overcome the woman’s crankier demeanor when sick.
“My usual source is unavailable,” Kate responded.
“Yeah. Head cold. I heard. Could be the death of an old bat like her.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Kate lied. Talking about Carmen also fell under general fight club rules. “Back to the question at hand.”
“Yes. Colton and Bari. Unlikely duo. I don’t know of anyone who knew of the pairing before the accident. No gossip. No innuendos. Plenty after the fact, though.”
“Can you wade past the retrospective rumors and get me some hard facts about their precrash relationship?”
“Absolutely.”
Kate hesitated for a moment before she continued. She wanted to believe with her whole heart that Nick had nothing to do with the wreck, despite George Richfield’s leading questions. Her logical side whispered that the best way to be assured of Nick’s innocence was to prove it with fact.
Faith and fact, she told herself. It doesn’t have to be one or the other. They can work together.
She took a deep breath and continued. “And there’s a part two that requires double-secret confidentiality.” It was a phrase that Lee had coined during a more lighthearted time. Kate had requested an investigation into a fraternity house prank gone awry involving the actions of a senator’s son at a kegger, and the Animal House references continued not only for the duration of the investigation, but long after.
“Double-secret confidentiality it is. What, or should I ask, who?”
“Nick Beaudry.”
“Him again?” Lee had investigated Nick when he first reappeared in their lives after being lured to work for Charles Talbot. At that time, Kate had no idea what his agenda might be or how much damage he could cause Emily’s campaign. As her ex-husband, he could have either gone for the jugular for a quick slaughter or been content to watch her slowly bleed to death. To their surprise and relief, he had done neither.
“The FBI thinks Nick might —and let me stress might —be a player in the curious but unfortunate saga of Colton and Bari. Can you look into his role in the Talbot campaign, specifically with respect to anything he might have had to do with Timothy Colton?”
“Sure. But what about the femme fatale? If you ask me, this Bari chick seems the more likely candidate to have gotten her hooks into him. Good-looking guy, gorgeous woman . . . you know the chances.”
Kate figured it was wise to cover all her bases. “Okay, her too. But what I really want to know is if there are any whispers of discord between Colton and Beaudry, especially when both of them worked for Talbot. Were they buddies? campaign comrades? bitter enemies?”
“My money’s on all three. But I’ll get you everything I can find. Anything else?”
“I suspect that’s enough to keep you busy. But you might see if you can find out if any of the three had their fingers in political pies I should know about.”
“Will do. I’ll contact you when my report is ready.”
“Thanks.”
Once she hung up, Kate tried to distract herself by checking her personal e-mail while eating dinner. Between her long workdays and the commute home in traffic, she’d been toying with the idea of moving closer into town. She glanced down at Buster, who barely controlled himself as he waited for a treat. The house rule was if he managed to mind his manners for the entire meal, he always got a doggy treat.
“Not yet, buddy.”
Living closer to the White House would mean a Georgetown loft or maybe a high-rise apartment in Crystal City. Neither would be convenient for a dog owner. Right now Buster had a nicely landscaped yard that he could access at will thanks to the doggy door. He chose that moment to prove the worthiness of their location by clambering to his feet and heading outdoors for a brief respite.
Kate glanced around her house —little more than a bungalow. Now that she had more of a nine-to-five job —more like 5 a.m. to 9 p.m. —maybe it was time to hire someone to remodel her house. Spruce it up. Go through all those ideas she’d collected from reading too many decorating magazines and watching handyman shows on the road. Maybe it was time to make this place a home so that when she got off work, she came home to comfort and beauty.
Buster rocketed in through the door and skidded into the pantry as if to remind Kate where she kept the dog treats.
“Comfort, beauty, and Buster,” she said as she reached in and retrieved a dog cookie. “What more can a girl ask for?”
Love?
“Perhaps the most interesting aspect of Ms. Benton’s first week in office is the manner in which she swung for the fences on the domestic forefront, all but disavowing any similarities between the former administration and her own. But with respect to foreign affairs, she was content to walk to first, defining no grand lines of demarcation between her foreign policies and President Cooper’s.”
Emily snorted and tossed the newspaper toward Kate. “One of these days, Ferlander is actually going to write an article without sports metaphors. Then all three of his readers are going to be lost.”
Dozier Marsh, Emily’s chief political adviser, waited until his breakfast was served before speaking. “Metaphors aside,” he said, gesturing with his fork, “he’s accurate with his assessment.”
Kate spoke up. “You did exactly what you said you’d do while campaigning: placed your priority on domestic issues —” she paused to thank the waiter who served her fruit, oatmeal, and toast, all at her request —“putting your own house in better order before making new foreign policy changes.”
Emily leveled her with a stern gaze. “You’ve never gone to a real baseball game, have you?”
“No.”
Dozier laughed. “I can tell. You didn’t understand the nuances of the metaphors.”
Kate contemplated her meal and then closed her eyes for a quick grace. When she opened her eyes, she realized the reactions of those around her to her actions were varied —from those who followed her lead and said their own silent grace to those who showed a mild amount of distaste either for her quiet faith or her lack of baseball knowledge.
It was hard to tell.
Kate straightened in her chair, aware that every adviser at the table was watching her, albeit politely. When they were colleagues of sorts, all working toward the common goal of Emily’s election, there had been a sense of camaraderie. But now, in a more official setting, formality had replaced familiarity, which meant she had to be more circumspect about her role in the administration. That included not hiding her faith and knowing how to admit ignorance of a subject.
“I know that swinging for the fences means hitting a home run, and after four balls, you walk to first base. I believe that’s common in every form of the game from Little League to the majors.”
“I forgot you didn’t grow up living and breathing baseball.” Emily leaned back in her chair and pushed slightly away from the table, her usual signal that a story was about to begin. She didn’t like distractions when she got wound up to tell some bit of Benton family lore. The newer of the advisers politely stopped eating in order to savor the story. Those who had sat with Emily for meals on the campaign trail or when she was governor kept eating while they listened. They’d heard most of the old stories before, and they knew their time for a meal might get rare to the point of vanishing if they didn’t eat up now.
Emily addressed the table with only a bit less enthusiasm than a revival preacher. “My dad loved baseball. We had diamond box seats at RFK and he took me to every home game for the Senators, even when I was in diapers. Dozier, I think you came a few times too, right?”
Dozier was still attacking his breakfast with gusto. “A couple. But I’m more of a football fan. You know . . .” He waved a piece of bacon. “Go, Redskins.”
Emily continued with her reminiscing. “I think Dad actually went into mourning the day they announced the Senators were leaving town. He refused to take me to that last game because he knew the fans would likely get unruly. I was only seven at the time and I didn’t understand. I do however remember being so very mad at him for not taking me. But sure enough, the game turned into one big, ugly scene. The fans were so mad and got so wild that they stormed the diamond, tore out the bases, ripped up the sod, and caused the game to be forfeited to the Yankees. The Yankees,” she repeated. Everyone knew that fact added an additional level of insult to injury.
Kate threw caution to the wind. “So that makes you an expert on baseball terminology?” She dug into her bowl of oatmeal, not waiting for an answer or permission to eat.
Emily sighed with dramatic exasperation. “‘Swinging for the fences’ doesn’t automatically mean you’ll hit a home run. It means you’re putting everything you have in that one big swing, and if you connect, you’ll knock it into the outfield bleachers. But if you miss, your big grandstanding effort will be nothing more than a very big, very public failure. Everyone can see that you gave it all you got and you failed. Miserably.”
Kate held her spoon in midair. “I stand corrected. But at least the article falls short of saying, ‘A swing and a miss.’”
There was a moment of silence around the table, as if everyone was looking to their fearless leader to determine if the pun was worthy of her laughter. If so, then they would feel free to join in. Kate understood the sense of deference but didn’t feel compelled to echo it. Emily was their president —not their queen.
She grinned at her own humor, whether anyone else did or not, and jammed her spoon back into the oatmeal.
Emily locked eyes with hers for a moment; then her face folded into a smile as she used her spoon to tap out a light three-beat rhythm on the table before clinking it against her water glass. “Rim shot.”
The participants at the table dissolved into laughter. The waitstaff discretely tucked away in the corners of the room changed their postures every so slightly, obviously relieved to learn that their new president had a sense of humor. Kate joined in with the laughter, glad to see her old friend emerge from beneath the trappings of the mostly somber office. One of Kate’s duties as chief of staff would be to help the president find those occasional moments of mirth and give her a brief respite from the burden she would be carrying for the next four and perhaps eight years.
After the laughter died down, Emily took a swig of her coffee. “Oh, that reminds me, short of a worldwide disaster, I want to be able to throw out the first pitch for the Nationals.” She turned to Dozier and added in a conspiratorial stage whisper, “Cooper missed doing it last year and caught flak about it from the public.” She turned to everyone else at the table and even managed to address the near-invisible staff. “I realize that for most presidents, it’s good PR to do the ceremonial pitch, but for me? Honestly?” She grinned. “I’ve dreamed about it for years. And I’m a good pitcher, aren’t I, K?”
Kate nodded solemnly. “I’ve watched her bull’s-eye a womp rat in her T-16 back home.”
Dozier looked puzzled, but most of the other advisers recognized the Star Wars reference and smiled.
Emily’s expression went from a polite grin to a smile that filled her eyes as well. Kate considered this the “true” Emily —smart, responsible, and lighthearted when the occasion called for it.
With an air of amused deference, Kate dutifully wrote in her notes. “Barring worldwide disaster, throw out first ball,” she repeated. She turned to Francesca Reardon, their foreign affairs adviser. “The world disaster bit is on your shoulders.”
The older woman reached up and lowered her glasses, peering over the top of them. “Me?”
None of their morning meetings so far had held quite this light of a tone, a sense of bantering between the advisers. Kate wasn’t sure if it was a sign that everyone had gotten more comfortable in their positions after several weeks or what.
Or what occurred shortly into their meeting.
Emily leaned back in her chair, this time pushing away from the remains of her breakfast. “It’s time for us to present O:EI to the public. And trust me, not only will I be swinging for the upper deck, but the ball’s going to land there.”
Operation: Energy Independence was Emily’s three-pronged plan to help the U.S. wean itself from its dependence on foreign oil. The first directive, nicknamed Operation: Resource, was to free up federal lands for oil and coal exploration in order to replace foreign oil with sources located within the U.S. To mitigate the possible environmental costs, the plan would require carbon offsets and also offer long-term incentives to U.S. companies to replace their fossil fuel use with that of energy derived from renewable sources such as wind, solar, geothermal, hydrokinetic, and other long-term strategies not yet invented.
The second directive, Operation: Retool, included tax incentives and rewards for those companies and manufacturers who increased the energy efficiency of their production by utilizing these new power sources as well as improving the efficiency or consumption rates of their end products.
Operation: Research, the third directive, would increase research funding and encourage development and eventual production of hydrogen fuel cell technology. If the fuel cell could eventually replace the combustion engine, the U.S. demand for oil would plummet and those federal lands could be returned to their protected state.
In order to pay for all this, Emily’s proposed bill would repeal the billion-dollar tax breaks oil and gas companies had been receiving for years.
“No more tax loopholes,” she declared. “We give the oil companies access to federal lands, but we don’t pay them for the privilege. Simultaneously, we retool our existing technologies, making them more efficient, and we fund serious research into a clean, renewable alternative.”
“It’s about time,” Dozier drawled. “I remember the old days when I used to fill up my Lincoln for less than a Lincoln. Now five bucks will get you barely enough gas to reach the next station down the block.” Before anyone could comment, he raised his hands in mock defeat. “I know; I know. Get a car with better fuel efficiency.” He picked up his coffee cup and growled, “Some cramped import. I remember when ‘Made in Japan’ wasn’t considered a good thing at all. Now you have to go to Goodwill to buy something made in America.”
Rather than let his nostalgia and complaints start a digression and distract the conversation, Emily stepped in. “In order to get grassroots support for Operation: EI, we should present this to the people first. The energy companies can be brought in later. We need a groundswell of support to bring this off.”
“How?” The question was echoed by several of her advisers.
“Just like I did when I campaigned. Commercials. Blogs. YouTube. We use twenty-first-century tools to promote our twenty-first-century programs.”
Kate sat back and watched Emily outline her plan. One of Emily’s great strengths was her ability to see and understand not only the big picture, but the various components that comprised the whole. She was seldom surprised by an outcome or caught unaware by an element she’d missed in planning stages. Yet, despite her abilities, she had no problem relinquishing control of those components and putting their construction or planning in the hands of her hand-picked advisers.
“Choose people to work for you who are smarter than you,” Emily always said, “but make sure you understand at least 75 percent of what they’re saying. Any less than that and they’ll start to think they’re superior to you and the lines of authority will get blurred.”
Kate looked around at the others, already engaged in deep discussion, and hid her smile as she sent up a quick prayer.
We’re going to do some great things together. . . .
Kate waited until Emily was between meetings before stepping into her office. Most people thought Emily, like the presidents before her, spent all her time in the Oval Office. In reality, Emily, as well as her predecessors, spent as much if not more time in the president’s private study. It was a small room, less than half the size of Kate’s office, decked out with pictures from Emily’s personal collection, comfortable furniture, and a desk that was far less a national treasure and much more a functioning piece of furniture.
The most striking thing about the office was the pair of tall windows with curtains that stretched up to the ceiling, effectively dwarfing the room. Emily had good-naturedly complained that she had the smallest office in the West Wing until Kate pointed out that she was the only person with two offices and that oval-shaped one was pretty big and pretty nice.
Emily was hunched over her keyboard when Kate tapped on the doorframe.
“Got a minute?”
She looked up, smiled, and pushed back from the desk. “One or two. Whatcha need? I have my own plane. Helicopter. Army. Anything you need.”
“The oil lobby.”
“Aha. My new best friends. At a distance, of course.”
“How far of a distance?”
Her sunny disposition darkened a little. “Who’s asking?”
“Nick.”
Emily made a face. “I’d rather not. I try to make it a point to not mix business and family.”
Kate gaped at her. The Benton family had ironclad ties into all sorts of areas within the White House and Benton administration. “I can’t believe you’re saying that with a straight face.”
Emily pursed her lips for a moment in thought. “Then try this: I try to not mix business and ex-family.”
“That I understand. So you’re not inclined to meet with him?”
“Not inclined. As in, declined.”
“Okay, I’ll tell him.”
Emily continued without any prompting from Kate. “I may have helped him by recommending him, but it doesn’t entitle him to any other favors.”
“Understood.” Kate started to walk out the door, but Emily continued.
“I mean, that’s enough generosity on my part, right?”
“Sure.”
“Good.”
As Kate eased out the door, she took one more look at Emily, now studiously working on her computer.
The phrase “The lady doth protest too much” lingered in her mind as she headed back to her own office. There wasn’t a single drop of coyness in Emily Benton’s body, so where did this sudden insecurity come from?
Exactly how much of a debt did Emily owe Nick Beaudry?