The White House June 30
When you have nowhere to go, there’s the office. That’s what Addis thought, as he walked by the armed guards at the entrance to the West Wing. He passed Ann Herson, Hanover’s personal secretary. She was carrying a cardboard box. “D-day,” she whispered, without breaking her stride. Outside the press office, Ken Byrd was talking to a scheduling aide. His eyes were tired, his shirt wrinkled.
“Only lost two,” Byrd said to Addis. “Both pretty junior. Margaret’s going to need more than them. But it’s been a bitch getting ready for Chicago. Kelly hasn’t put out the schedule yet. And the big babies”—he meant the White House correspondents—“are screaming. ‘When’s he arriving at the convention? Will he be watching Margaret tonight? Is he offering Cabinet posts to build support? Is he trying to push her speech to the second night? Is it true he asked her to be his running mate?’ Yeah, right. Watch for them to come on out holding hands.”
“You’ll do fine. Just keep’em fed.”
“With what?”
“Empty calories, like always.”
Byrd let the remark slip by.
“You know what’s weird?” Byrd asked.
“Not anymore.”
“It’s been a day, and there hasn’t been anything more on that story about Mumfries and Katie. You hear anything?”
“No, but I’m not on the A-list these days.”
“The reporter who called yesterday, all hot to get a photo of them, never called back. And no one else is asking about it. These stories always leak before they come out. But, so far, nothing. It’s like …”
“Like what?” Addis asked.
“Like … I don’t know.”
“Maybe it’s been taken care of.”
“By who?”
“Someone above our paygrade … . Which tab was it?”
“The Weekly Express. The one that ran the pictures of that black kid. Said he was Bob’s son and a hooker was his mother. Remember that?”
The one owned by the millionaire who also owns Hynes-Pierce’s paper. Now that makes sense. Give up a one-week boost in circulation to protect Mumfries … and the China treaty. Business is business.
“I’m not a religious man,” Addis said. “But there’s something to the proposition that everything happens for a reason, especially when it’s nothing.”
“You know, Nick.” Byrd leaned close to Addis. “This elliptical, whothe-fuck-cares bullshit is getting old fast. Thanks so damn much.”
Byrd walked away.
“For me, too,” Addis muttered.
Several memos had been dropped on Addis’s desk. A notice about a credit union screwup. A memo from security: Do not leave automobiles in the lot overnight without informing the guards in the booth. The office of administration had sent out a reminder about not using White House phones for long-distance personal calls.
He turned on his computer and checked his phone messages. Lancette had not tried to reach him. He had received more than a dozen calls regarding events in Chicago. Would he be available to appear at a party fund-raiser at the Chicago Museum of Art? A policy forum sponsored by two health care corporations and an insurance company? Two restaurants—presumably trendy establishments—wanted to know if he would be requiring reservations. There was a message from a Mrs. Gunn—he did not recognize the name—who had called and asked if he had a private fax number. She left a pager number. There were more invitations: A reception for union activists. A cruise on Lake Erie for donors from Los Angeles. An event at Wrigley Field—including batting practice—for contributors to the party’s senatorial campaigns. A charity run for a disease he had never heard of.
Silence means no, Addis told himself. He deleted the messages from his computer.
“Nice of you to drop by.”
Addis sighed; the voice behind him belonged to Kelly.
“If you’re not too busy … .”
Addis pushed himself out of his chair.
Hamilton Kelly led Addis to McGreer’s office. He said nothing along the way. McGreer was not in the room.
“Please,” Kelly said. “Close the door behind you.”
Kelly sat behind McGreer’s desk. Addis took a chair in front of the desk. Kelly pushed aside photos of McGreer’s wife and daughters. His shirt collar was too small, squeezing a fleshy neck. He picked up a legal pad and recited from it.
“Twenty-one, fifty, June 29. Signed into Blair House. Eight-thirty-nine, June 30, signed out … . A nice evening with the widow Hanover as she prepares to challenge a sitting president for the nomination of his party. Others present include M. T. O’Connor, Flip Whalen—making one of his rare visits to our city—and Dan Carey.”
Addis wondered how much he should explain.
“And one Ms. Julia Lancette of the CIA,” Kelly went on. “If I am not mistaken, just days ago you told the President of the United States that you considered yourself one of his loyal employees.”
“It was a place to go after hearing about Clarence.”
Kelly puffed out his cheeks. That facial tic is not going to look good on the talk shows, Addis thought.
“You’re lucky you caught me in a good mood. I have your new assignment. When we head out to Chicago tomorrow, you’ll be there with me. Always in the room next door. So we can dispatch you on one important task after another. If I have to address the caucus of women state legislators, you write the remarks. If the mayor is upset because he gets five minutes not six-and-a-half from the podium, you hold his hand, and tell him how much we fucking love him … . You know, it’s a good thing you convinced Hanover to cut the convention back a day. Makes it harder for outside momentum to build.”
Not here, not now.
“Sure,” Addis said.
That old chestnut: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. You’ve watched too many movies.
“Let me ask you something,” Addis said.
“Shoot.”
“Somebody in the White House keeps records of all the outgoing phone calls of White House personnel,” Addis said. “Right?”
“I believe so.”
“And who has access to these records?”
“I’m not sure I’m familiar with the entire list. Why?”
Because I fucking want to know how a third-rate scumbag reporter discovered I was making calls to Louisiana.
“Got curious when I was reading the memo on personal phone calls.
I mean, if someone wanted to get serious about it, they could go over the individual records.”
“That’s fascinating, Nick. Really. We’ll detail you to administrative services after the convention.”
Addis could discern no clues in Kelly’s expression.
“There’s an eight o’clock meeting later on logistics. There’s an eight-thirty tomorrow morning on scheduling. Chicago staff will be departing in the evening tomorrow. The President’s arrival in Chicago is still being planned. He’s going to make one or two stops before he gets there. I’ll let you know when the details are finalized.”
“Thank you.”
“He’ll get there on the Second. Give an opening address that night. A remembrance of Bob. Short, no politics.”
Yeah, right.
“And spend the Third and the Fourth in Chicago.”
Promising, promising.
“Okay,” Kelly went on, “be here at eight. And have a draft of remarks he might make tomorrow at the stops on his way to Chicago.”
A yank on the leash, Addis thought.
“Yes,” he said.
“You’re so good at that grand-moment stuff.”
Another yank.
The corners of Kelly’s mouth turned slightly upward. He had an oily smile, Addis thought.
“Then we’re done here,” Kelly said and picked up the phone.
“Karen,” he said into the receiver, “who’s that pain-in-the-ass in San Francisco, head of the northern state caucus, who said she’d rather vote for Pratt than us? Get me her number. But first call Frank in Sacramento and ask what might make her wheels spin.”
The air was moist and heavy. Summer suited Washington, Addis thought, as he walked out the Pennsylvania Avenue gate. It smothered a city with clogged arteries. He put on sunglasses and passed through the concrete barriers that now sat in the middle of the street. The illusion of security, he told himself. Did they have to be so damn ugly? Why not a moat, filled with large carp? A gift from the Japanese people, perhaps. Or every lobbyist and lawyer-fixer in town could chip in. A lily pad each.
He crossed 17th Street to the sidewalk coffee stand.
“Cherry Coke?” the vendor asked.
“You know it.”
Addis had made Tommy Corman’s street-corner business famous. In the first year of the Hanover administration, Addis came by most afternoons.
Soon, people started waiting for him at the stand: job-seekers, trade association representatives, administration officials who had not been invited to an important meeting, tourists, and gawkers. The Secretary of Labor once staked out the stand when he could not get in to see Hanover. Please give this memo to the President, he had urged Addis. It had been written on plain paper, no letterhead. Addis had to stop his regular visits to the coffee stand.
“Sorry to hear about Dunne,” Corman said. He brushed the green-dyed dreadlocks from in front of his face. Corman had dropped out of MIT, gone white-Rastafarian. “He came by sometimes. No cream, three sugars. It’s a bitch … . Hey, tell me, what’s going to happen with Margaret and the new President? That’s wild, man.” He handed Addis the drink.
“Sure is,” Addis said. He paid Corman. “Business okay?”
“Yeah, you know, the suits leave in the summer. But Middle America drops by. You wouldn’t believe how many people still don’t know their espresso from their cappuccino. But it’s not so bad. This waiter I know at the Mayflower told me that people are calling there and asking for the room where they found that reporter and that girl. And on the radio, they said skinheads were using razor blades to carve the word HAPPY on themselves. It’s a sick world, man.”
Addis took the drink and thanked Corman.
“Haile Selassie, man. Peace.”
Addis headed back toward the White House. As he waited for the light to change, he half-noticed a man in a white suit next to him.
“May I share something with you?” the man asked. It was Evan Hynes-Pierce.
“Not today,” Addis said. He took care not to look directly at the reporter. The light changed, and they crossed the street.
“A bit of news, that’s all,” Hynes-Pierce said.
Addis felt a piece of paper being slipped into his jacket pocket.
“Read it at your convenience,” Hynes-Pierce said. “It’s a strange coincidence. I’m sure you’ll find it interesting. We can talk after you’ve had the opportunity to digest. You’ll see, matters have become more serious.”
Addis glanced at Hynes-Pierce. His usual smirk was not present. There was anger in the reporter’s eyes.
“You people are …” Hynes-Pierce grasped for the right word. “Thugs.”
The Englishman turned up 17th Street.
From his pocket, Addis pulled out a short wire service report: “Accountant Found Dead; Apparent Suicide Once Worked for Hanovers.” He read the item. That morning, a homeless man found Harris Griffith dangling against the rear of the building that housed his office. He was dead.
His feet were four feet above the ground. The rope around his neck was tied to a radiator in his office.
Addis’s shirt was getting sticky. Instead of returning through the northern gate, he entered the Old Executive Office Building. He hurried down a hallway. A memory struck him: It was from the first month of the administration. He and O’Connor were in this corridor. They passed a men’s room. You know what someone told me? she had asked. This is where what’s-his-name peed right before he approved the Watergate break-in. They laughed the laugh of winners.
Shit, get the fuck away from me.
Addis took a flight of steps to the basement. He found the office he wanted: Computer Services. A young woman was sitting at a desk. Her face glowed when she saw him.
“Do you have backups of computer phone messages?” he asked.
“We’re supposed to,” she said. “Ever since we lost that lawsuit. You should see all the work we have to do to keep track of everything … . Do you want to? I could show you our big boys in the back. They’re really something.” She stood up.
“No, thank you. But could you do me a favor?”
“Anything,” she said.
“And I’m curious,” he added, “if you retrieve something that’s been lost, is there a computer record that the material has been retrieved?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether I want to leave a trace of the search. You’re supposed to, and that’s what automatically happens. But there are ways around it … . Sure you don’t want to see the computers in the back?”
“Okay,” he said. “But I only have a minute or two.”
“Won’t take long.” She smiled again. “My name is Amy.”
Addis stood at a pay phone inside the Washington Connection, a restaurant across the street from the OEOB. He dialed a series of numbers. Then he looked at the pay phone and punched in another set. Addis hung up and waited.
An old woman, who was walking with a cane, asked to use the telephone. Addis explained he was expecting a return call.
“I have to call about a doctor’s appointment,” she said.
“Please,” he replied. “Just a minute. It’s important.”
“Don’t they give you people cell phones?”
And they can monitor their use. Now, fuck off, please.
“Yes they do. But we’re not supposed to use them for every call.”
“So, this isn’t official business?” she asked, her tone more defiant.
Probably a phone call that will go down in history, lady.
“Official, in a way,” he said.
She limped away, grumbling. He watched as she approached the hostess and began complaining. The hostess handed her a cellular phone. Addis envisioned an item in the gossip column tomorrow: White House aide refused to allow a cripple to call her doctor during a medical emergency. Half the items in that column were fed to it by restaurant employees.
The phone rang, and Addis grabbed the receiver. There was silence on the other end.
“You know who this is?” he asked.
“Yes, hon, and you know who this is?”
“I think so. I am sorry about—”
“Forget it, hon … . Can’t say I’m all broken up. Don’t know exactly how to feel. But I know one little thing: I don’t want to get mixed up any more in his shit. Glad you figured out my little code: Mrs. Gunn and the New Orleans area code. Didn’t want to leave my name. This stuff freaks me out.”
“What happened?” Addis asked.
“I don’t know. But he came by the house two days ago. Was nervous. I thought he was on something. Said he was trying to get himself out of trouble. I tried to calm him down … . Well, one thing goes to another, you know … . And, well, just and … it was like it used to be … . Then he gets up. And I’m half-asleep. I hear sounds. I get up and peek down the hallways and see him taping this envelope to the inside of the grandfather clock. He loved that clock. Bought it in England when he was meeting some Arabs. Once said I could have everything in the whole god-damn house if he got the clock. I said, forget it, I want the clock. I didn’t, but … . I ran back to bed, so he wouldn’t know I saw anything. He took off. And you know what? He went through my purse. Took two hundred dollars and my credit cards. Like I wasn’t going to cancel the shit out of them? What a creep. Guess I shouldn’t say that now … .”
“And the envelope?”
“Papers. Financial stuff. About the you-know-who’s. Today, his fucking lawyer called me and asked if he left anything with me. I said, ‘Fuck off, scumbag.’ You know, he hit on me after our last hearing. I just know he wanted those papers. Like he could still do something with them.”
“And what are you going to do with them?”
“Send them to you. I don’t want them.”
“Just like that?”
“Why not?” she said. “Don’t you want them?”
There’s no deal. Fucking amazing.
“Certainly.”
“I’ll fax them to you now.”
Not to the White House, he decided. He told her to wait and placed the receiver on the shelf. He asked the hostess if the restaurant had a fax machine. It was broken. The hostess gave Addis the fax number for a copy shop around the corner.
Shit, Addis thought, that’s taking a risk. But there’s no choice.
Addis hurried back to the phone. He recited the number for her.
“And send it to Dana Cummings,” he said.
“Who’s that?”
“An intern in the White House. It’s better that my name not—”
“Sure, hon. You have everything covered, don’t you?”
“Occasionally.”
“Well, here it comes. Enjoy.’Cause after I fax this to you, I’m trashing it. I don’t want it. It’ll be history. Just like Harris.”
“Thanks—” He tried to recall her first name.
She hung up.
“Tracy,” he said.
At the copy shop, a young man with a shaved head and a pierced lip said he could not release the papers to Addis.
“The fax is not in your name,” he sneered. “I can only give it to you if your name is the name on the cover sheet. Store policy.”
“There’s a mistake. I work at the White House. The sender must have put the name of the intern on it.”
“I know where you work. But this is store policy. Even more than that, it’s chain policy. Some dweeb in St. Paul sends us memos on this stuff. You want me to challenge national policy, man?”
The manager came over. Addis explained the situation. The manager shook his head.
“Get the stuff,” he ordered the employee. The young man shuffled off.
“I hope she kicks butt in Chicago,” the manager said.
Addis smiled, and the manager waited for him to say more. When Addis did not, he said, “I sure as hell do.” Addis nodded. He ignored the manager’s look of disappointment.
“I’ll check on him,” the manager said and went to the back.
The counter clerk returned with two dozen pages. Addis paid for them.
“Interesting stuff,” the clerk said. “Let’s hope St. Paul doesn’t find out about this.”
You’re just fucking with me.
“Thanks for your help,” Addis said.
His office was stuffy and hot. The air conditioning was not working well; the door was shut. The documents faxed to him were spread out across his desk. They detailed several real estate transactions. Their meaning was explained in an unsigned, undated memo that Addis presumed had been written by Harris Griffith. That note told the same story that Hynes-Pierce had disclosed to Addis in New Orleans—with more facts.
A parcel in the area known as Blue Ridge, had been signed over from one limited partnership to another. For the four partners in the first group, there was a document connecting each to Chasie Mason. Five months after they had bought the land for $27,000, their partnership signed over the property to the Elva Partnership. Two of the three men in that enterprise were executives in a Baton Rouge law firm that represented various Mason businesses. Three months after that, the Hanovers bought the land for $20,000. Addis held a copy of the purchase agreement in his hand. It was signed by Bob and Margaret. A year-and-a-half later, they sold the land to a development firm for $153,000. The corporate secretary for the development firm was the owner of a construction company that had subcontracted for Mason’s construction business on several state projects. The batch included a one-page consulting agreement between Griffith and an entity called First State Holding Company. It called for Griffith to provide unidentified services on a “periodic basis” for a “per-project fee.” The vice president of First State, according to a page from a legal deposition, was a corporate officer of the development firm that had bought the land from the Hanovers and an investor in a dog track, of which Chasie Mason controlled the majority interest. First State, then, had been part of the seemingly endless Chasie Mason daisy chain. The consulting agreement meant that Griffith, when he was the Hanover’s accountant, had been on Chasie’s payroll. That made him an all-too credible source.
Addis checked the dates of the transactions. The deal began shortly after Jack was born.
No reasonable person, he thought, could avoid the obvious conclusion. The papers were clear. Except on one point: what Bob and Margaret Hanover had known about it. Hynes-Pierce had unearthed a damn good story. Now Griffith was dead—one more body—and Addis had what might be the only set of documents that proved the story. For a moment, he felt like calling Hynes-Pierce and offering him the whole god-damn file. Sleaze to sleaze, he said to himself. Get all of it off my desk. Over and done with. But the urge passed.
He went to the suite next to his office. He ran the pages through the copier and returned to his office. He put one set in a manila envelope, another in the folder with the records he already possessed on the land deal. He scribbled “Pension Reform” on the tab of the folder. The Blue Ridge assignment was done.
But, he wondered, whose land had it been before all this? That piece was missing. He picked up the phone, dialed directory assistance in Rapides Parish, and asked for the parish clerk’s number. He called and was transferred.
“Office of Records,” a woman said.
“Hello. I’m calling from St. Louis, and I’m interested in checking who was on the deed for a certain property in the parish”
“Yes?” There was a long pause.
“Are you there?” Addis asked.
“Well, you only said you’re interested. What’s that supposed to mean to me?”
“Can you help me with that?”
“Maybe. But you have to ask.”
Shit. Another pain in the ass.
“I thought I was asking, ma’am. Can you please look up some records for me? I have an address. It’s—”
“You have the property identification number? You got to have the property identification number.” She sounded like an older woman.
“Okay.”
“And how far back do you want to go?”
“Fifteen, twenty years.”
Addis shuffled through the records.
“Is this going to take all day?” she asked. “You know, we don’t have to take phone requests.”
“I’m looking.”
“Maybe you should call back. The office is shutting early. We got the funeral for the chief processor.”
“Wait a moment. I’ll get the number.”
“I got to go. Try back tomorrow.”
“Hey,” Addis said, as he kept searching, “you a Cougars fan?”
“Sure am. My cousin’s grandson is on the team this year. How do you know about them? All the way in St. Louis?”
Heard a bunch of old farts talking about them.
“Read about them in a sports magazine. They sound like a great team.” He found the number.
“Best in the state two years now. They’re gonna do it again.”
“That’s what I saw.”
“So do you have the property identification number?” The edge in her voice was gone.
“Think so.”
Addis read her the string of digits, and she went off to check. He looked at his computer screen and called up his phone messages. Still nothing from Lancette. The clerk returned to the phone.
“Got it,” she said.
She started to read through the file, which was in reverse-chronological order: There was the development firm that purchased the land from the Hanovers, the Hanovers themselves—“Now that’s interesting,” she said—the Elva Partnership, and the one before that.
On the computer screen, the list of phone messages changed. A new message appeared: Julia Lancette was holding for him.
“And then there was—”
“Can I put you on hold a moment?” Addis asked.
“Honey, they’re all waiting for me. If you’re too busy …”
“No, no, sorry.” He waited for her to proceed and gazed at the screen. If Lancette tired of waiting and hung up, one of the White House operators would turn the holding-for-you message into a called-for-you message.
“Then there was Peters. Yeah, a Peters. P.E.T.E.R.S. Peters, Helen. H.E.L.E.N.—”
“Okay, Helen Peters. Thanks. I have a call on the other line; it’s an emergency. I’ll call back if I need more.”
“But—”
Addis cut her off and picked up Lancette.
“I need a favor,” she said.
He heard street noises coming across the line.
“Yes,” he said, and shoved the file underneath others stored in the bottom drawer of his desk.
“I haven’t said what it is.”
“Yes,” he repeated. “Yes.”