Connecticut Avenue July 1
Addis and Starrell pushed through the lunchtime pedestrians. Addis didn’t care about the surprised looks. Screw it. He was the clown of the day. The media object of the moment. Stories around the clock on cable. The canal footage repeated over and over. Endless demands from journalists for comments. Television reporters interviewing his neighbors. Ever see this woman before? Uninformed speculation from pundits. Jim, what does this mean for the convention? Well, Bob, it could mean a great deal, but we won’t know until all the facts are in. Lawyers trading theories on talk shows. Journalists chasing after anyone who knew her. Nothing unraked, nothing untouched, nothing left alone.
Oh shit, her family.
He pondered what he had read in the sandwich shop. He was still wondering if there were any other ways to interpret it. Matthew Morrison’s mother—nickname Happy?—had owned the land before the Elva Partnership acquired it and sold it to the Hanovers. And that line about twitching: “I hope you ain’t got the twitches yet.” What did that mean? He shook his head. Just like clearing an Etch-a-Sketch, he thought.
“So how did you get involved in all this?” he asked Starrell.
“Mr. Dunne asked me to.”
“And you volunteered?”
“No. He cashed me.”
Two attorneys from the White House counsel’s office were standing on a corner. Addis nodded at them and kept walking.
“So what do you want for this?” Addis shook the knapsack.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Why not?”
A bearded man in a suit stepped in front of Addis and forced him to
stop. “Gabe Hershberg, Mr. Addis. L.A. Times. Got a minute?” He was pulling a notepad from his pocket.
“No.” Addis tried to pass the reporter. The man moved to block Addis.
“Just one or two questions, please.”
Starrell grabbed the journalist, spun him around, and pushed him into the street. A cab braked to avoid striking the reporter.
“Thanks,” Addis said to Starrell.
“Fuck you!” the reporter yelled.
Addis resumed walking, Starrell by his side. Neither responded to the shouting: “Fuck the fuck you!”
“So I was asking,” Addis said. “Why don’t you want anything out of this?”
“NYFB,” Starrell replied before he thought about the answer.
“That’s a new one on me, but I can guess.”
Starrell cleared his throat. “Just trying to prove something,” he said.
“To who?” Addis asked.
“Just trying.”
Addis entered the revolving door to the Mayflower Hotel, and Starrell followed. He tried not to think the obvious: It all began here. With two people shot dead when they walked into a room floors above. But that was wrong. It had started somewhere else. Where? He could not say for sure. At the spot where Matthew Morrison’s father first learned his family had been shafted so the Hanovers could pocket $130,000? In the dining room of the director’s suite at CIA headquarters, where the director—now dead—had said to himself (or to Grayton, or to Mumfries), We need to kill a few people, on the sly, to ease our foreign policy woes? In the office where Chasie Mason first cooked up the land deal? Was it in that Louisiana town where the hospital collapsed, killing a bunch of kids, in a tragedy that confirmed the charges being made by a nobody law professor running for state attorney general? Or in the boarding school dorm room where late on cold Vermont nights Margaret Mason listened to her roommate rave about a young man from back home—and Margaret decided she would find him?
The chain was long; it was twisted. He envisioned it shaped like a string of DNA. The code for life … and it led to Julia Lancette dead in a canal. And his place on it? How responsible had he been for Hanover’s election to the presidency? In the large three-ring binders of Nick Addis clippings maintained by his parents, there were articles—by the best political reporters in the nation—that credited him with providing decisive advice during the first presidential campaign.
As a family of arguing Germans walked by, he recalled one particular piece of counsel: Fly back to the state for the execution of Donny Lee
Mondreau, the mentally retarded convicted murderer. Why? Hanover had asked. To be there and accept full responsibility, Addis had argued during the conference call, in which M. T. O’Connor had urged Hanover to keep his distance. What had Hanover desired? He had wanted it both ways: to be seen in favor of the death penalty—a compulsory position for a southern politician—but not be so close to a practice that Addis assumed he did not actually favor. You can’t run away, Addis had told him. Voters will consider you a politician afraid of your own stands. You can’t be for killing murderers and scumbags, if you’re not willing to be there for the killing. Hanover followed Addis’s recommendation. And he won the nomination. Because of the episode? Probably not. But who could say?
And … there was something else. Less obvious. The Honduras business of a few years earlier, when Addis had leaked to the Post that the CIA had been funding those drug-dealing generals in Central America. Had Mumfries and the CIA director taken their antiterrorism hit squad—Morrison’s squad—so deep, kept it secret from the agency and most of Congress, because they had been so embarrassed by this particular leak? The leak had been the right thing to do, Addis was sure. Senator Palmer, his boss, had practically ordered him to slip the information to the press. Addis remembered: Palmer leaning back in his leather chair, feet on the desk, shoes off: “Wish somebody’d go public. Nick, some things don’t have any right being hid.” The fact that the revelation would injure Mumfries, a Palmer rival—that had not been Addis’s motivation. Or Palmer’s. He knew that. He was sure. Right? There had been no other options. No other channels. Right?
One long curving piece of DNA. A Mobius strip.
“Now what?” Starrell asked.
Addis looked at him.
“You just standing there. Like you’re buggin.’ People are lookin’. Over there”—Starrell moved his eyes—“suits.”
Two Secret Service agents on the other side of the lobby were watching them. They were part of Margaret’s security detail. One was talking into the microphone attached to his lapel. Reporting Addis’s presence to someone? The one talking looked familiar to Starrell. Was he the man Starrell leaped over during his dash to the ambulance yesterday? Shit, Starrell said to himself, hope he ain’t recognizing me.
“Plan, man?” Starrell asked.
“No thanks.”
Starrell did not know what to say.
“Okay,” Addis said. “You take this.” He handed Starrell the knapsack. “Wait for me over there.” He pointed to a couch in the lobby. “Anything
happens, you take that bag back to Holly.” She was waiting for Addis’s call in her office. Addis pictured her leaving the sandwich shop. “Nick,” she had said, “I’m glad to help.” He knew she was—and that he only needed a certain sort of help from her now.
“And then you get all this to Clarence,” he said to Starrell. “But, this time, try not to destroy a hospital.”
“Anything happens, like what?” Starrell clutched the bag.
“If I knew … Just wait. In thirty minutes, take off.”
“Think I’m going to stick out here?”
“Today, don’t ask me about sticking out.” Addis headed toward the front desk. He saw the clerk’s eyes flare with recognition.
“Hope you don’t mind.” Addis strode behind the front desk and into the back office. He moved quickly through several rooms. He found the door to a hallway used by the hotel’s employees. Work in Washington long enough, he told himself, and you learn the hotels inside and out. He passed waiters carrying dishes from the main ballroom. He pushed against the swinging doors.
Margaret Hanover was illuminated. She stood at the center of the dais, the target of piercing television lights. She was … glowing, Addis thought. In the crowded, darkened room, every face turned to the one reflecting the white beams. The words barely registered with Addis: “National security means many things … How do we treat our most tangible and important asset? … One in five live in poverty … Our most precious resources … When last year I was named Children’s Friend of the Year, I …”
Addis looked around the ballroom. He saw M. T. O’Connor in a corner. Dan Carey was next to her, holding a rolled-up report in his hand. Numbers, numbers, numbers. Flip Whalen was a few feet to their side. Jack, in his wheelchair, was facing the side wall, not the dais. Addis walked the perimeter of the room.
“A crusade that is above any election … There is no more solemn duty … For years I sat on the board … When I was in a village in India … . I remember what my grandmother—we called her ‘Memmie’—once said …”
O’Connor stepped away from Carey when she saw Addis approaching.
“Nick,” she asked in a whisper. “What are—”
“Is Lem around?” He kept his voice low.
“He went upstairs to check out a suite Margaret’s going to use afterward.”
Fund-raising calls, Addis thought. Can’t use the phones at Blair House for that.
“What, what do you want with Lem?” she asked.
“Need to ask him about a security matter.”
She waited for a more detailed explanation.
“Hear anything about Harris Griffith’s death?” he asked.
She brought her hands together by her stomach. “Been busy today.”
“What room?”
She glanced toward Margaret.
“M. T., what room?”
“Six-oh-four … . Nick, are you—”
“Don’t ask. Please. I’m tired of being asked that.”
“You look, you look …”
“Like what?” Addis asked. He was curious. What was showing on his face.
“I don’t know,” she answered. “But then …”
But then I watched someone die. And then learned … .
Carey and Whalen came over.
“How ya holding up?” Carey asked.
“Sorry to hear, Nick,” Whalen said. “Any further word on—”
“Fine … and no,” Addis replied. “Excuse me.”
“Can we talk before we leave for Chicago?” O’Connor asked. Why were her eyes moist? Addis wondered.
“Whatever,” he said and walked off.
O’Connor watched as Addis paused by Jack. He leaned close to the boy and said a few words.
“There are millions of children who will suffer—who will be denied access to government health care, nutrition, and education programs—if we allow the views of our opponents to prevail,” Margaret was saying. “As we celebrate our birth as a nation, even in these tragic, dark days, let us pledge, as a way to commemorate the honor of my husband, that we will …”
The maid was leaving, and she let Addis into the suite. He passed through an anteroom and into a sitting room with two sofas and a desk. No one was there. The door to the bedroom was ajar. He peered inside: empty. He turned back to the sitting room and then heard a noise behind him, a click.
“Don’t m-m-m-move.” It was Lem Jordan.
Addis stood still, keeping his back toward Jordan.
“It’s me. Nick.”
“How d-d-did you get in?”
“The maid.”
“God-d-d-damn m-m-maid. T-t-took three calls.”
Addis slowly faced Jordan. Margaret’s bodyguard did not lower the gun in his hand.
“Margaret likes hot c-c-c-compresses after she speaks. Smaller towels. We n-n-needed smaller towels. Took three calls to get them.”
Addis wondered what sort of gun it was. He knew nothing about weapons. He could not even identify the gun that Dunne had placed in the glove compartment, the gun that he had dropped, the gun that he had watched sink into the muddy night water of the canal.
“What do you w-w-want?” Jordan asked.
“To talk, Lem. You can put the gun down, can’t you?”
“About what?”
“Things.”
“‘Things’ can mean lots of d-d-d-ifferent th-things.”
“Guess that’s right. I’m going to take a seat, okay?” Addis sat on a sofa. Jordan let his arm drop. He did not holster the gun.
“So what things?” he asked.
Addis reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out two pieces of paper. He held one up.
“White House log. You were in the West Wing after I … after we were chased off the parkway.”
“Y-y-yeah?”
“Lem, can you tell me why you were there?”
“Picking up a b-b-box of books. And some stuff for J-j-jack.”
“At”-Addis looked at the page—“9:47 at night.”
“G-g-go ask the Marine at the d-d-desk. He saw me with the box.”
“At 10:38. Almost an hour to pick up a box.”
“Guess I spoke to a few guys.”
“I saw you last night, Lem. I saw you standing there. At the canal.”
I think it was you. But let’s see.
Jordan said nothing. The gun remained in his hand.
“Then afterward someone took a file from my office.”
Show me something, dammit.
Jordan’s expression did not change. He stared at Addis.
“Blue Ridge records. Some from Tracy Griffith, the wife of Harris Griffith. You know who he is—or was?”
Can he keep this up? He’s not denying anything.
Jordan did not blink.
“Did you kill Harris Griffith, Lem?”
His mouth was tight. Addis stood up. The hand holding the gun clenched.
“Did you, Lem? Because he wanted to blackmail Margaret?”
Jordan shifted his feet.
“Who knows? Does Margaret?”
Jordan bit his lower lip.
Come on, Lem. Jesus, come on.
“Does M. T. know? Did she tell you about Griffith? Did she or Margaret send you to New Orleans?”
Please, don’t let it be M. T. Please.
Jordan’s free hand was balled into a fist.
Shit, he won’t give anything up.
“Just scare him, right? I’m guessing. That was the plan? But he wouldn’t scare. And I know that lawyer of his—Joe Mik—fucking asshole … So you … you.”
Addis held up the White House log.
Proof leads to more proof. Someone must have seen him near my office. What about fingerprints? Would there be any?
“But why last night, Lem? Why did you try to—”
“I saved you!” Jordan shouted.
He raised the gun and pointed it at Addis’s chest.
“I saved you,” Jordan repeated. “I s-s-saved you.”
Addis felt Jordan’s spittle on his face. He didn’t wipe it off.
“You shot out the window—”
“To save you!” The arm that held the gun jerked. It looked as if Jordan wanted to throw the pistol at Addis. “To save you! You!” Jordan hit his thigh with his fist. “And, and … her.”
“But you weren’t in the Trailblazer?”
Jordan shook his head.
“But you were following us, too. That it?”
There was no answer on Jordan’s face.
“Why?”
Jordan’s face was red.
“Put the gun down. Please, Lem. And tell me why.”
Jordan’s lips were tight.
“Somehow you knew,” Addis said. “You knew I was looking at the Blue Ridge deal and that …”
Addis recalled the day before when Jordan had told him the story about the time he accidentally killed a dog on a boat. “You knew there was a connection, didn’t you? Blue Ridge and the assassination. That if someone got past the official bullshit on the assassination, it would track back to that deal. You didn’t want that. And you heard Julia and me talking at Blair House.”
Addis thought about the morning they had been at Blair House.
“No, no … Jesus, you saw her shake her head at me when we were all watching Grayton making the announcement about Morrison and Dawkins. Was that it? One gesture. Enough to keep an eye on us. That was damn smart of you. You knew about Morrison’s son. You remembered Matthew Morrison. You made the connection. Only you … Look, Lem.”
Addis held out another piece of paper.
“A letter from Morrison’s father. He spoke to someone in the governor’s office. Someone who took care of things. And who helped his son hook up with a—I don’t know—some sort of squad. Out-of-channels, off-the-reservation, undercover.”
Addis could read nothing in Jordan’s eye. They were pebbles floating on his pie-pan face. A fireplug with a pie-pan face: Addis always had been proud to have conjured up that description of Jordan.
“Reginald Morrison was screwed by Chasie who was helping Bob and Margaret make a shitload of money,” Addis continued. “Then he found out, raised a stink, and someone in the governor’s office fixed it up. Got his boy, who was booted from the Marines, the job of a lifetime.”
A steel-cold pie-pan.
“That someone,” Addis said. “You, Lem. You did that, right?”
“Talks like your momma did”—that’s what the letter said.
“To help the Hanovers, right? Just to help.”
The arm with the gun trembled.
“It’s like a sick joke, Lem, isn’t it? Like a stupid script somebody wrote. Somebody who doesn’t really know us. Doesn’t really know you. But they made us do all these things. Lem? All these things. They never told us what it would mean, right Lem?”
The arm stopped shaking. Jordan held it stiff.
“G-g-give me that,” Jordan said, referring to the letter.
“It’s a copy, Lem.” Addis and Starrell had stopped at a copy shop on the way to the hotel.
“Give me the god-damn letter!”
“Other people have seen it, Lem. They have the original.”
Jordan’s eyes stopped shifting. Addis could see the inside of the barrel. He thought of a small piece of metal. A pill. Flying through the space between here and there.
“Lem, you can’t. You can’t. You know that. I know it, too.”
“I d-d-d-don’t know, Nick … It’s not—”
“Yes, you do. You do know, Lem. This isn’t part of it.”
Fuck, hasn’t it been ten minutes?
“I d-d-don’t. I d-d-don’t.”
Jordan’s eyes were watering.
“I s-s-saved you. You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t have.”
“Yes, thank you, Lem. Thank you very much for last night. Just like you saved Margaret in Cincinnati. Now, can we try to figure everything out together—”
“N-n-no,” Jordan interrupted. “Sorry, Nick. Sorry.” He blinked tears from his eyes.
God-damn, this is it. And it’s not even going to help him. They’ll find him
somewhere—a wreck, or a corpse with one bullet wound, self-inflicted in the head. I should tell him about the knapsack. There’s too much evidence, he can’t stop it by—
“S-s-sorry, I’m …”
Addis took a deep breath, felt his lungs expand. Like last night. Like right before leaving the air for the water.
A bang sounded by the entrance to the living room. Addis and Jordan turned toward it and saw Jack entering the room, with the wheelchair scraping against the doorjamb. His eyes were wide and wet. He held a cardkey in his hand. He rolled a few feet, then stopped.
“Told Bruno I had to go empty out,” Jack said. He patted the plastic container that held the waste his body produced. “But, uh, he’s in the hallway.”
“Thanks for coming,” Addis said.
“You asked me to,” Jack said. “And I did. Ten minutes, like you said.”
“You heard some of that?” Addis asked.
Jack nodded weakly.
Wish I didn’t have to do this.
The boy faced Jordan but said nothing. Jordan’s arm was limp, the gun pointing at the floor.
“Lem, who chased us off the road?” Addis asked.
Jordan stared out the window. “Don’t know. Never saw enough of him.”
“How did you get Morrison’s son into that unit? How could you do that?”
Jordan gazed nervously about the room, as if he felt exposed and couldn’t decide in which direction to move.
“Lem,” Addis said, “I don’t know what to say. I—”
“Once we were at a funeral,” Jack interrupted. He paused and swallowed. “My great aunt or somebody. And this man comes up to me, says he’s my grandpa, and if I ever need something I should just tell Lem, and Lem would let him know. And, like, I would get it. Said he was sorry for something …”
Shit, Harris Griffith and now Lem. Chasie, that S.O.B., had it wired. Margaret had chosen Bob over him, and still her father was doing what he could for his daughter and grandson.
“Were you being paid by Chasie?” Addis asked Jordan. “To keep Chasie in the know, smooth things out? Help him look after them?”
Chasie and the Mumfries’s family had done business together. Had Lem gone to Chasie with the Morrison problem? The kid was in trouble with the Marines, so Chasie called a friend in Washington? Mumfries? And … Morrison ends up a trained assassin?
Addis recalled his ride with Mumfries the day Hanover was shot. In
the back of the limousine. The two of them. On the way to the White House. “Nick, I can’t tell you how much I really helped them—both of them.” That’s what Mumfries had said.
Or had Mumfries been thinking about the time his family’s newspaper sat on the story that Bob was drinking the night of the accident?
“Did you tell Bob or Margaret about Morrison and his son, about going to Chasie for help? No, you couldn’t have. You probably didn’t even know how Chasie fixed it. And she didn’t know either, did she? She only knew about the land deal. Or suspected. Or didn’t know, but does now. What secrets to keep, Lem.”
Jordan looked at Addis and was silent.
Addis kneeled next to Jack. “Thanks for the help.”
“Was Lem going to—”
“No,” Addis said. “He’s just upset about things. That’s all.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, we’ll go to an Orioles game soon, okay?” Addis picked up the page from the White House log. He tucked it and the Morrison letter into his jacket pocket.
“Bye, Lem,” he said.
Margaret Hanover strode into the room. Behind her were O’Connor, Carey, Whalen, the head of the Children’s Aid Fund, and several Secret Service officers.
“What’s all this?” she asked, her eyes on Jordan’s gun.
“Had to go,” Jack said.
She caressed his head, stroked his hair. “That’s fine, sweetie. And Nick?”
“Just talking with Lem,” Addis said. “And just leaving.”
There’s so much I have to tell Julia.
He brushed past Margaret and whispered to her, “About Blue Ridge. About Chasie. About Griffith. And about …” He moved through the crowd and felt a hand on his shoulder. He thought it belonged to Carey. But he did not acknowledge it. His eyes met O’Connor’s. He shook his head and kept walking. He left the suite and headed to the elevator. Someone called his name from behind. It was Margaret.