The First Councel

CHAPTER 29

Why so out of breath?” Adenauer asks as he backs me into the anteroom. “Worried about something?”

“Not at all,” I say with my bravest face.

“What’re you doing here so late?”

“I was going to ask the same thing of you.”

He keeps moving forward, pushing toward my office. I stand my ground in the anteroom.

“So where’re you running to?” he asks.

“Just going to watch the departure. Takeoff’s in ten minutes.”

He studies my answer, annoyed that it came so quick. “Michael, can we sit down for a second?”

“I would, but I’m about to-”

“I’d like to talk about tomorrow.”

He doesn’t blink. “Let’s go,” I say, turning toward my office. I head for my desk; he heads for the couch. I already don’t like it. He’s too comfortable. “So what’s going on with you?” I ask, trying to move us along.

“Nothing,” he says coldly. “I’ve been looking at those files.”

“Find anything interesting?”

“I didn’t realize you were originally pre-med,” he says. “You’re a man of many parts.”

I’m ready to mouth off, but it’s not going to get me anywhere. If I plan to talk him out of going public tomorrow, he’ll need some honesty. “It’s the dream of every kid with sick parents,” I tell him. “Become a doctor; save their lives. Only problem was, I hated every minute of it. I don’t like tests with right answers. Give me an essay any day.”

“Still, you stayed with it until sophomore year-even made it through physiology.”

“What’s your point?”

“No point at all. Just wondering if they ever taught you anything about monoamine oxidase inhibitors.”

“What’re you talking abou-”

“It’s amazing, really,” he interrupts. “You have two medications that separately are harmless. But if you mix them together-well, let’s just say it’s not a good thing.” He’s watching me way too carefully. Here it comes. “Let me give you an example,” he continues. “Let’s pretend you’re a candidate for the antidepressant Quarnil. You tell your psychiatrist you’re feeling bad; he prescribes some, and suddenly you’re feeling better. Problem solved. Of course, as with any drug, you have to read the warning label. And if you read the one on Quarnil, you’ll see that, while you’re taking it, you’re supposed to stay away from all sorts of things: yogurt, beer and wine, pickled herring… and something called pseudoephedrine.”

“Pseudo-what?”

“Funny, that’s what I thought you’d say.” Losing his smile, he adds, “Sudafed, Michael. One of the world’s best-selling decongestants. Mix that with Quarnil and it’ll shut you down faster than an emergency brake on a bullet train. Instant stroke. The strange part is, on the surface it’ll look like a simple heart attack.”

“You’re saying that’s how Caroline died? A mixture of Quarnil and Sudafed?”

“It’s just a theory,” he says unconvincingly.

I give him a look.

“The Sudafed was dissolved in her coffeepot,” Adenauer explains. “A dozen tablets, judging by the strength of the sample we scooped up. She never saw it coming.”

“What about the Quarnil?”

“She’s been taking it for years. Ever since she started working here.” He pauses. “Michael, whoever did this did their homework. They knew she was already on Quarnil. And they had to have more than a basic understanding of physiology.”

“So that’s your grand theory? You think they taught me this at Michigan? Poison 101: How to Kill Your Friends with Household Products?”

“You said it, not me.”

We both know it’s a stretch, but if he’s been through my college transcript, it means they’re tearing my life apart. Hard. “You’re on the wrong track,” I tell him. “I don’t play around with drugs. Never have; never will.”

“Then what were you doing yesterday at the zoo?” That’s what he was waiting for. I walked right into it.

“Watching the monkeys,” I say. “It’s amazing now-they all have walkie-talkies.”

He shakes his head with parental disapproval. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with, do you? Vaughn’s not just the local bully. He’s a killer.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m not sure you do. He’ll slice you open for fun. You heard what he did to his buddy Morty-piano wire through his-”

“I don’t think he did it.”

“Is that what Vaughn told you?”

“Just a theory,” I say.

He stands up from the sofa and walks toward my desk. “Michael, let me paint a little picture for you. You and Vaughn are standing on the edge of a cliff. And the only way to safety is a rickety bamboo bridge that leads to the other side. Problem is, this bridge is only strong enough to hold one more person. After that, it’s going to crumble into the canyon. You know what happens next?”

“Let me guess-Vaughn runs across.”

“No. He stabs you in the back, then he takes your canteen, then he swipes your wallet, then he runs across. Laughing all the way.”

“That’s a pretty complex analogy.”

“I’m only trying to help you, Garrick. I really am. According to eyewitnesses, you were the last one who saw her. According to the tox reports, she was killed by someone who knows their drugs. According to WAVES records, you let Vaughn in. Now I don’t care what your little arrangement was with Nora-either way, I’ve got him linked to you. You’re standing on the edge of a cliff. What do you want to do?”

I don’t give him an answer.

“Whatever they’re telling you is cow-pie. They don’t care about you, Michael.”

“And you do?”

“Despite what you think, I don’t want to see you throw your life away on this-I respect how you got here. Make it easy on us and I promise you, I’ll make it easy on you.”

“What do you mean ‘make it easy’?”

“You know what we’re after. Tie Nora to Vaughn-drug user to drug dealer to drug-related death. Give us that and we’re done.”

“But they don’t-”

“Don’t tell me they don’t know each other-I’m sick of the bullshit. If you don’t give us Nora’s link to Vaughn, we’ll just use Vaughn’s link to you.”

“Even if you know it’s not true?”

“Not true? Garrick, the only reason I’m holding out this long is because she’s the President’s daughter-the proof has to be airtight. If I can’t get it on her, though, like I said, I’m just as happy to start with you. Y’see, once I put you out there-once the press realizes you’re dating-it doesn’t take a genius to fill in the rest. It may take an extra step, but Nora’s not going anywhere.” Pressing the tips of his fingers tightly against my desk, he leans in close. “And unless you give us the link, neither are you.”

As he pulls away, I’m speechless.

“I can still help you, Michael. You have my word.”

“But if I-”

“Why don’t you think about it overnight?” he suggests. He’s not changing his deadline, but I still need to stall-until after my noon meeting with Vaughn.

“Can I at least have until the end of the day tomorrow? There’s one last thing I want to ask Nora about. If I’m right, you’ll understand. If I’m wrong and it doesn’t come through-you can slap a big red ribbon on me and I’ll personally hand myself to the press.”

He takes a moment to think about it. A promise with actual results. “Five o’clock tomorrow,” he finally says. “But remember what I told you-Vaughn’s just looking for another sucker. As soon as you’re in harm’s way, he’s going to duck out.”

I nod as he heads for the door. “I’ll see you at five o’clock.”

“Five o’clock it is.” He’s about to leave when he turns around, his hand still on the doorknob. “By the way,” he says. “What’d you think of Nora on Dateline?”

My stomach sinks as he pulls tight on the noose. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason. She was pretty good, huh? You’d never know they were in the margin of error-it was like she was holding the whole family together.”

I study his eyes, trying to read between the lines. There’s no reason for him to bring up poll numbers. “She’s strong when she needs to be,” I say.

“So I guess that means she doesn’t need much protection.” Before I can respond, he adds, “Of course, maybe I have it backwards. These media things always make it look like more than it is, don’t you think?” With a knowing nod, he turns back to the anteroom, flips off the light switch, and leaves the room. The door slams behind him.

Alone in the dark, I replay Adenauer’s last words. Even if we’re both still missing a few pieces, he’s got enough to make a picture. That’s why he’s made his decision: No matter what I do, for me, it’s over. The only question now is who I’m going to drag down with me.

I wait a full minute after he leaves before I go for the door myself. Regardless of what the schedule says, when it comes to trips, almost nothing moves on time. If they’re running late, I can still catch her. Following my usual path, I tear toward the West Wing. But as soon as I hit the night air, I know I’m cutting it close. There’s no Marine guard standing under the light outside the West Lobby. The President’s not in the Oval. Rushing full speed through the West Colonnade, I fly into the Ground Floor Corridor. As I run, I hear clapping and cheering echoing through the hallway. In the distance, there’s the chug of a steam train. First slow, then fast. Faster. As it picks up speed, it’s pulsing. Whirring. Humming. The helicopter.

Halfway down the hallway, I make a sharp right into the Dip Room and crash head-on with the last person I expect to see at a departure.

“Where’re you heading?” Simon asks, sounding unsurprised.

My jaw tightens. I can’t help but picture him and Nora in the backseat. Still, I fight it down. “To watch the departure.”

“Since when are you such a tourist?”

I don’t answer. I need to hear it from her. Turning away, I step around him.

He seizes me by the arm. It’s a tight grip. “You’re too late, Michael. You can’t stop it.”

I pull away. “We’ll see.”

Before he can respond, I push forward, shoving open the doors of the South Portico. On the driveway, a small crowd of twenty-five is still cheering. Remnants of the post-Dateline celebration. On the South Lawn, Marine One is about to take off. I have to squint against the swirling winds, but I still see the fat army-green copter lift off the ground. As my tie and ID are whipped over my shoulder, the force of the wind from the spinning blades crashes against my chest like a wave. Behind bulletproof glass, and in his armor-lined seat, the leader of the free world waves goodbye to us. Two seats back, Nora’s caught up in a conversation with her brother. I lift my chin and watch their ascent. Simon’s right. There’s no way to stop it. It’s out of my control. In a heartbeat, the helicopter’s lights go off, and the First Family disappears in the black sky. With nothing left to cheer for, the crowd starts to disperse. And I’m left standing there. Alone. Back to a world of one.

“This is stupid,” I say as the waitress delivers a pitcher of beer to our table.

“Don’t talk to me about stupid,” Trey says, pouring himself a glass. “I was there today-I saw it myself. The best thing now is to plan your way out.”

As he says the words, my eyes are locked on the waitress who’s clearing the table next to us. Like the crane in the old carnival game, she lowers her arm and lifts all the important stuff: glassware, menus, a dish of peanuts. Everything else is trash. With a sweep of her arm, empty bottles and used napkins are brushed into the busboy’s plastic bin. With one quick move, it’s gone. That’s what she did-after the fun, jettisoned the trash. Still, I refuse to believe it. “Maybe Vaughn had it wrong. Maybe when Nora gets back-”

“Wait a minute, you’re gonna give her a chance to explain? After what she did tonight… Are you out of your head?”

“It’s not like I have a choice.”

“There’re plenty of choices. Whole shopping-carts-ful of them: Hate her, despise her, curse her, scorn her, pretend you’re nature and abhor her like a vacuum-”

“Enough!” I interrupt, my eyes still locked on the waitress. “I know what it looks like… I just… We don’t have all the facts.”

“What else do you need, Michael? She’s sleeping with Simon!”

My chest constricts. Just the thought of it…

“I’m serious,” he whispers, looking suspiciously at the tables around us. “That’s why Caroline got killed. She found out the two of them were doing the horizontal Electric Slide, and when she started blackmailing them, they decided to push back. The only problem was, they needed someone to blame.”

“Me,” I mutter. It certainly makes sense.

“Think about the way it played out. It wasn’t just a coincidence that you wound up in the bar that night; it was a setup. She took you there on purpose. The whole thing-losing the Service, pretending to be lost, even taking the money-that was all part of their plan.”

“No,” I whisper, pushing myself away from the table. “Not like that.”

“What’re you-”

“C’mon, Trey, there’s no way they knew the D.C. police were going to pull us over for speeding.”

“No, you’re right-that was pure chance. But if you didn’t get pulled over, she would’ve planted it in your car. Think about it. They set Vaughn up and make it look like you let him in the building. Then when Caroline shows up dead the next morning, between Vaughn and the money, you’ve got the smoking gun.”

“I don’t know. I mean, if that’s the case, then why haven’t they turned me in? I’ve still got the ‘gun.’ It’s just in police custody.”

“I’m not sure. Maybe they’re worried the cop’ll identify Nora. Maybe they’re waiting until after the election. Or maybe they’re waiting for the FBI to do it on their own. Five o’clock tomorrow.”

We sit in silence and I stare at my beer, studying its rising bubbles. Eventually, I look up at Trey. “I still have to speak to her.” Before he can react, I add, “Don’t ask me why, Trey-it’s just… I know you think she’s a whack-job-believe me, I know she’s a whack-job-but underneath… you’ve never seen it, Trey. All you see is someone you work for-but behind all the tough-stuff posturing and all the public-face nonsense, in a different set of circumstances, she can just as easily be you or me.”

“Really? So when was the last time we did Special K in the bowling alley?”

“I said underneath. There’s still a girl underneath.”

“See, now you’re sounding like Mithridates.”

“Who?”

“The guy who survived an assassination attempt by eating a little bit of poison every day. When they finally put it in his wine, his body was immune to it.”

“And what’s so bad about that?”

“Pay attention to the details, Michael. Even though he survived, he still spent every day eating poison.”

I can’t help but shake my head. “I just want to hear what she says. Your theory’s one possibility; there’re plenty of others. For all we know, Pam’s the one who-”

“What the hell is wrong with you? It’s like you’re on permanent autopilot!”

“You don’t understand… ”

“I do understand. And I know how you feel about her. Hell, even forgetting Nora, I still have my own questions about Pam-but take a step back and put on your rational pants. You’re trusting Nora and Vaughn-two complete strangers you’ve known less than a month-and questioning Pam, a good friend who’s been by your side for two years. Please, Michael, look at the facts! Does that make any sense to you? I mean, today alone… what’re you thinking?”

My eyes drop back to my beer. I don’t have an answer.

Early Friday morning, I tear through all four newspapers, checking to see if Adenauer kept his word. The Herald has a short piece on some of the conspiracy theories that’re starting to develop around Caroline’s death, but that’s to be expected. More important, Hartson bounced up six points in the polls, a giant leap that takes him out of the margin of error. It’s not hard to see why. The front photo in the Post is a shot of the whole family on Dateline. On the far right, Nora’s laughing at her mother’s joke. Just another day in the life.

Beyond that, as far as I can tell, it’s all okay. Nothing by Inez. Nothing by anyone. Now all I have to do is the hard part. According to the schedule, they should be landing any minute. I tighten my tie and pull it extra tight. Time to see Nora.

Once the Secret Service waves me in, I head straight to her bedroom on the third floor. I stop at her door, my hand poised to knock. Inside, I hear her talking to someone, so I lean in close. But just as I do, the door flies open and there’s Nora, radiant in a tight black T-shirt and jeans, cradling a cell phone to her ear, and grinning at me for all of a split second.

“I don’t care if he raises two million,” she shouts into the phone. “I’m not going to dinner with his son!” As I step in, she puts up her pointer finger and gives me the “one more minute” sign.

Based on the schedule, this must be about yesterday’s donor receptions. When we first met, she told me it’s always like this after the fund-raisers. Every letch with a checkbook starts calling in favors. For the President, they’re usually business requests. For Nora, they’re personal.

“What the hell is wrong with these people?” she says into the phone, continuing to pace. She gestures me to the daybed, to sit down. “Why can’t they buy a Humvee and some Ralph Lauren furniture like everyone else?” With a swing of her arm, she adds, “Tell them the truth. Tell them I think Daddy’s little stock baron is a roach and that… ” She pauses, listening to the person on the other line. “I don’t care if he went to Harvard-what the hell does that-” She cuts herself off. “Y’know what? That actually does matter. It matters a lot. Do you have a pencil, because I just figured out what you should say. Are you writing this down? When you get his parents back on the line, tell them that while I am keenly excited by the prospect of having their son cop a feel while sticking his tongue in my ear, I regret that I will not be able to make it. Indeed, while a student at Princeton, I took a vaginal oath that forbids me to date two types of people: First, men from Harvard. And second”-here she starts shouting-“sons of self-important, pretentious, trumpeteering parents who think that just because they know how to get preview-night seats at the trendiest restaurant-of-the-moment, the entire free world must have a price tag on it! Sadly, their darling Jake qualifies for both! Sincerely yours, Nora. P.S.-You’re not hot shit, the Hamptons are overrated, and no matter what the maître d’ says, he hates you too!” Glaring furiously at the receiver, she shuts off the phone.

“Sorry about that,” she says to me, still breathing heavily.

I’m breathing heavily myself and can hardly hear over the thump of my own heartbeat. “Nora, I have something impor-”

Once again, the phone rings.

“Damn!” she shouts, grabbing it. “Yes…?”

As Nora grudgingly agrees to another round of fund-raiser appearances, my eyes roll over to the two framed letters on her nightstand. The first one’s in bright red crayon and reads, “Dear Nora: You’re hot. Love, Matt, age 8.” The other reads, “Dear Nora: Fuck ’ em all. Your friends, Joel Chris.” Both are dated during the first months of her father’s administration. When everything was fun.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she says into the phone. “When? Yesterday?”

Listening, she walks across the room toward an antique desk and rifles through a pile of newspapers on top. As she pulls out one of them, I see that it’s the Herald. “What page?” she asks. “No, I got it right here. Thanks-I’ll call you later.”

Putting down the phone, she thumbs through the paper and finds what she’s looking for. A wide smile breaks over her face. “Have you seen this?” she asks, shoving the paper in my face. “They asked a hundred fifth-graders if they wanted to be me. Guess how many said yes?”

I shake my head. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“Just guess.”

“I don’t want to guess.”

“Why? Afraid to be wrong? Afraid to compete? Afraid to-”

“Nineteen,” I blurt. “Nineteen said yes. Eighty-one would rather keep their souls.”

She throws the paper aside. “Listen, I’m sorry about yesterday… ”

“This isn’t about yesterday!”

“Then why’re you acting like I stole your Big Wheel?”

“Nora, this isn’t the time for jokes!” I seize her by the wrist. “Come with-”

Once again, the phone rings. She freezes. I refuse to let go. We look at each other.

“Are you sleeping with Edgar Simon?” I blurt.

“What?” Behind her, the phone continues to ring.

“I’m serious, Nora. Say it to my face.”

Nora crosses her arms and stares blankly at me. The phone finally quits. Then, out of nowhere, Nora laughs. She laughs her heartfelt, deep, little-girl laugh-as honest and free as they come.

“I’m not playing around, Nora.”

She’s still laughing, panting, slowing down. Now she looks into my eyes. “C’mon, Michael, you can’t be-”

“I want an answer. Are you sleeping with Simon?”

Her mouth clamps shut. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“What’s your answer?”

“Michael, I swear to you, I’d never… I’d never do that to you. I’d rather die than be with someone like that.”

“So that means no?”

“Of course it means no. Why would I-” She cuts herself off. “You think I’m working against you? You really think I’d do that?”

I don’t bother to reply.

“I’d never hurt you, Michael. Not after all this.”

“What about before all this?”

“What’re you saying? That I had my own reason to kill Caroline? That I set this whole thing up?”

“You said it, not me.”

“Michael!” She grabs me by both hands. “How could you think that… I’d never…!” This time, she’s the one who won’t let go. “I swear to you, I’ve never touched him-I’d never want to touch him”-her voice cracks-“in my life.” She drops my hands and turns away.

“God,” she says. “How’d you even get that in your head?”

“It just seemed to make sense,” I say.

She stops where she is. Her whole body locks up. Facing just her back, I can tell that one hurt. I didn’t mean to-

“Is that what you think of me?” she whispers.

“Nora-”

“Is that what you think?” she repeats, her voice quivering. Before I can answer, she turns back to me, searching for the answer. Her eyes are all red. Her shoulders sag. I know that stance-it’s the same one my mom had when she left. The posture of defeat. When I don’t answer, the tears trickle down her cheeks. “You really think I’m that much of a whore?”

I shake my head and go to reach out. When I’d thought about how she’d react, I always assumed it’d be raging anger. I never expected a breakdown. “Nora, you have to understand… ”

She’s not even listening.

Stepping into my arms, she curls into a ball and presses her face against my chest. Her body’s shaking. Unlike with Pam, I can’t argue. Nora’s different.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs, her voice once again cracking. “I’m sorry you even had to think it.”

As her fingers brush against the back of my neck, I hear the hurt in her voice and see the loneliness in her eyes. But as she nuzzles in close, for once, I hold back. Unlike before, I’m not as easily convinced. Not yet. Not until I talk to Vaughn.

Although my destination is the Woodley Park Metro stop, I hop off the train at Dupont Circle. Throughout the twenty-minute walk between the two, I weave through sidestreets, cut across traffic, and race against the grain of every one-way I can find. If they’re following me in a car, they’re lost. If they’re on foot… well, at least I have a chance. Anything to avoid a rerun of the zoo.

Walking past the restaurants and cafés of Woodley Park, I finally feel at home. There’s Lebanese Taverna, where Trey and I came to celebrate his third promotion. And the sushi place where Pam and I ate when her sister came to town. This is where I live-my turf-which is why I notice the unusually clean garbage truck that’s coasting up the block.

As it stops on the corner, I barely give it a second glance. Sure, the driver and the guy emptying the nearby trash cans look a little too chiseled, but it’s not a weak man’s job. Then I notice the sign on the side of the truck-“G B Removal.” Below the company’s name is its phone number, which starts with a 703 area code. Virginia. What’s a Virginia truck doing this far in D.C.? Maybe the work’s contracted out. Knowing D.C.’s public services, it’s certainly possible. But just as I turn away, I hear the broken-glass-raining-bottle-sliding-garbage sound of the metal-can being emptied into the back of the truck. Sound of the city. A sound I hear every night, just as I go to b-My legs cramp up. At night. That’s when I hear it. That’s when they come. Never during the day.

I spin around and look down the block. On the far corner, there’s a trash can overflowing with garbage. That’s where the truck was coming from. A full trash can. Behind the truck. Pretending not to notice, I dart into the video store midway up the block.

“Can I help you?” a girl wearing head-to-toe black asks.

“No.” Holding imaginary binoculars in front of my eyes, I press them against the plate glass window, block out the glare of the sun, and stare out at the truck. Neither of the two men has given chase. They’re just sitting there. While the loading guy fidgets with something in the back, the driver twists open his thermos, as if he’s suddenly decided to take a break.

The video clerk is getting anxious. “Sir, are you sure I can’t-”

Before she can finish, I rush out of the video store and into the dry cleaners next door. There’s no one at the counter, and I don’t ring the bell for service. Instead, I dash to the window and stare outside. Still haven’t moved. This time, I wait a full minute before I bolt next door to the coffee bar.

A girl wearing an “Eat the Rich” T-shirt asks, “Can I help you with something?”

“No thanks.” Glued to the front window, I give it two minutes and a third “Can-I-help-you?” before I race out the door and into the storefront on my left. I keep it going for two more stores-dart inside, wait, then out and to the left; dart inside, wait, then out and to the left. That’s how I make my way up the block. Each one I go into, I wait a little longer. Let them think it’s a pattern. One more store to go.

At the end of the block I run for the local drugstore, CVS. The way I figure it, I’m up to about a five-minute wait. But this time, after I push open the doors, I just keep running. Straight up the cosmetics aisle. Shampoos on my left, shaving cream on my right. Pharmacy-whiff floats through the air. Without stopping, I dash to the back of the store, around a bend, and down an undecorated back hall. That’s when I spot my destination-it’s what only a local would know, and what the guys in the garbage truck would never guess-that this CVS is the only store on the block with two entrances. Smiling to myself, I throw open the back door and blow out of there like a cannonball. I look back only once. No one’s in pursuit.

Crossing 24th Street, I’m a rage of adrenaline. My body’s flushed with the raw energy of victory. Around the corner is the side entrance of the Woodley Park Marriott. Nothing’s going to get in my way.

Inside the lobby, I reach into my pants pocket, looking for the note with the exact location. Not there. I reach into my left pocket. Then inside my jacket. Oh, crap, don’t tell me it’s… Frantically, I pull apart each of my back pockets and pat myself down. It’s not in my wallet or my… I close my eyes and retrace my steps. I had it this morning; I had it with Nora… but when I got up to leave… Oh, no. My lungs collapse. If it fell out of my pocket, it could still be sitting on her bed.

Struggling to stay calm, I remember the operator’s instructions from when I called this morning. Somewhere on the Ballroom Level. As I approach the Information Desk, I stare suspiciously at the three bellmen in the front corner of the lobby. Dressed in starched black vests, they look right at home, but something seems off. Just as the tallest one turns my way, I notice the closing elevator on my immediate right. A quick burst of speed lets me squeeze through the doors just as they’re about to slam shut. Whipping around, the last thing I see is the tall bellman. He’s not even watching. I’m still okay.

“You got a favorite floor?” a man with a bolo tie and cowboy hat asks.

“Ballrooms,” I say, studying him carefully. He hits the appropriate button. He’s already pressed 8 for himself.

“You okay there, son?” he quickly asks.

“Yeah. Just great.”

“You sure about that? Looks like you can use a little… commune with the spirits… if you know what I mean.” He throws back an imaginary shot of whiskey.

I nod in agreement. “Just one of those days.”

“Loud and clear; loud and clear.”

The doors slide open on the ballroom level. “Have a good one now,” the man with the cowboy hat says.

“You too,” I mutter, stepping out. Behind me, the doors slam shut. Straight ahead, at the end of the long corridor, I cross over into the Center Tower of the hotel, where there’s an escalator marked “Up to First Floor Ballrooms.” I hop on.

At the top, there must be at least three hundred people, mostly women, milling around the hallway. They all have name tags on their shirts and canvas bags dangling from their arms. Convention-goers. Just in time for lunch.

As fast as I can, I weave my way through the crowd of women smiling, boasting, and waving their arms in excitement. Draped across the wall of the main corridor hangs an enormous banner: “Welcome to the 34th Annual Meeting of the American Federation of Teachers.” Underneath the banner, I spot the hotel directory. “Excuse me, I’m sorry, excuse me,” I say, trying to get there as quickly as possible. Squinting to read the directory, I find the words “Warren Room” followed by an arrow pointing right.

Warren Room. That’s it.

I turn to the right so fast I slam into a woman with a small rhinestone-encrusted chalkboard pinned to her blouse. “Excuse me,” I say, racing past her.

Outside the entrance to the room, a crowd of teachers is gathered around an oversized corkboard that’s resting on a wooden easel. At least a hundred folded-up sheets of paper are tacked to the board-each of them with a different name written on it. Miriam, Marc, Ali, Scott. As I stand there, a flurry of notes are added and retrieved. Anonymous and untraceable. Message board. Warren Room. No doubt about it; this is the place.

As I fight my way through the crowd and toward the board, I’m blocked by a fake redhead who smells like a hairspray bomb went off. Craning my neck to check out the messages, I try to be as systematic as possible. My eyes skim across the notes, scrutinizing names. There it is: Michael. I wedge a fingernail behind the pushpin and pull off the note. Inside, it reads, “Dinner’s bad tonight. How about tomorrow at Grossman’s?” It’s signed Lenore.

Scanning names on the message board, I find it again. Michael. I stick the first note back on the corkboard and pull out this one. “Breakfast is great. Eight it is. See you then, Mary Ellen.”

Frustrated, I jam the note to the board and continue the search.

I find three more notes addressed to Michaels. The only one that’s remotely interesting is one that reads “I shaved for you,” from a woman named Carly.

Maybe he put it under another name, I think as I stare at the board. Starting over in the top left-hand corner, I take another pass, this time looking for something familiar: Nora, Vaughn, Pam, Trey-none of them come up. Desperate, I open one that’s addressed with nothing more than a smiley face. Inside it reads, “Made you look.”

I crumple it in a sweaty fist. Teachers. Biting my bottom lip, I scour the board. All around me, dozens of people are adding and removing notes… This is no time to lose it… I’m sure he’s just being careful… which means there’s something on here that makes sense-

I don’t believe it. There it is, right in the center of the board. The name is written with a pen that looks like it’s running out of ink. In thin, capital letters. L.H. Oswald. The ultimate patsy. That’s me.

I pull the note off as fast as I can and step away from the lunchtime crowd. Rushing down the hallway, I head straight for the bank of elevators at the end of the hall. As I alternate between jogging and speed-walking, I unfold the Oswald note one crease at a time. At the top of the page it reads, “How long before you picked up this one?” Always the smart-ass. Right below that it reads “ 1027.” Exactly what I expected. A room number. When I subtract seven, it’s Room 1020.

Inside the elevator, I go straight for the button marked 10. Over and over, my finger attacks it woodpecker-style.

Clamping the elevator’s brass rail in tight fists, I can barely contain myself. Nine floors to go. My eyes are glued to the digital display, and the moment I hear the ping of arrival, I push forward. The doors are still sliding open when I squeeze through and step out on the tenth floor. Almost there, almost there. But as I trace the logical ascent of room numbers to 1020, I feel the hallway closing in. It starts with a sharp pain in my shoulders and works its way up the back of my neck. For better or worse, Vaughn’s going to tell me the truth about Nora. And I’m finally going to get my answer. Of course, I’m not sure what he has, but he said it was worth it. It better be-because I’m counting on taking it straight to Adenauer. No matter how deep it cuts. My stomach starts making noises that are usually reserved for major illnesses. A cold chill slithers up my rib cage and I curse the hotel’s air-conditioning. It’s freezing in here.

Finally, I’m standing in front of Room 1020. I grasp the doorknob, but before I can turn it, I stop. For the past two days, my mind’s been flooded with dozens of questions I couldn’t wait to ask. Now, I don’t know if I want the answers. I mean, how can they possibly help? Can I believe him? Maybe it’s like Adenauer said. Maybe Vaughn can’t be trusted.

I think back to our meeting behind the movie theater. His wrinkled clothes. His tired eyes. And the fear on his face. Over and over, I replay the question: If he was trying to set me up, why would he link his name to me-the one person he knew was going to look like the murderer? I still can’t answer it. So am I ready to take the next step? As with everything lately, I don’t have much choice. I wipe my hand on my pants and knock on the door.

To my surprise, it opens a crack when I hit it. I knock again, opening it a little more. “Vaughn, you in there?” There’re some faint voices, but no one answers.

Down the hallway, I hear the return of the elevator. Someone’s coming. This is no time to be shy. I push open the door. Blinding sunlight pours through the windows at the far end of the room. As soon as the door slams shut behind me, I notice the TV blaring. No wonder he didn’t hear me.

“Whattya doin’? Watching soaps?” I move forward to step into the room, but my foot catches on something and I lose my balance and lurch forward. Putting my hands out to stop my fall, I hit the carpet with a hard thud. And an unnerving squish. My legs are askew, lying over some obstacle.

“What the…?” The whole carpet’s soaked. Sticky. And dark red. My hands are covered in it. I roll back to see what I tripped over. No, not what. Who. Vaughn.

“Oh, God,” I whisper. His mouth is slightly open. Red spit-bubbles collect in the gap between his teeth and his lower lip. Move, move, move! I scramble furiously to get up, pushing myself away from his body, but my hands slip, sending me straight back toward the floor. At the last second, I catch myself on my elbow, with my tie pinned underneath. Now it matches my hands. More blood.

Shutting my eyes, I let my legs do the rest. They scramble their way across Vaughn’s rigid torso, my right knee rubbing against his rib cage. Staggering to my feet, I spin around and get a better look at him lying lengthwise in the entryway. His left forearm is tight against his chest, but his hand’s still reaching upward, frozen in a half-open fist. The bullet hole is in his forehead-off center, above his right eye. It’s a tight wound-dark and crusted. Blood mats his thick black hair to the bone gray carpet. On his face, one eye stares straight forward; the other skews cockeyed to the side. Like Caroline’s. Just like Caroline’s. And all I can think of is the gun inside that utility box by the movie theater. The gun and that damn note-sitting there on Nora’s bed.