We Know

Chapter 45

Still raw from Tris's tale, I crossed the parking lot, heading toward the Brentwood Inn. Behind me midday traffic blasted by on Sunset, a head-numbing rotation of squealing brakes and bleating horns and rap music throbbing from open windows. Alan Lambrose had called with the not-so-covert location for my meet with Caruthers, the glorified motel a few blocks west of the 405. I'd left the Jag around the corner in front of a condo building to keep Induma's plates out of sight.

I found the room toward the back of the humble, single-story sprawl and knocked. The door opened to reveal Alan, in full bow-tie glory, and another aide I didn't recognize but who shared the same debate-team sheen. An athletic man, but he belonged to the political realm, not to the Service. James, the agent I'd first met in Caruthers's conference room, stood at the back of the room. His meaty features fixed on me for a moment, unpleased. Then he removed his hand from the stock of his pistol and returned his gaze dutifully to the windows. Caruthers sat in a chair before a narrow stone fireplace, wrapping up a call. He stood, throwing the still-open cell phone to Alan, and greeted me warmly as Alan murmured closing sentiments into the receiver.

Caruthers looked wiped out-I imagined that six flights a day could do that to you-and his jaw worked the nicotine gum in a sawing motion, almost side to side.

I glanced nervously at James-I didn't like his being here-and Caruthers took the hint. He nodded at the others. "Give us some privacy?"

The athletic aide went out front, and James stepped onto the tiny back patio. A man at each visible exit. The closing sliding glass door seemed to suction the noise of traffic from the room.

Alan was in a scramble in the kitchenette, bringing a cup of coffee to the little table by Caruthers's chair. "Sorry, Senator. Fred forgot to bring the Sweet'n Low."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Alan, any fake sugar'll do."

Alan set down the coffee and withdrew to the bedroom, already jabbing at his BlackBerry. I remembered Frank telling me that they brought their own food for the principal wherever they went, to reduce the risk of poisoning.

Caruthers ran a hand through his renegade hair, and it settled back however it wanted. He muttered, "Sweet'n Low," with disgust, then added, "They like to believe you're more high-maintenance than you are. It makes them feel more important. What kind of sweetener. How many packets. What news channel the TV is tuned to when you check in to a hotel. You have to be careful or you'll start believing it."

"It does get tiring."

He laughed heartily, and I felt that I'd accomplished something. Then his green eyes grew serious. "You're all right?"

"So far."

"Have you found out anything on Jane Everett's daughter?"

"I have to tell you a story," I said, "about your opponent."

He read my face and knew not to press. Instead he sat and gestured to the facing chair. I caught him up on everything I'd learned since we'd spoken. When I got to Tris's story, his hand formed a fist, and he pushed the top knuckle against his lips, as if reining in fury. How the baby stopped crying. The trunk of the sedan closing. The empty crib. I told it as Tris had, and the words held the same horror. When I finished, Caruthers shook his head in disbelief, and his brilliant green eyes were filmed with tears.

He sipped his coffee. His cheeks glittered. I stared into the fireplace. Propane flames licking at a cast-concrete log.

He retrieved a handkerchief from a pocket and blew his nose. Then he folded it thoughtfully and returned it. "I bet Bilton didn't even know any of this. All he knew was that there was this volunteer staffer who he spent some quality time with, maybe she was starting to make a fuss, and that was it. Bilton had people to handle this for him, and they did."

"So that makes him less responsible?"

His shock had hardened into anger. "Hardly. But, Nick, think about who was working on this for him."

"Charlie Jackman."

"And who did Charlie bring this information to?"

I was silent.

"That's right. Frank knew about Jane Everett and the pregnancy, and he didn't come to me. He didn't go to the authorities. He didn't go to the press. And you know damn well why that is." He let the remark hang for a moment. "The more you poke at this, the more it all falls into place. You sure you want that?"

"I want to know the whole story."

"We never get the whole story."

"Maybe not. But there's something you can help with."

"Of course. Anything."

"Tris said she overheard the hired guns saying that there'd been a leak in the Service. But that doesn't really make sense. This whole thing originated with Charlie and the California State Police. Frank caught wind of it, sure, but saying there was a leak in the Secret Service implies it turned into a Service operation."

Caruthers blinked twice, rapidly. I watched him, watched him closely. The mighty brow furrowed. "Clearly, the Service was involved more than we'd like to think." Caruthers took a deep breath. Pinched his eyes closed. The twisting wrinkles made his lids look like little pinwheels. He sighed. "Goddamn it." Then he looked up. "Nick…" A quick glance to the door. "I have to tell you something you're not going to want to hear."

"There seems to be a lot of that going around."

His face softened with sympathy. "I've had my people digging into this. This morning they found one of the men who held Jane Everett. With the stuff you told me, the picture pretty much resolves. Don't think I like this."

"Because of Frank?"

"Frank's dead, son. I was hoping to shield you. Your stepfather was one of a handful of decent men I've known in a lifetime. I wanted to see if there was some way through this where you didn't have to lose that."

I stared at him blankly.

"I've seen it before and I've seen it since. Someone gets the right opportunity-"

I said, "No."

"— or the right leverage-"

"Not Frank."

He said, "Jane Everett was becoming a problem for Bilton. He put Charlie on her to try to control her, keep her off the radar. But Charlie realized there was a payday in it. It looks like he enlisted Frank to see if I'd be interested in buying an ultrasound and a paternity test that nailed Bilton. But they decided Bilton would pay more to keep it covered up. Frank pulled in more Service men to make that happen. That's as far as we got before you walked in that door."

"So what do you think happened from there?"

"From what you've just told me, I think Frank saw where it was headed and couldn't go through with it. He was the leak in the Service the thugs were talking about. Charlie was in a panic, but he was smart. He put the documents somewhere that they'd go wide if anything ever happened to him. And he disappeared to let Bilton's soldiers and the agents clean up what they needed to on their respective ends of the deal. That cleanup started with Frank and ended with Jane and Grace."

My face felt numb. I did my best to keep drawing him out. "Frank would never have gone along with blackmail, not even for a minute, not even against a politician he despised. And he sure as hell would never have used the Service for an extortion scheme."

Caruthers leaned forward, grasped my forearm. "I know that's what you have to believe." He stood, agitated, paced a tight circle around his chair, the light coming through the copper-tinged blond hair that, along with his pronounced nose, had landed him the call sign Firebird. "I was going to say I can't imagine how painful this is for you, son. But I can-it's painful as hell for me." He shook his head, sat down again. After a pause he reached once again for my forearm. "It's the only answer that makes sense."

The shock cleared slowly, by degrees, like a lifting fog, revealing my stone-cold distrust. Caruthers was so close I caught a waft of Nicorette when he breathed. A bead of sweat clung to his hairline. I pulled my arm free.

Caruthers said, "We're talking about murder, now, Nick. Two murders-hell, five. This is no longer about politics and spin. It's about decency. Even if he wasn't involved in the particulars, this happened on Bilton's watch. We can't let a man like that sit in the Oval Office."

"No," I said. "We can't."

"You've got my word I will make Andrew Bilton pay for what he's done." He caught James's eye through the glass, gestured him inside. The agent came instantly. Caruthers told him, "I had to disclose to Nick details from this morning's interview."

James hesitated a moment, then said, "That should have remained classified, Senator."

"It was his stepfather. He deserves to know. He's been a part of this as much as anyone else. And he has some information that we need to get into the right hands."

James nodded. "Anything he gives us I'll guard as closely as matters of national security. Even from the Service."

Caruthers said, "Thank you, Agent Brown."

My attention skipped, a rock on the surface of my memory-James, Agent Brown, James Brown,

Godfather of Soul-and landed on the line Kim Kendall had overheard when she'd called Mr. Pager: Godfather's with Firebird, all's clear

My head roared, but my face could show nothing. I'd stumbled into the lion's den. Now could I get out alive? A clumsy excuse and a rushed exit would tip my hand. Should I make a break for it? That athletic aide was conveniently out front, guarding the exit. The sliding door was less than five strides away, but the tall fence penning in the patio would take too long to get over with Brown on my heels.

Agitated, I picked at a thumbnail, stopped when I saw Caruthers taking note. If I sat here much longer, they'd read me.

I said, "I think I have to throw up."

I rose. James Brown did not step back to allow me more room. A drop of sweat held to the edge of his sideburn, though his face was as impassive as I hoped mine remained.

Walking down the hall, I could hear a semi barreling by on the freeway, blaring someone out of its lane. Behind me Caruthers and Brown conferred in hushed, urgent voices. I stepped into the bathroom, locked the door, and took a few deep breaths. A tiny window, just big enough for me to fit through. With painstaking slowness I slid it open, wincing at the sound. Stepping up onto the toilet, I squirmed out.

I backed to the stucco wall, trying to stay calm, and got my bearings. I was on the east side of the building-a few feet of concrete and then the fence. Alan was in the bedroom, James back with Caruthers, and the political aide was just out of view around the corner-I could hear him pacing and talking on his cell phone. Three steps to the fence. I scaled it as silently as possible, making sure my shoes didn't knock against the wood, and dropped to as quiet a landing as I could manage. Then I sprinted to the car.

I took off swiftly and drove as fast as I dared. If I got pulled over, I'd find myself back in the system, and right now that wasn't a safe place to be. My eyes flicking continually to the rearview mirror, I turned onto the freeway.

I didn't have a phone number or I might have called ahead, but part of me needed to hear it in person.

I had forty minutes to clear my head.

Still, pulling over in front of the house, I took a moment, closed my eyes. I pictured Frank the first time I ever met him, in our kitchen, too big for the little chair. Hand on my mom's knee. That stupid Garfield clock with its clicking eyes and tail. English Leather and Maxwell House. There will always be a place for your father in this house.

I climbed out, my steps heavy up the walk.

No.

I rang the bell.

Not Frank.

A moment later the door creaked back and Lydia Flores peered out at me. Her face lightened-a break from the crossword puzzles and the cheesy soaps and the porcelain cats and the dead family history depicted in photos on the unused piano and the too-high fence penning it all in, the final insult to a lifetime of injuries.

"Nick," she said. "Hello." She pushed the screen aside, and her expression shifted when she saw my face. "More questions for your article?"

I blurted, "Whose campaign?"

"I beg your pardon?"

My words were a jumble. I couldn't figure out how to convey what needed to be conveyed, or what was riding on it. "The campaign- Did Jane work…? Who was she working for?"

Lydia shook her head, concerned by me and also taken aback. "Jasper Caruthers, of course."