Brad Meltzer - The First Councel

“There are no facts! Whoever did this, it’s like they’ve created a whole new reality.”

“See, there’s the mistake. However you want to delude yourself, there’re still a few eternal truths left in the universe: New shoes hurt. Khakis are evil. Bad things happen at air shows. And most important, if you’re not careful, protecting Nora is going to blow up in your f-”

“You two doing okay?” a male voice interrupts behind us.

We both spin around.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Simon adds. “Just wanted to say hello.”

“Hi,” I blurt.

“Hey,” Trey says.

Wondering how long he’s been there, both of us start the dissection. If he knows what we’re up to, we’ll see it in his body language.

“So who were you calling?” he asks as he slides a hand in his left pants pocket.

“Just paging Pam,” I reply. “She was supposed to meet us for lunch.”

Simon glances at Trey, then back at me. “And how’d your meeting go with Adenauer?”

How’d he know about-

“If you want, we can talk about it later,” he adds with just enough force to remind me of our deal. Simon still wants to keep this quiet-even if he has to make me look like a killer to do it. Stepping off the sidewalk, he toasts us with a cup of recently bought coffee. “Just let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

I wake up Friday morning feeling like I’ve been smacked in the back of the head with a skillet. Seven days after Caroline’s death, my anxieties are raging and my eyes feel swollen shut. The week of restless sleep is finally taking its toll. Frankenstein-shuffling to the front door, I open my eyes just long enough to pick up my newspapers. It’s a couple minutes past six and I still haven’t called Trey. It’s not going to be long now.

I take two steps toward the kitchen table and the phone rings. Never fails. I pick up without saying hello.

“Who’s your momma?” he croons.

I answer with an impossibly long yawn.

“You haven’t even showered, have you?” he asks.

“I haven’t even scratched myself yet.”

Trey pauses. “I don’t need to hear that. Understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, yeah, just tell me the news.” I pull the Post from the top of the pile and lay it flat on the table. My eyes go straight to the small headline at the bottom right of the page: “Sperm May Be Real, but Government Says Benefits Aren’t.”

“What’s with the sperm, Trey?”

Again, there’s a pause. “You better hope no one’s taping these calls.”

“Just tell me the story. Is this that lady who was artificially inseminated by her dead husband’s frozen sperm?”

“The one and only. She keeps it on ice, has herself a kid after the husband dies, and then applies for the dead husband’s Social Security benefits. Yesterday, HHS denied the request since the baby was conceived after the parent’s death.”

“So let me guess: Now they want the White House to reevaluate the agency’s decision?”

“Give the dog a bone,” he sings. “And believe me, this one’s a dog if ever there was one. Now it’s just a question of who’s going to get stuck with it.”

“Ten bucks says we will.” Flipping through the rest of the paper, I add, “Anything else interesting?”

“Depends on whether you think losing a bet is interesting.”

“What?”

“Jack Tandy’s media column in the Times . In an interview with Vanity Fair that hits the stands next week, Bartlett says-and I quote-‘If you can’t take care of the First Family, how can you possibly put family first?’”

I wince at the verbal stab. “Think it’s going to stick?”

“Are you kidding? A quote like that-I hate to say it, Michael, but that’s a winner talking. I mean, you can feel the shift. Unless the country throws a hissy fit, it’ll be in the stump speech by the next news cycle. Voters don’t like bad parents. And thanks to your girlfriend, Bartlett just got a brand-new applause line.”

Instinctively, I reach for the Times . But when I unfold it on the table, the first thing I notice is the front photo: a nice shot of Hartson and the First Lady talking to a group of religious leaders in the Rose Garden. But in the back right corner of the picture, lurking in the last row of the crowd, is the one person without a smile: Agent Adenauer.

I break out in an instant sweat. What the hell is he doing there?

“Michael, you with me?” Trey yells.

“Yeah,” I say, turning back to the receiver. “I… yeah.”

“What’s wrong? You sound like death.”

“Nothing,” I reply. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Within forty-five minutes, I’m showered, shaved, and two newspapers into the day. But as I leave my apartment, I still can’t stop thinking about the photo of Adenauer. There’s not a single good reason for an FBI investigator to be that close to Hartson, and the stressing alone has made me a solid fifteen minutes late to work. I don’t have time for this, I decide. No more distractions. Heading toward the Metro, I see a homeless man carrying a squeegee. The moment we make eye contact, I realize I’m about to take another kick in the wish list.

“Morning, morning, morning,” he says as he holds up his squeegee. He’s sporting army green camo pants and the rattiest black beard I’ve ever seen. Hanging from his pocket is an old Windex spray bottle filled with milky gray water. As he gets closer, I see he’s also wearing a worn-out Harvard Law School sweatshirt. Only in D.C. “Where’s your Porsche? Where’s your Porsche? Where’s your Porsche?” he sings, falling in step next to me.

I’ve seen this guy before. I think it was in Dupont Circle. “Sorry, but I’m not driving,” I tell him. “Just me and the Metro.”

“No, no, no. Not you, not you. Fancy shoes always take the car.”

“Not today. I’m really… ”

“Where’s your Porsche? Wh… ”

“I told you… ”

“… ere’s your Porsche? Where’s your Porsche?”

Obviously, he’s not listening. For more than a block and a half, he’s at my side, running his squeegee back and forth along my imaginary windshield. To get him off my back, I reach into my pocket and pull out a dollar bill.

“Ahhh, there he is,” Squeegee Man says. “Mr. Porsche.”

I hand him the dollar and he finally lowers his squeegee.

“Your change, sir,” he says pulling something from his pocket. “Vaughn says you have to talk,” he whispers. “Let’s try the Holocaust Museum. One o’clock on Monday. And don’t bring the black guy from the pay phone.”

“Excuse me?”

He smiles and stuffs something in my hand. A folded-up sheet of paper.

“What’s this?”

I’m not getting an answer. He’s already moved on. Behind me, I see him approach a balding man in a pin-striped suit. “Where’s your Porsche?” he asks him, raising the squeegee.

I turn back to the paper and open it up. It’s blank. Just a moment’s distraction.

Over my shoulder, I look for the Squeegee Man. It’s too late. He’s gone.

Throwing my briefcase on my desk, I check the digital screen on my office phone. Four new messages waiting. I hit the Call Log button to see who they’re from, but every one of them is an outside call. Whoever it is, they’re desperate to get in touch. My phone rings, and I jump back, startled. Caller ID reads Outside Call .

I lunge for the receiver as quick as I can. “Hello?”

“Michael?” a soft female voice whispers.

“Nora? Is that-”

“Did you see Bartlett’s quote?” she interrupts.

I don’t answer.

“You saw it, didn’t you?” she repeats. Her voice is shaky, and I know that tone. I heard it that day in the bowling alley. She’s worried about her dad. “What’d Trey say about it?” she asks.