Brad Meltzer - The First Councel

“Are you okay?” he asks, reading my expression.

It doesn’t make any sense. “I didn’t do it-I never killed anyone. V–Vaughn… and Trey… even Nora said… ”

“You told Nora about this?”

Behind us, up the street, a bright light cuts through the darkness. A car just turned onto the block. No, not a car. A van. As it gets closer, I notice the broadcasting antenna attached to its roof. Oh, shit. That’s no mom-mobile. That’s a news van. Time’s up.

I throw open the door, but Simon grabs me by the arm. “Does Nora know? Did she tell Hartson?”

“Let go!”

“Don’t do this now, Michael! Please! Not while my kids are in the house!”

“I’m not telling anyone. I just want to get out of here!” Jerking my arm free, I scramble out of the car. The news van is almost in front of the house.

“Ask Adenauer! I didn’t do anything wrong!” Simon shouts. I’m about to take off, but… it’s hard to describe… there’s pain in his voice. With seconds to spare, I turn back for one last question. Until now, it’s the only one I’ve been afraid to ask. “Tell me the truth, Edgar. Have you ever slept with Nora?”

“What?”

That’s all I need to hear.

The door to the news van slides open and two people hop out. It’s hard not to miss the interior glow of Simon’s car. “Up there!” a reporter shouts as the cameraman turns on his light.

“Start the car and get out of here,” I tell him. “And tell Adenauer I’m innocent.”

“What about-”

I slam the car door and dart for the wooden fence in the backyard. Like a spotlight in a prison break, a blast of artificial light floods through the back window of Simon’s car and lights the right side of his face. By the time they pan across the rest of the backyard, I’m gone.

“Operator 27,” a male voice says, answering the phone.

“I just got paged,” I say to the Signal operator. “Can you please connect me to Room 160½.”

“I need a name, sir.”

“It’s not assigned to anyone. It’s an intern room.”

He puts me on hold to verify the rest. Typical White House operator. No time for-

“I’m connecting you now,” he announces.

As the phone rings, I huddle close to the gas station’s pay phone and thank God for 800 numbers. Looking down, I notice that the leather on my shoes is beginning to rip. Too many fences. Story of my life. When the phone rings for the third time, I start getting nervous. They should’ve picked up by now-unless no one’s there. I take a quick glance at my watch. It’s past nine o’clock. Someone’s got to need copies. It’s the-

“White House,” a young man’s voice answers.

I can hear it in the seriousness of his tone. Intern. Perfect.

“Who am I speaking with?” I bark.

“A-Andrew Schottenstein.”

“Listen, Andrew, this is Reggie Dwight from the First Lady’s Office. Do you know where Room 144 is?”

“I think-”

“Good. I want you to run down there and ask for Trey Powell. Tell him you need to speak to him and bring him back here to me.”

“I don’t understand. Why-”

“Listen, man, I’ve got about three minutes before the First Lady issues her statement on this Garrick fiasco, and Mr. Powell’s the only one who has the new draft. So get your butt out of the copy room and get your heinie running down that hallway. Tell him it’s Reggie Dwight, and tell him I need to speak to him.”

I hear the door slam as Andrew Schotten-something rushes out of his office. As an intern, he’s one of the few people who’ll actually fall for that one. More important, as chairman of the Elton John Fan Club, Washington Chapter, Trey is one of the few people who will recognize the singer’s real name.

I’m counting on both as I scrutinize each car that rolls into the gas station. “C’mon, already,” I mutter, grinding my shoe against the concrete. He’s taking too long. Something’s up. To my right, a dark gray sedan pulls into the station. Maybe the kid got suspicious and called it in. Watching the sedan, I slowly lower the phone back to its cradle. The door opens and a woman gets out. The smile on her face and the snug fit of her sundress tell me she’s not FBI. Raising the phone to my ear again, I hear a door slam.

“Hello?” I ask anxiously. “Anyone there?”

“I knew it,” Trey answers. “How’re you feeling?”

“Where’s the intern?” I ask.

“I sent him to Room 152-figured you’d want to talk alone.”

I nod at the response. There is no Room 152. He’ll be searching for at least half an hour.

“Now you want to tell me how you’re doing?” Trey asks. “Where’d you sleep last night? The airport?”

As always, he knows it all. “I probably shouldn’t say-in case they ask.”

“Just tell me if you’re okay.”

“I’m fine. How’re things there?”

He doesn’t answer, which means it’s worse than I thought.

“Trey, you can-”

“Did they really shut down your bank accounts? Because I went to the ATM this morning and took out everything I could get. It’s not a lot, but I can leave three hundred for you at-”

“I spoke to Simon,” I blurt.

“You did? When?”

“Early this morning. Surprised him as he got in his car.”

“What’d he say?”

It takes me ten minutes to relay our five-minute conversation.

“Wait a minute,” Trey eventually says. “ He thought you were the killer?”

“He had it all worked out in his head-all the way down to the fact that Caroline and I were blackmailing people together.”

“So why hasn’t he turned you in?”

“Hard to say. My guess is he was afraid of his own sexual activities coming out.”

“And you believe him?”

“You have any reason not to?”

“I can think of one. Starts with an N; ends with an A; her daddy’s President… ”

“I got it, Trey.”

“You sure about that? If he’s sleeping with Nora, he’ll say anything to make you-”

“He’s not sleeping with her.”

“Aw, c’mon, Michael-we’re right back where we started.”

“Trust me on this one. We’re not.”

He can hear the change in my voice. There’s a short pause on the other end. “You know who did it, don’t you?”

“It doesn’t mean anything without the proof.”

This time, Trey doesn’t pause. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

“You sure you’re up for it?” I ask. “Because it’s going to be a bitch and a half to pull off.”

Running down my fourth flight of stairs in the concrete stairwell, I’m starting to feel sick. I don’t like being this far underground. My head’s throbbing; my balance is out of whack. At first, I assumed it was the repetitious pattern of my downward descent. But the closer I get to the final sub-basement, the more I start thinking about what’s waiting for me at the bottom. I pass the door marked B-5 wondering if it’s going to work. It all depends on her.

The stairwell ends at a metal door with a bright orange B-6 painted on it. I pull it open and step into the lowest level of the underground parking garage. Surrounded by dozens of parked cars, I check to see if she’s already here. Judging by the silence, it appears I’m first.

A quick breath fills my lungs with chalky air, but as a meeting place, the garage fits the bill. Close by, yet out of sight.

A shriek of screeching tires slices through the silence. It’s coming from a few floors above but echoes all the way down. As the car tears around the ramp’s turns, the echo gets louder. Whoever it is, they’re coming my way-and driving like a maniac. Running for a hiding spot, I dash back into the stairwell and peer through the window in the door. A forest green Saab leaps toward an open parking spot and jerks to a sudden halt. When the door opens, a parking garage attendant gets out. Finally, I exhale, wiping my face on my jacket sleeve.