Brad Meltzer - The Inner Circle

I put in the word Archives . Nothing there either. Not even a little blurb in the Metro section. I know what it means. If they thought it was foul play-even if it was suspicious and the cops were looking into it-there’d be ink on this. But as I swallow a spoonful of raisin bran, it looks like there’s no current police investigation.

The worst part is, I don’t know if that’s good or bad.

Maybe it was just a heart attack, I tell myself, still hearing Khazei’s words. For all I know, the only bogeymen are the ones in my imagination.

There’s only one problem with the theory.

I look down at the vintage soft brown leather briefcase that’s leaning against the leg of the table. The briefcase used to belong to my dad. He died when he was twenty-six. He never had a chance to use it. Today, it holds my keys, my journal that I keep all my eBay sales in, and the beaten old dictionary that sticks out from the back pouch.

Forget the videotape and Khazei and everything else.

The book. It still comes back to George Washington’s book.

There’s a reason that book just happened to be in that room, which just happened to be used by the leader of the free world. And until I find out what it is-

There’s a quick double tap of a car horn, honking from outside.

“Coming!” I call out even though he can’t hear me.

Grabbing my briefcase and winter coat, I head for the door, speedwalking through the living room, which is decorated with a used art deco black leather sofa that sits right below three side-by-side framed photo postcards from the 1920s, each of them with a different view of an old firemen’s parade as it marched down the main street where I grew up in Wisconsin. The prints are the prize of my collection-and a daily reminder that if I mess it up here, that’s exactly where I’m going back to.

Outside, the car honks again.

“I got it!” I shout, reaching for the door. But as I give it a tug, I see it’s already open-just a bit-like I forgot to close it all the way last night. The thing is, I always close it all the way.

Standing in the doorway, I look back toward the living room, through to the kitchen. Both rooms are empty. Bits of dust turn silent cartwheels through the air. I recheck my briefcase. The George Washington book is still there. I tell myself I’m being paranoid. But as I leave, I pull hard to close the door-twice-and dart into the cold, which freezes my still damp hair.

Waiting for me idling in the street is a powder blue 1966 convertible Mustang that clears its throat and lets out the kind of hacking cough that comes with lung cancer. The car’s old, but in perfect shape. Just like the driver inside, whose head is bobbing to the country music.

“C’mon, old boy… y’know I hate this neighborhood!” Tot shouts even though the windows are closed. At seventy-two years old, he’s not rolling them down manually.

Racing for his car, I notice a thin man with a plaid green scarf walking his dog-a brown dachshund-on the opposite side of the street. I know most everyone on the block. Must be someone new. I can’t think about it now.

Tot is far more than just my ride. He’s the one who trained me on the job. And encouraged me to buy the house. And the only-truly only- one who doesn’t bust my chops about Iris, but will always listen when I talk about whatever new set of old postcards I uncovered at the flea market. He’s my friend. My real friend.

But he’s also an archivist-since the very last days of LBJ’s administration, which makes him the oldest, most senior, most resourceful researcher I’ve ever met. So as I hop in his car, open my briefcase, and hand him the tattered copy of George Washington’s dictionary, he’s also my best hope of figuring out whether this damn book could possibly be worth killing for.

There were faster ways for Dr. Stewart Palmiotti to get to work. As the President’s doctor, he had a prime parking spot on West Exec. Not a far one either. Up close. Closer even than the spot reserved for Minnie. And Minnie was the President’s sister.

From there, it was just a short walk through the West Wing. There was no need to take the long way around and walk past the Oval. But after that call last night… Palmiotti had been White House doctor for over three years. He’d been Wallace’s dearest friend for over three decades.

Palmiotti wasn’t some twentysomething novice. Rather than getting close, where he’d be spotted by the morning swirl of staffers and secretaries, he strolled casually past the Roosevelt Room, which had a clear view of the Oval Office’s front door. Even back when he was governor, Wallace was always at his desk by at least 7 a.m. Even the day after he buried his mom.

Palmiotti glanced at his watch: 7:27. He looked over at the Oval. There were no suit-and-tie agents standing guard outside the door. The President still wasn’t in.

No reason to panic just yet.

From there, Palmiotti picked up the pace and made his way back outside, eyeing his own breath as he rushed down the West Colonnade and past the Rose Garden, whose snow had been melted away by the gardening staff. With a sharp left through the French doors, he stepped onto the long red-and-gold-trimmed carpet of the Ground Floor Corridor.

“He’s still up there, huh?” he called out to Agent Mitchel, the uniformed Secret Service agent who was posted outside the private elevator on the left of the corridor.

Mitchel nodded, but the mere fact that the agent was there told Palmiotti that the President was still upstairs in the Family Residence.

“He’s gonna be in a mood, isn’t he?” Mitchel asked as Dr. Palmiotti headed to his own office, the White House Medical Unit, which sat directly across the hall from the elevator. Most staffers thought the Medical Unit was poor real estate, too far from the Oval. But as any doctor knew, the real action always happened at home.

“Depends,” Palmiotti lied, well aware that from the phone call last night that something must’ve happened. “We know where he is?”

For a moment, the agent stood there.

“C’mon, I’m just trying to figure out what kind of day we’re gonna have,” Palmiotti added.

He wasn’t stupid. After three years, he knew the Service protocol by now. To maintain some level of privacy, there were no agents or cameras allowed in the Residence. But to maintain some level of safety, the Service wired the floors of nearly every room up there. They did the same in the Oval: Weight-sensitive pressure pads under the carpets let them know exactly where President Wallace was at all times.

“Workout Room,” Mitchel finally said, referring to the small room on the third floor installed by President Clinton.

Palmiotti rolled his eyes. The only time Wallace worked out was when he had something that needed working out.

“This from what happened last night?” the agent asked.

“Sorry?”

“I saw the call log. President called you at three in the morning?”

“No, that was nothing,” Palmiotti said. “Same as always-just pulled his back again.”

“Yeah, always his back,” the agent said. “Though if that’s the case, you really think he should be working out right now?”

This time, Palmiotti was the one who stood there. The Secret Service wasn’t stupid either.

“Oh, by the by-Minnie’s been looking for you,” the agent added, referring to the President’s sister.

Nodding politely, Dr. Stewart Palmiotti glanced down at his watch: 7:36. A new Wallace record.

“This something we should worry about, Doc?” the agent asked.

“No,” Palmiotti replied, staring up at the red light above the elevator, waiting for it to light up… waiting for the President of the United States to come downstairs and tell him what the hell was going on. “I’m sure he’s just running late.”