Brad Meltzer - The Inner Circle

As Wallace knew, at any event, the first face he saw was always a super-VIP-someone with enough tug to wrangle the job of greeter. But in this case, as the door cracked open and revealed a heavyset woman in a navy blue dress, he knew this greeter was a familiar one.

“You’re late,” his sister Minnie barked.

“I’m always late. That’s how I make an entrance,” Wallace shot back, quickly remembering why he should’ve canceled this appearance.

Minnie flashed the largest half-smile that her stroke allowed, and then, like the nuns at their old school, rapped her flamingo-headed cane against her brother’s polished shoes. “C’mon, I got people waiting.”

With his big strides, it took no time for the President to make his way past the throngs of agents to the loading dock that led into the back entrance of the Capital Hilton. Barely a few steps down the sparse concrete hallway, Wallace heard the click-clack of Minnie’s cane as she fought to speed-limp behind him. It’d been a while since they walked together. He slowed down-but he knew his sister too well. Even without the limp, she was forever trying to keep up.

“They tell you to thank Thomas Griffiths?” Minnie asked her brother.

“He knows about Thomas,” the young aide called out, barely half a step behind them.

“What about Ross? You need to make a big deal. He’s the one I answer to. Ross the Boss.”

“He knows Ross too,” the aide challenged as the smell of fresh croissants wafted through the air. Passing through a set of swinging doors, they followed the agents to their usual shortcut. Presidents don’t arrive through front doors. They arrive through hotel kitchens.

“Just please… make him feel important,” Minnie begged.

“Minnie, take my word on this one,” the President said, nodding polite nods and waving polite waves to all the kitchen staff who stopped everything to turn and stare. “I know how to make people feel important.”

“This way, sir,” a short agent announced, pointing them to the left, through a final set of swinging doors. From the dark blue pipe-and-drape that created faux-curtains around the doorway, Wallace knew this was it. But instead of being in the main ballroom, he found himself in a smaller reception room filled with a rope line of at least two dozen people, all of them now clapping as he entered. Truth be told, he still loved the applause. What Wallace didn’t love were the two private photographers at the front of the reception line.

“A photo line?” the aide hissed at Minnie.

“These are our top scientists-you have no idea how much they’ve done for brain injuries,” Minnie pleaded.

“You said one photo … with just the executive director,” the aide told her.

“I didn’t agree to any photos,” the President growled. Palmiotti was right. When it came to Minnie, he was a sucker.

“Sir, I apologize,” the aide began.

With a cock of his head, the President flashed the aide a final look-the kind of angry, split-second daggers-in-the-eye that spouses share when they’re entering a party but still want to say that this won’t be forgotten later.

But as Wallace approached the crowd and waved the first guest into position, he couldn’t help but notice how quickly Minnie stepped aside, leaving him alone in the spotlight. He’d seen it before-Minnie never liked cameras. All her life, she’d been self-conscious about her masculine looks that she got from the Turner syndrome. He knew that’s why she didn’t like the campaign trail, and why she never took a yearbook photo. But right now, as her colleagues gathered around her, there was a brand-new half-smile on her face. A real smile.

“Minnie, thank you so much for doing this,” one of them said.

“-no idea what this means,” another gushed.

A flashbulb popped in front of Wallace, but as the next person headed his way, he couldn’t take his eyes off the… it was pride… real pride on his sister’s face. And not just pride from being related to a President-or even from being an instant bigshot. This was pride in her work-for what she had done for this organization that had helped her so much all these years.

“Sir, you remember Ross Levin,” the President’s aide said as he introduced a bookish but handsome man with rectangular glasses.

“Of course, Ross,” Wallace said, taking the cue and offering the full two-fisted handshake. “Can you give me one second, though, Ross? I want to get the real hero for these pictures. Hey, Minnie! ” the President of the United States called out. “I’m feeling a little stage fright here without my sis near me.”

There was a collective awww from Minnie’s colleagues. But none of it meant as much as the bent half-smile that swelled across Minnie’s face as her brother wrapped an arm around her shoulder and tugged her into the rest of the photos.

“On three, everyone say Minnie !” the President announced, hugging her even closer as the flashbulbs continued to explode.

Sure, Wallace knew he needed to get out of here. He knew he needed to deal with Beecher-just like they’d dealt with Eightball all those years ago. But after everything his sister had been through-from the teasing when she was younger, to the days right after the stroke, to the public hammering by Perez Hilton-would an extra ten minutes really matter?

No, they wouldn’t.

Last night was a mess. But today… Beecher wasn’t going anywhere.

"Y’hear what I said?” Tot asks, his cloudy eye seeming to watch me in the passenger seat as he waves the photocopied sheet between us. “February 16th. Don’t you wanna know?”

I nod, trying hard to stay focused on the traffic in front of us.

“Beecher, I’m talking to you.”

“And I hear you. Yes. I’d love to know.”

He turns his head even more. So he sees me with his good eye. I don’t know why I bother. He’s too good at this.

“You already know, don’t you?” Tot asks. “You know what happened on February 16th.”

I don’t answer him.

“Good for you, Beecher. What’d you do-look it up when you got home?”

“How could I not?” I spend every day doing other people’s historical research. All it took was a little extra footwork to do my own. “Khazei wants to pin the murder on me. This is my life on the line, Tot.”

“So you saw the story? About Eightball?”

I nod. Even without his training, it wasn’t hard to find. When it comes to figuring out what happened twenty-six years ago on February 16th, all you really need is a newspaper from the following day: February 17th.

Twenty-six years ago, President Orson Wallace was in his final year of college at the University of Michigan.

“You did the math, didn’t you?” Tot asks.

“That what? That February 16th was a Saturday ?”

This is when I’d usually see Tot’s smile creeping through his beard. Right now, though, it’s not there-even though I know Saturday was the breakthrough for him too. At this point, nearly every American has heard the story of how Wallace used to come home every weekend to check on his mom and his sick sister, who suffered from Turner syndrome. So if young Wallace was home in Ohio…

All I needed was the Cleveland News Index and their digital archives of the Cleveland Plain Dealer . I searched every keyword I could think of, including the names of family members. Not a single article on February 17th mentioned Wallace. But there was one-and only one-that did mention Wallace’s hometown of Journey, Ohio:

Local Man Goes Missing

From my inside jacket pocket, I pull out the printed-out story, which was buried in the back of the newspaper. Just like Orlando. According to the piece, a twenty-year-old man named Griffin Anderson had gone missing the previous night and was last seen voluntarily getting into a black Dodge Diplomat with two other twenty-year-olds. All three men had tattoos of a black eight-ball on the inside of their forearms-a sign that police said made them a part of a Cleveland gang known as the Corona Kings.