Brad Meltzer - The Inner Circle

“And that’s all you found?” Tot challenges.

“Was there something else to find?”

“Tell me this first: Why were you testing me?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“What you just did-you were testing me, Beecher. You came to pick me up, you knew you had done the same research, yet you stayed quiet to see what I offered up.” If Tot were my age, this is the part where he’d say I didn’t trust him and turn it into a fight. But he’s got far more perspective than that. “So what’s my grade?” he asks. “When I said the word eight-ball , does that mean I passed?”

“Tot, if you know something else…”

“Of course I know something else-and I also know I’m the one who told you not to trust anyone, including me. So I don’t blame you. But if you’re gonna insult me, try to be more subtle next time.”

“Just tell me what you found!”

He ignores the outburst, making sure I get his real point: No matter how good I think I am, he’s still the teacher. And still on my side.

“It’s about the eight-ball tattoo, isn’t it?” I ask. “I was going to look it up…”

“There’s nothing else to look up-not unless you also happen to have an old colleague who still works in the Cleveland Police Department.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will,” Tot says. “Especially when you hear who, twenty-six years ago, also happened to be in the original police report.”

The barber knew the hotel well. But as he followed the curving staircase from the Capital Hilton lobby up to the second floor, it didn’t stop the sense of dread that was now twisting into the small of his back.

“Sir, can I help you?” a passing hotel employee with close-cropped red hair asked just as Laurent hit the final step.

Laurent was nervous, but he wasn’t a fool. He knew that when the President was in the building, the Secret Service disguised their agents in hotel uniforms.

“I’m fine, thanks,” the barber said.

“And you know where you’re going?” the hotel employee asked.

No question. Secret Service.

“I do,” the barber said, trying hard to keep it together as he headed left and calmly turned the corner toward his destination: the far too appropriately named Presidential Ballroom.

“Good morning!” an older blonde with a homedone tint job sang out. “Welcome to the Caregivers’ Conference. What can I do for you?”

“I should be on the list,” Laurent said, abruptly pointing to the few unclaimed nametags-including the one he’d been using for so many months now. “Last name Gyrich. ”

“Mmm, let’s find you,” the woman said, scanning the names one by one, but also stealing a quick glance at his face.

Laurent felt the dread digging deeper into his back. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. When Orson (he’d known the President since Wallace was little-he couldn’t call him anything but Orson) first showed up all those years ago… in that rain… Laurent was just trying to do what was right. And when they first started in D.C.… when he first agreed to help with the Plumbers, it wasn’t much different: to do what’s right… to serve his friend… to serve his country.

“Here we go! We have you right here, Mr. Gyrich,” the woman said, handing the barber the nametag. “You’re the one they called about… the guest of the White House. You should go in-he’s just started. Oh, and if you like, we have a coat check.”

“That’s okay,” he said, sliding the nametag into the pocket of his pea coat. “I’m not staying very long.”

“This way, sir,” a uniformed Secret Service agent said, motioning him through the metal detector that was set up just outside the main doors of the ballroom. From inside, he heard the familiar yet muffled baritone of President Orson Wallace booming through the ballroom’s speakers. From what he could tell, Orson was keeping this one personal, telling the crowd about the night of Minnie’s stroke and that moment in the ambulance when the paramedics asked her where she went to school, and the twelfth-grade Minnie could only name her elementary school.

In many ways, Laurent realized, it was the same problem at the Archives. The way they were rushing around-to even let it get this far-Orson was letting it get too personal.

“Enjoy the breakfast, sir,” the Secret Service agent said as he pulled open the ballroom door. Underneath the brightly lit chandelier that was as long as a city bus, every neck was craned upward, all six hundred people watching the rosy-cheeked man who looked so comfortable up at the podium with the presidential seal on the front of it.

As always, the President glanced around the crowd, making eye contact with everyone. That is, until Laurent stepped into the room.

“… which is no different from the personal myths we tell ourselves every day,” the President said, his pale gray eyes turning toward the barber in the back of the bright room. “The myths we create about ourselves are solely there so our brains can survive.”

Across the red, gold, and blue carpet, the barber stood there a moment. He stood there waiting for the President. And when the two men finally locked eyes, when Laurent nodded just slightly and Orson nodded right back, the barber knew that the President had seen him.

That was it. Message sent.

Pivoting on his heel, the barber headed back out toward the welcome desk. The President cocked his head, flashing a smile and locking on yet another stranger in the crowd.

For the first time since this started, the Plumbers finally had something going their way.

"So you’ve never heard of this guy Griffin?” Tot asks, stealing a glance at me as the Mustang zips through Rock Creek Park and we make our way to Constitution Avenue.

“Why would I’ve heard of him?”

“And there’s no one you know who has an eight-ball tattoo?”

“Is this you testing me now?” I ask.

“Beecher, I’m seventy-one years old.”

“You’re actually seventy-two.”

He thinks on this a moment. “I’m seventy-two years old. I have plenty of patience. I just don’t like having my time wasted-and right now, since you’re treating me like the enemy, you seem to be wasting it,” he explains without any bitterness.

“I know you’re not the enemy, Tot.”

“Actually, you know nothing about me. For all you know, this is just another attempt to reel you in and grab you with the net. Do what you’re doing, Beecher-keep asking the tough questions. And as for the toughest one so far: Every neighborhood in the country has a guy like Griffin.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning according to the police report, Griffin’s first arrest came when he was in high school-selling fake marijuana to a bunch of ninth graders. Then he got smart and started selling the real thing. His dad was a pharmacist, so he quickly graduated to selling pills. During one arrest-and remember, this is still in high school-Griffin spit in a cop’s face, at which point he became the kid that even the tough high school kids knew you didn’t mess with.”

I see where he’s going. “So when Griffin was kidnapped-”

“Not kidnapped ,” Tot corrects, approaching the end of Rock Creek Park. “They never use the word kidnapped . Or abducted . In the report, they don’t even call it a crime scene . But you’re painting the picture: When this guy Griffin finally disappeared, neighbors weren’t exactly tripping over themselves to form a search party.”

“It’s still a missing kid.”

“You sure? Griffin was twenty years old, no longer a minor. He got in a car-voluntarily-with two guys from his gang. And then he drives off into the sunset,” Tot says as we make a left on Constitution Avenue and momentum presses me against the passenger door. “A crime? Where do you see a crime?”