James Grippando - Born to Run

She said, “Sounds like you won’t be flying back to Miami with me tomorrow.”

Jack swirled his cognac in the glass. “I should at least see what this is all about.”

“You’re going to end up moving to Washington. I can see it.”

“No way. I love Miami.”

“Is that the reason you won’t leave? You love Miami ?”

“You know it’s more than that.”

“Jack, we need to talk.”

He gulped. Those seemingly innocuous words killed with quiet efficiency-the death by lethal injection of relationships.

Best defense is a good offense.

“Suppose I do move up here after my father becomes vice president. What would you do?”

“You mean, would I move up here with you?”

“Yeah. Maybe not now, but say it’s six months from now and things are still going strong between us.”

“Let’s not do this.”

“Just hypothetically,” said Jack.

“I don’t like hypotheticals.”

“Then have another drink.”

“Jack, stop. Have you given a moment’s thought as to how hard this is for me?”

“How hard what is?”

“The whole son-of-the-vice-president Washington scene. Tonight alone, I must have gotten fifty phone calls from people telling me that you were all over the national news.”

“Today was a bizarre day.”

“It’s going to be one bizarre day after another.”

“Until the confirmation hearings are over.”

Her reaction was one of complete incredulity. “Do you really think that’s the way it works? Your father becomes vice president, and your life goes back to the way it was?”

“Absolutely. My father was governor, remember? That didn’t stop me from living my life the way I wanted to.”

“Tallahassee is not Washington. And what about me?”

“How do you mean?”

“I’ve worked really hard to build my career. How do you think my colleagues at the bureau are going to treat me knowing that I’m dating the vice president’s son? What kind of assignments will I get? Who would even want to work with me when, in their minds, I could pick up the phone and get everyone from the cleaning lady to the director of the FBI fired if I wanted to?”

Jack paused. It embarrassed him to realize that he hadn’t seen her side of things. “We’ll work through it. We love each other, right?”

“It’s not a question of how much we care for each other.”

Another gulp. Bad sign when “love” turned into “care.”

Jack said, “Do you honestly think any of this is going to change us?”

“Don’t you?”

“No.”

“That’s what really scares me, Jack. You don’t even see it coming.”

He tried to catch her eye, but she wouldn’t look at him directly. His brain was working overtime, searching for the magic words. They didn’t seem to exist.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to get into all this tonight.”

“No, I think it’s a good thing.”

She rose and grabbed her coat. “I’m going to bed.”

“Right behind you,” he said, rising.

His BlackBerry chimed, signaling a “new” voice mail message that was actually four hours old. Jack was getting crappy wireless service in Washington. Jack listened as he and Andie walked toward the elevators.

“This call is for Jack Swyteck. Paulette Sparks from CNN International.”

She paused for more than just a moment. Jack might have hung up on another reporter, but he would have recognized Paulette as an important Washington player and a television personality even before his father’s nomination.

“I’d like to meet with you,” she said. “Tonight, if possible. Or first thing tomorrow. There’s something I need to discuss with you. It’s important.”

There was another pause, and Jack sensed that it wasn’t just for effect. The silence between thoughts and halting cadence were very unlike her confident on-air delivery. It only intrigued Jack further.

“This is not another reporter hounding you and your father for the Washington scoop. In fact, this will be totally off the record.”

One more pause.

“It’s…personal, you might say. Call me. Please.”

The message ended, and Jack tucked away his phone, thinking.

“Who was that?” said Andie.

“A reporter.”

“As Ronald Reagan once said, ‘There you go again.’”

“No, this sounded different. She says it’s personal.”

“Funny,” said Andie, as the elevator door opened.

“What?” said Jack.

Andie stepped inside. “I didn’t think anything in Washington was personal.”

At 6:00 A.M. Jack walked Andie down to the cab stand in front of the hotel.

“Now remember, Jack. When you go up Capitol Hill without your Jill, don’t fall down and break your crown.”

“Very funny,” he said, then kissed her good-bye. She had an early flight and, as she’d predicted, Jack wasn’t going back with her.

Jack hadn’t slept well last night. He wasn’t really worried about that team of Washington lawyers. He’d dealt with those types before.

The call from Paulette Sparks was on his mind.

Jack walked back upstairs, showered, and dressed. He figured 7:00 A.M. was a civilized hour to return Paulette’s call, given the urgency she had seemed to attach to their meeting.

“Thanks for calling,” she said. “Can you meet me at the Pennsylvania Avenue Caribou Coffee at seven-thirty?”

His meeting with the lawyers wasn’t until nine-thirty. “What’s this about?”

“Can’t discuss it on the phone. We have to meet.”

She made it sound as though they really did have to meet.

“Sure, I’ll see you there,” he said.

Jack did his best to be on time, but he had so much on his mind that he walked right past the coffee shop without even realizing it. Paulette was on her second cup by the time he doubled back and apologized for being late, but she thanked him just for showing up. Either she was the nicest journalist he’d ever met, or she really wanted something from him.

“I enjoy your coverage of the White House,” he said.

“Thank you. Let’s hope that doesn’t change.”

She was smiling when she said it, showing Jack a warmth that seemed more genuine than her television personality. She was prettier in real life, too. Less makeup.

“I saw the e-mail you got on Sunday,” said Paulette.

“Really? That hasn’t been made public.”

“I’m a Washington reporter. I see lots of things that haven’t been made public.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss it with you.”

“That’s fine. I’ve already promised the FBI that I wouldn’t go on the air with it.”

“A journalist with self-restraint is a good thing,” said Jack, “at least until the FBI has a better handle on the threat against the president.”

“Nor do I want to jeopardize the investigation into my sister’s murder.”

Jack paused. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. When did that happen?”

“Saturday night. She was shot at a bus stop here in the district a few hours before you got your e-mail.”

“Are you saying there’s a connection?”

She took her iPhone from her purse, pulled up an image on the screen, and slid the phone across the table to him. “You tell me.”

“What is this?”

“It’s a picture I took of Chloe’s e-mail inbox on Sunday morning, right before the FBI came to her apartment with a warrant and took away her computer. Look at the subject line for the message third from the bottom.”

Jack didn’t have his e-mail memorized, but Chloe’s message- “I can bring down Keyes. No Bullshit. Meet me at…” -was so similar to his message- “I can make your father president. No bullshit. Meet me” -that it triggered perfect recollection.