James Grippando - Born to Run

Daylight was short in December, and it felt much later than 7:30 P.M. as the limo carried Jack and his father back across town. The driver dropped Harry first for dinner with Agnes at a Moroccan restaurant. Jack was dead tired, but if he returned to the hotel and hit the sack now, his eyes would probably pop open at 3:00 A.M., and he’d be left staring at the ceiling until sunrise.

“Could you take me toward Massachusetts Avenue?” he told the driver.

“Sure. Whereabout?”

Jack removed a business card from his wallet. “Number One Observatory Circle.”

“The vice presidential mansion?”

“Yes.”

“Right away, sir.”

Jack knew from the news coverage that the late vice president’s widow was in town packing up the Grayson family possessions. Jack had not spoken to Marilyn Grayson since the post-burial gathering at her home in Georgia. He’d kept her business card, however, and in light of the past several days’ events, her unsettling words to him about the circumstances of her husband’s death seemed almost prophetic: “With the direction your father is headed, you might have some questions too. If you do, call me.”

He dialed from the backseat of the limo, the tinted windows turning even blacker as they sped away from the lights of downtown, through the nighttime in Dumbarton Oaks Park. The call went to her cell, and when she answered, he introduced himself as “Harry Swyteck’s son Jack.”

“How nice to hear from you again, Harry Swyteck’s son Jack.”

Perhaps he was reading too much into her joke, but it felt like a friendly warning never to fall into the trap of giving up your own identity in this town-a reminder that he was Jack Swyteck first, not someone’s son.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve been thinking about the conversation we had at your home, and I have-”

“Questions?” she said. “So soon?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“When would you like to talk?”

“I’m actually in your neighborhood right now, if that’s not too short notice.”

“I’d be pleased to have the company. I’ll tell the Secret Service to let you in.”

Built originally for the superintendent of the naval observatory, the Vice Presidential Mansion had all the hallmarks of late-nineteenth-century Queen Anne architecture, from its signature round turret to the broad veranda wrapping the ground floor. Jack was cleared at the gate, and the limo took him up the long driveway to the entrance. Marilyn Grayson greeted him at the door, and Jack stepped into a foyer that was large enough for a piano and its own fireplace. It was filled with corrugated boxes.

“Excuse the mess,” said Mrs. Grayson. “We’ve been packing all day.”

She led him directly across the foyer to the first-floor library. A portrait of the first vice president stared down from over the fireplace. Jack thought that Mr. Adams looked to be on the verge of sneezing. The bookcase and end tables were already devoid of family photos and other personal touches, and not a Christmas decoration was in sight.

She was as gracious as Jack had found her in Georgia, and even though the mourning period was not yet over, she looked more rested and relaxed than on their first visit. She asked about Harry, and Jack kept up his end of the pleasantries by asking about her daughter, who at that moment entered the room, as if on cue, still quite striking even in blue jeans, a sweatshirt, and no makeup.

“You remember Elizabeth?” said Mrs. Grayson.

“We met briefly,” said Jack.

Elizabeth wiped her palms in her sweatshirt and then shook Jack’s hand. “Excuse the way I look,” she said. “We’re in a packing mode.”

“Totally understand,” said Jack. “Moving is never pleasant, and I’m very sorry for the circumstances of yours.”

“Yeah, it pretty much sucks.”

“Elizabeth ,” her mother said.

“Mother, please. That word no longer has the sexual connotation that your generation thinks it does. Right, Jack?”

Jack fumbled for a response. “I think I’m kind of the transition generation on that one.”

“Cute,” Elizabeth said, smiling. “How long are you in town?”

“As long as it takes to get my father through the confirmation process.”

“I’ll be here helping Mother another week or so. We should have lunch. I can fill you in on all the secrets.”

“Secrets?”

“The kitchen and the dining room are on separate floors. The ghost dresses in buckskin, but he’s been spotted only by the Mondale children. That kind of thing.”

“I’m sure Jack is quite busy,” said Mrs. Grayson.

“He looks old enough to decide for himself.”

“Indeed. Which is precisely-” Mrs. Grayson stopped herself this time, as if to steer away from a sore subject.

“Mother thinks I’m asking you on a date, which scares her. My ex-fiance was in his forties. She didn’t approve.”

“Forties?” said Jack. “Heavens to Murgatroyd.”

“So, lunch?” said Elizabeth.

Jack didn’t even want to test Theo’s theory that this Georgia beauty had thus far in life dated only Generation Y porn addicts and desperately needed her own personal Clark Gable. And then, of course, there was Andie.

“I think-”

“If you say no, I’m going to short sheet the beds before your father moves in.”

“Well, if you put it that way.”

“Good. I’ll call you,” she said.

She smiled and left Jack and Mrs. Grayson in private. The former Second Lady settled into the armchair, and Jack took the chair opposite her.

“That Elizabeth,” said Mrs. Grayson with a shake of her head, “she certainly has her father’s spirit.”

“That’s a good thing, I’m sure,” said Jack.

The widow didn’t answer.

“How can I help you, Jack?”

He wasn’t sure where to begin. “It’s been a strange week.”

“I’ve been following it all in the news,” she said.

The news. If that was her only source, she knew nothing about Sunday’s e-mail from the man who claimed to be able to make Harry Swyteck president. That wasn’t Jack’s focus anyway. “When you say you’ve been ‘following it all,’ does that include the death of Chloe Sparks?”

“Who?” she said.

“You’ve never heard of her?”

She shrugged. “Should I know her?”

“Last year she was a White House intern assigned to the vice president. She was fired for-”

“Ah, yes. The druggy.”

“She was murdered Saturday night.”

Mrs. Grayson paused to absorb the news. “I hadn’t heard about that.”

“From what I’ve gathered on the Internet, it was much bigger news in her hometown of Chicago than it was here. What little media attention it got in Washington was couched in terms of Chloe being the younger stepsister of White House reporter Paulette Sparks.”

“How awful for Paulette. I’ve always thought she was such a class act. And her sister-well, what a terrible downward spiral for a young person with so much promise.”

“She was a reporter for the Inquiring Star when she was shot.”

Her arms folded in a defensive posture. No one among Washington’s elite escaped the Inquiring Star. “Now that you mention it, I think I had heard that somewhere.”

“Chloe was having discussions with an anonymous source who claimed to have information that could bring down President Keyes.”

“Now that sounds like something I would have heard on the news.”

“It’s not public information. I heard it from Paulette Sparks. She also told me that Chloe was trying to communicate with the vice president-trying so hard that the FBI contacted Paulette about possible stalking issues. Do you know anything about that?”