The First Lady - James Patterson Page 0,49
when a black woman ran out, and now she’s laughing, crying, and lifting her arms up to the darkening sky.
Marsha whispers, “What the hell is this?”
She slowly moves the binoculars back and forth, trying to gauge what just happened. There’s a sense of something being noticed, being released. The group over there had looked somber and tired, and Marsha sees that’s all changed. They’re relaxed, some laughing, others giving their buddies hugs and slaps on the back.
Okay then.
Two minutes ago, the First Lady’s body was being recovered. It was dark and quiet over there, a funeral procession, and now it’s different.
Smiles. Laughter. Happy people.
Grissom is now talking and gesturing with a Homeland Security guy, who’s giving it right back to her.
Conclusion?
The First Lady is still missing.
That’s not her body that was just brought in.
Damn.
She slips out her iPhone, slides the earpiece in, starts sliding the phone’s screen and working the numbers.
No answer.
Where the hell is Parker Hoyt?
The crowd over there is starting to disperse. Two Humvees have started up and left the scene.
“Well, this sucks,” she whispers.
What now?
What now is that something is going to change. Right now she’s been a bird dog, following tips and orders from Parker Hoyt. Okay, that’s the job. She’s a big girl and can do what it takes.
She sees Grissom and the Homeland Security guy still talking, looking animated, whatever. If Marsha had been on the other side of the river, she could key in on what’s being discussed, planned, where this so-called search would go next.
So Marsha knows what needs to be done, what she earlier had decided to do.
Time to slip away and get to Grissom’s home, surveil the crap out of it, leave a little listening souvenir behind, and maybe—if things go well—do the same to Grissom’s vehicle.
Still …
Let’s make one more try to get ahold of her boss.
Once more, her fingers work away on the iPhone.
Still no answer.
Where the hell is Parker Hoyt?
CHAPTER 39
ONCE I GET Tanya calmed the hell down, I say, “How do you know it’s not her?”
Tanya wipes away tears from her eyes, but she’s still smiling widely. “Her teeth! That poor woman … her face was beat up but you could see her teeth … and there’s a lot of bridgework back there! It’s not the First Lady! She’s got perfect teeth.”
I feel whipsawed, like a roller-coaster ride I’m on has suddenly jolted to a stop before the final steep descent.
“Are you sure?”
Pamela Smithson and Brian Zahn both come out of the tent, and based on the smiles on their faces, I know it’s true. The poor drowned and battered woman in that tent is not Grace Fuller Tucker.
Pamela says, “Tanya’s right … CANARY has perfect teeth. That woman in there … she’s had a lot of work done in her mouth.”
Well, what now? I turn away from everyone, grab my phone, make a call to Parker Hoyt. The phone rings and rings … and there’s no answer.
What the hell? Based on his expression back at the White House when I told him about the recovered body, I was sure he’d still be in his office, pacing back and forth, waiting for this call.
But no answer.
“Sally?”
I turn and it’s Randy Anderson from Homeland Security, formerly of the Secret Service, and one tired hombre. His jumpsuit is splattered with mud and water, and he needs a shave.
He says, “Sally … that’s it. We’re packing up.”
“But … you’ll start again tomorrow, won’t you?”
A firm shake of the head. “Not a chance,” he says, and as he explains what’s going on, I hate to admit it, but my old friend is right. Randy gestures to the Humvees, the tent, the men and women searching, and he says, “This … for a day I could pretend it was an unannounced drill, helping search for a mythical lost canoeist. The second day, Sally, I was putting my head on the chopping block … a one-day drill extending into two? Okay, I could make it work. A two-day drill was pushing it. I’m sorry. A three-day search is impossible.”
Randy nods in the direction of the tent. “This is going to sound grim, but finding that poor dead woman is a blessing. It’ll mean a round of nice publicity for the department, having an unannounced drill end with something special, and it’ll get me a reprieve from management. Do you see what I mean?”
I hate his words, but I do know what he means. “Sure, Randy, I know.”
Even in his exhausted state, he