The First Lady - James Patterson Page 0,50

smiles. “Sorry, Sally. I really wanted to help you …”

“You did, no worries,” I say.

“But CANARY …”

I nod, shove my cold hands into my coat pockets. “Randy, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sally …”

“Randy, this had nothing to do with the First Lady, and you know it. You … your Homeland Security unit was doing an unannounced drill along this river, and members of the First Lady’s off-duty detail were assigned by me to provide assistance and to give them additional training in working with Homeland Security on short notice.”

He rubs a hand across the bristles on his chin, slowly nods. “So that’s how it’s going to be.”

“Randy, maybe it’s my maternal nature, but I took care of you in Santiago, and I want to protect you again. So send everybody home … and thank you.”

He says, “When this is over …”

I touch his unshaven cheek. “When this is over, come visit me in Leavenworth, all right?”

“I just might try to break you out.”

“Don’t be a foolish boy,” I say. “Go.”

And he walks to his people, and I take my phone and call Parker Hoyt to let him know what’s just happened.

But again there’s no answer.

A few minutes later I huddle up with Scotty and the three members of CANARY’s detail. The joy of learning the dead woman wasn’t the First Lady is gone, and now they’re slumped over, tired, worn down. Scotty doesn’t say anything, and Tanya and Brian look to their detail leader, Pamela Smithson, who simply asks, “What now?”

I bite off what I want to say, which is What now? And is two days too late, and I say, “We take the night off. We’re exhausted, and we’ll start making mistakes.”

And you’ve already made enough mistakes, I want to add, but I’m too tired to get into a shouting match at the moment.

“We’ll start again tomorrow, eight a.m.”

Tanya asks the reasonable question, “Where?” and I know we can’t meet at my office, or the East Wing, or W-17 … too many questions will roar our way tomorrow from other people who will be wondering why more than two days after the “Ambush in Atlanta,” the First Lady has been neither seen nor heard from. And I’ve got to lie once more to the other shift members of the First Lady’s protection detail, which is going to take some imaginative and delicate untruths.

“The horse farm,” I say. “We … the buildings there. They haven’t been thoroughly searched. There’s a chance CANARY might be there, lying low.”

“Wouldn’t the staff say something?” Brian asked.

“They’re loyal to her, like you three,” I say. “If she asked them to keep her presence there quiet, don’t you think they’d do it?”

Nobody says a word, which tells me they’re thinking it over.

“Go,” I say, and they walk away, and Scotty comes to me and asks, “Boss, what about you?”

I feel like crawling in the tent with the dead woman and taking a nap on the wet grass. I say, “I’ve got to get home. And I need to update Parker.”

“You need a ride?”

“I do.”

Scotty says, “Got your back, boss.”

“Thanks,” I say, and I walk away and try Amelia.

No answer.

A little cold stab in my gut.

Okay.

I call Parker Hoyt, at his office and on his cell phone.

No answer at either number.

I hang up.

Vehicles are driving away, fewer people are around, and a Rockford County ambulance slowly approaches the white tent, here to take the dead woman away.

Where the hell is Parker Hoyt?

CHAPTER 40

PARKER HOYT HANGS up his regular phone, interrupting a heartfelt call from the Senate majority leader, and grabs his special phone before it gets to a second ring.

Again, ambient noise telling him his caller is outside.

“Hoyt,” he says.

“Not her,” his caller says.

“What?”

“You heard me,” the voice says. “The body’s not hers. Back to work.”

The phone is disconnected on the other end, and Parker replaces the handset and slumps into his chair. For the past hour he’s been entertaining the notion of having a drowned FLOTUS. That would erase yesterday’s news from Atlanta and give the President a sympathy vote that would outweigh any damage from the scandal. But now that hope is gone.

Damn.

Where the hell did that bitch get to? And how long can he keep a lid on this damn mess?

His regular office telephone rings, and his secretary, Mrs. Ann Glynn, says, “Amanda Price is on the line, sir. From Pearson, Pearson, and Price.”

“Thanks, Ann,” he says. “Put her through.”

A little click and the rough, smoky voice of Amanda comes