The First Lady - James Patterson Page 0,88

looks to his chief of staff, as if he’s seeking some reassurance, and I say, “I’m sure you’re pleased, no matter the status of your … marriage, that Grace Tucker is alive and reasonably well. But as to Mr, Hoyt … I feel you should know that he has been working behind your back to hinder this investigation.”

Parker Hoyt’s face flushes, and he says, “Agent Grissom, you are way the hell out of line. Leave. Now.”

“Not until I finish my briefing to the President.”

“Out!” Parker shouts, pointing to the near Oval Office door. “Now!”

I stride right up and get into his face, give it right back. “I don’t work for you, Mr. Hoyt! I serve in this White House at the pleasure of the President, and only him! If he wants me to depart, I’ll do so, but not one goddamn second earlier!”

We lock eyes, and without shifting my head, I say, “Mr. President?”

Oh my, this pause only goes on for a few seconds, but it seems like hours.

Then the President, in a soft voice, says, “Agent Grissom, please continue.”

I smile at Hoyt, back away.

“Sir,” I say, “in the course of my investigation, I’ve learned that your chief of staff, Parker Hoyt, has been in contact with his former employer, Global Strategic Solutions, and an independent contractor, Marsha Gray, a former Marine sniper. This woman was in constant contact with Mr. Hoyt and was working under his direction.”

The President’s hands are clenched, and he stands up behind his desk.

“Parker?”

The chief of staff’s eyes flicker, and I can sense his reptilian, political mind racing along, almost at light speed. “Mr. President, that’s not true. And you know it. Agent Grissom … you know she’s been under tremendous pressure, and with the death of her husband—”

I keep my suspicions about Ben’s killer to myself, and say, “Mr. President, your chief of staff wasn’t interested in rescuing the First Lady. He was interested in having her killed.”

Face flushed, Parker says, “Harry … don’t listen to her. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Look, you’ve known me for years, long years. I’ve always had your best interests at heart. Don’t listen to her.”

“Mr. President,” I say, “did you know that Mr. Hoyt has a secure phone in his office that bypasses the White House communications system?”

He pauses. “I seem to recall a slight mention of it … right after the inauguration.”

“That’s how Mr. Hoyt communicated with his former company and the Marine sniper. The sniper who came close to murdering the First Lady yesterday.”

Hoyt’s face is so red it looks like he’s just emerged from a tanning booth. “Prove it.”

I reach inside my plain black jacket, unfold three sheets of paper. “Mr. President … these are phone records, listing the time and location of phone calls made between Mr. Hoyt, his former company, and the arrested Marine sniper.”

I put them on the President’s desk. Hoyt says, “A forgery. It’s a forgery, Mr. President.”

I say, “No, it’s not a forgery. And a call from the President to the director of the National Security Agency at Fort Meade can confirm it. This phone listing … it’s not evidence that can be admitted in court, but Mr. President … I know you’ll find it useful.”

CANAL reaches over, his hand trembling, picks up the papers. He starts to look at them.

Hoyt is staring at me with pure, unadulterated hate.

It feels good, being on the other side of his hate.

I say, “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I need to leave.”

I turn and walk to the curved door, and I can’t resist.

“Mr. Hoyt, if you’ll recall our last conversation,” I say, “you advised me to hire the very best lawyer I could afford.”

I open the door before stepping out. “I suggest you take your own advice.”

CHAPTER 84

SEVEN FEET BELOW the Oval Office—I’m morbidly curious about how the conversation up there is going—I go to my desk, sit down, and just put my head in my hands.

A few moments pass, and then I get to work.

No time to waste.

The other agents studiously ignore me, as I find an empty cardboard box and two plastic grocery bags and slowly and carefully start packing up my personal belongings, putting them in, hating each second, but knowing it has to be done.

The door to W-17 opens and my deputy, Scotty, walks in, sees what I’m doing, and comes over and sits down next to my desk.

“Boss,” he says.

“Scotty,” I reply.

I reach over my desk, pick up one of my last mementos, the