The First Lady - James Patterson Page 0,93
sugar. The First Lady has had her hair done, she’s wearing black slacks and a plain white turtleneck, and the bandage on her left hand is fresh.
“How’s your hand doing?” I ask.
She holds it up and gives it a glance, like it’s some foreign object that’s been attached to her. “Doing much better,” she says. “The ER doctors over at George Washington cleaned it up and restitched it, and I’ve got some very fine painkillers to take the edge off. They wanted me to spend the night, but you see how far that went.”
The First Lady smiles, and it’s nice to be the focus of her warmth and attention, despite what I’m going to say next.
“Was it hard,” I ask, “having your father slice off that finger joint?”
Her smile never wavers. “He’s spent many years at Cleveland Clinic, observing and evaluating. He did a perfectly fine job.”
I take a sip of the coffee. “This had been in the works for a very long time.”
“Not that long,” she says. “Only when my suspicions about Harrison were confirmed.”
“I did some additional checking in on Mr. Fuller,” I say. “It seems he’s also on the board of the corporation that owns the Cleveland Plain Dealer. I can see if a reporter or an editor learned about your husband’s affair, how that news might have gotten to him first.”
Mrs. Tucker doesn’t say anything, but there’s the slightest of nods. I say, “With that information … he doesn’t confront the President. You don’t confront the President. Instead, he sets up that ambush in Atlanta. I was always puzzled by that. It’s typical for a breaking news story for one outlet—television station or newspaper—to take the lead in getting the story. Very unusual to have an ambush consisting of a couple of network television crews and reporters from competing newspapers at the same place and the same time. Like they were all tipped off simultaneously.”
Her smile widens. “It was an unusual story, was it not?”
“Not as unusual as your … disappearance,” I say. “So far, the cover story about your falling in the stream, striking your head, and injuring your finger is still holding. How long do you think it’ll stay that way?”
She picks up her own coffee cup. “May I ask why you’re here, Agent Grissom?”
I say, “By the end of the day, it won’t be Agent Grissom. It will be plain old Sally Grissom. Too much has happened over the past few days.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“I’m glad you are,” I say. “I had a nice career with the agency, a nice record, and now … it’s gone.”
The First Lady says, “Then come with me. I need someone with your experience.”
“You’ll always have Secret Service protection, even if you and the President eventually divorce.”
“I know that,” she says. “But I’m not saying I need someone to help with my protection.”
Then it all clicks into place, like the times I’ve helped Amelia put together a puzzle. You struggle, struggle, and struggle some more, until one last piece makes everything clear.
“This was one well-thought-out operation, with the ransom note, the severed finger, and everything else,” I say.
She says, “I thought the note would be a puzzle and make you think I committed suicide. But from what I’ve learned, the suicide question was never really pursued. Why?”
“You didn’t seem like someone bent on killing herself,” I say. “No, you’re the type of person who wanted to punish the President, destroy his chances for reelection, and along the way … steal a hundred million dollars.”
“I prefer to think of it as a reallocation,” the First Lady says. “A hundred million dollars that I will be able to administer as I see fit, without strings or obligations attached, to help tens of thousands of children. For years I pleaded with my husband and Hoyt to make the necessary budget requests and allocations to do just that, and I was always laughed at, or ignored, or patronized. And then I decided to do something about it.” She holds up her bandaged hand. “Not a bad exchange.”
I sit there with Grace Fuller Tucker and just let the thoughts race through my mind. In my long years with the agency, I’ve always protected the office … the Office of the President, the Office of the Vice President, the Office of the First Lady, and so forth and so on. Who was there wasn’t as important as the office itself.
But I’m not seeing an office or a protectee or a cipher in front of