Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,69
for the belated blast of negative publicity about Mrs. Fitzsimmons’s death. Teabull had been hustled out the gates by a replacement security team, and was now rumored to be working as the caretaker at a fly-in hunting lodge in Newfoundland.
“So he got away with it,” Angie said to Crosby.
“He did a good job covering his tracks. Plus, nobody gives a shit that Burns and Prince Percocet are dead.”
“Because of those two, Diego’s still in jail. Because of the damn stolen pearls.”
“Unfortunately, I can’t do anything about that.”
“But you can, Jerry. Absolutely.”
“We had this talk before. The answer’s still no.”
“I’ve got some new information that you need to hear.” Angie dropped her voice to tell him about the First Lady’s daring affair with the Secret Service agent named Keith.
The chief said, “First of all, I don’t believe it. Second, how in the world does that help Diego Beltrán?”
“Are you kidding?” Angie laid out her plan, step-by-step, then whispered, “Your job would be totally safe. All you’ve got to do is hook me up with the right person at Casa Bellicosa.”
“Now you’ve lost your damn mind,” Crosby said.
“It’ll work. I know it will.”
“No way, Angie.”
“Meaning no way will it work?”
“Meaning no way will I get involved.”
She said, “I don’t need an answer right now.” She purposely hadn’t told him about Paul Ryskamp’s reaction to the plan, or the last thing he’d said before he walked out of her apartment: What you’re proposing, Angie, is an actual crime.
“Please, Jerry,” she said.
“Back off. I can’t help you.”
“But, deep down, you wish you could?”
“Deep down, I wish I had a vineyard in Bordeaux. Goodbye.”
He got up and left. Just like that. Didn’t even offer to pay for his damn tea. That was two walk-outs in one day.
When the server brought the bill, Angie looked up and said, “Can I ask you something, Philippe? When did testicles go out of style?”
The young man paled, and went from chipper to chastened. “I’m super sorry, ma’am. Was, uh, the service unsatisfactory?”
“Not at all, sir. I’m just venting.”
Angie paid the tab, exited proudly in her boots, and drove home determined to think up a new strategy.
SEVENTEEN
Mockingbird ate lunch alone—tuna salad with kiwi crescents—at a corner table in one of Casa Bellicosa’s informal dining rooms. Keith Josephson and two other agents were triangularly positioned nearby. Between bites, the First Lady would look up and wave mechanically at gawking club members and their guests. She didn’t like sitting alone, but the alternative was joining her husband at a raucous patio barbecue for a mob of TV wrestlers who’d performed in his latest anti-impeachment commercial.
The night before, he had called Mockingbird to his suite and asked her to arrange a photo session with the women who called themselves the Potussies. At first she had declined.
He said, “Come on, baby. Be a team player.”
“I’m not your baby. Is that what you call the pole dancer you’re sleeping with?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Liar,” said Mockingbird. “You got her a cabana over at the Breakers. Anyway, I can’t stand those rich old vultures and I’m not doing their selfies.”
“Hell, no, use the White House photographer! Two minutes and you’re done. Christ, they’ve been trying to get a picture with you for years,” the President said. “I need to throw ’em a bone. They donate a shit-ton of cash.”
He wore silk burgundy pajamas and sat barefoot on the edge of the bed. His feet were like moist loaves, the tiny toes appearing more decorative than functional. Mockingbird sometimes found it hard to believe this was the same man she’d married; he looked like a different person now—as if someone had put a fire hose up his ass and inflated him with meringue. His ego seemed to have swollen proportionally.
It wasn’t that long ago when she’d fallen hard for him; now he was a raging, gaseous oaf. Gone was any trace of the sly charm and tenderness. In their early years he could actually laugh at himself, but Mockingbird couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen an honest smile on his face.
“Come on,” he said, “I don’t ask you for much.”
They both knew what he meant.
Mockingbird said, “All right. One group photo, that’s it.”
“Good girl. I like those earrings, by the way.”
She felt her cheeks flush.
“Didn’t even know pearls came in pink. Did I buy those for you?”
“You did,” she said, which was true in a roundabout way. Keith Josephson got a government salary, and her husband was the head of the