“What can I do for you?” I asked Agent Grayer. Alarms were already sounding in my head. I felt I was about to get a much fuller understanding of why I had been put on the Jack and Jill investigation. By whom, and for exactly what reason.
“You're wanted at the White House,” he said. “I'm afraid it's a command performance, Dr. Cross. It's about the Jack and Jill investigation. There's a problem we have to let you know about.”
“I'll bet it's a big problem, too,” I said to Agent Grayer.
“Yes, I'm afraid it is. It's a very big problem, Dr. Cross. We have something we need to share with you.”
I had suspected as much. I'd had a quiet fear way in the back of my mind. Now it was up front.
I was being summoned to the White House.
They wanted the dragonslayer there. Did they understand what that meant?
THE ONLY THING anybody seems to share very readily in Washington these days is trouble.
I could hardly argue with the command from on high, though.
I dutifully accompanied Jay Grayer up the street to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Ask not what I can do for my country.
The White House was only a short jaunt from the Willard Hotel.
Despite the relative performance of some of the recent occupants, the White House continues to cast its spell over a lot of people, including me. I had been inside only twice, on canned guided tours with my kids, but even they had been larger-than-life and moving. I almost wished Damon and Jannie could be with me.
We were quickly passed through the blue-canopied guardhouse on West Executive Drive. Agent Grayer was allowed to park his car in the garage under the White House. He seemed modestly proud of the perk. He explained that the garage was still considered a primary bomb shelter, but also an escape route in case of an attack.
“Good to know,” I said and smiled. Grayer smiled back. It was forced conviviality, but at least we were both making an effort.
'I'm sure you're curious as to why you've been asked to come.
I would be.'
“I don't think I've been invited to tea,” I said stiffly. “But, yes, I'm very curious.”
“The reason is the Soneji and Casanova cases,” Grayer explained to me as we took an elevator one flight up from the garage.
'Your reputation precedes you here. You're aware that the FBI has never captured a single serial killer, for all their expertise?
We want you on the tean:.'
“What team is that?” I asked.
“You'll see in a few seconds. This is definitely the A team, though. Be ready for some crazy shit. The Bureau has staked out the hotel room where John Hinckley stayed. Just in case the killers might decide to stay there. Pay homage, or something like that.”
“Not such a terrible idea,” I told Grayer. He looked at me as if I were crazy, too. “Not a particularly good idea, either,” I said. He cracked a grin.
Half a dozen men and two women in business attire were gathered in the West Wing office of the White House chief of staff. I sensed a lot of tension in the room, but everyone was working hard to hide it. I was introduced as the representative of the Washington police. Welcome to the team. Say hello to the dragonslayer.
The others at the table cordially introduced themselves. Two more senior agents from the Secret Service, a woman named Ann Roper and a youngish, good-looking man named Michael Fescoe; the director of intelligence from the FBI, Robert Hatfield; General Aiden Cornwall from the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the U.S. Army; the national security advisor, Michael Kane; the White House chief of staff, Don Hamerman. The other woman turned out to be a senior officer in the CIA. The inspector general.
Her name was Jeanne Sterling. Her presence meant that a foreign power's involvement in Jack and Jill was being considered. There was a twist I hadn't considered before.
It was fast company for a homicide detective from SoutheaSt D.C., even for a deputy chief. But I figured I was pretty fast company, too. I had seen nasty things that none of them had, or would ever want to.
Let the sharing begin.
Glistening sweet rolls, butter in ice, and coffee in silver pots had been put out for our unusual breakfast club. It was obvious that some of the others had worked together before. I had learned a long time ago that if you can't spot the pigeon in a poker game, then you're probably it.
The national security advisor called the gathering to order a minute or so past ten. Don Hamerman was a wiry, blond man in his mid-thirties who appeared to be tightly strung. That definitely fit the White House staff profile in recent years: very young and very uptight. On the move. On the make, get set, go.
“I'm going to use overheads for this presentation, folks. That's the way we do it here in the Big House,” Hamerman said and managed a thin, forced smile. He had an unsettling kinetic energy.
He reminded me of high-flying D.C. public relations types, and even of Michael Robinson's overwrought agent back at the Willard.
I gathered from his remark that White House meetings were usually bureaucratic and somewhat formal, rather than loosy-goosy.
Everyone seemed to enjoy the small joke, anyway.
Actually, the forced cordiality disturbed me. I was still flashing On the death-mask expression of Michael Rob Michael Fescoe; the director of intelligence from the FBI, Robert Hatfield; General Aiden Cornwall from the Joint
