open. For the rest of my life, she'll be frozen in that position.
The next fifteen minutes are a haze of investigative efficiency. Before I know what's happening, the room is filled with an assortment of investigators and other law enforcement officials: two more uniformed officers, two Secret Service suits, a five-person FBI Crime Scene Unit, and a member of the Emergency Response Team holding an Uzi by the door. After some brief posturing over jurisdiction, the Secret Service let the FBI get to work. A tall man in a dark blue FBI polo shirt takes photos of the office, while a short Asian woman and two other men in light blue shirts pick the place apart. A fifth man with a Virginia twang in his voice is the one giving orders.
'You, boys,' he says to the uniformed Secret Service. 'You'd be a far bigger help if you waited outside.' Before they even move, he adds, 'Thanks for your time now.' He turns to the Secret Service suits and gives them a quick once-over. They can stay. Then he comes over to me.
'Michael Garrick,' he says, reading from my ID. 'You okay there, Michael? You able to talk?'
I nod, staring at the carpet. Across the room, the photographer is taking pictures of Caroline's body. When the first flash goes off, it seems so normal--photographers are at almost every White House event. But when I see her head sagging and twisting to the side, and the awkward way her mouth gapes open, I realize it's not Caroline anymore. She's gone. Now it's just a body; a slowly stiffening shell posed for a macabre photo shoot.
The agent with the Virginia twang lifts my chin, and his latex gloves scrape against the remnants of my morning shave. Before I can say a word, he looks me in the eyes. 'You sure you're okay? We can always do this later, but . . .'
'No, I understand--I can do it now.'
He puts a strong hand on my shoulder. 'I appreciate you helping us out, Michael.' Unlike the FBI polo crew, he's wearing a gray suit with a small stain on his right lapel. His tie is pulled tight, but the top button on his stark white shirt is open. The effect is the most subtle hint of casualness in his otherwise professional demeanor. 'Quite a day, huh, Michael?' It's the third time since we've met that he's said my name, which I have to admit sets off my radar. As my old crim law professor once explained, name repetition is the first trick negotiators use to establish an initial level of intimacy. The second trick is physical contact. I look down at his hand on my shoulder.
He pulls it away, removes his glove, and offers up a handshake. 'Michael, I'm Randall Adenauer, Special Agent in Charge of the FBI's Violent Crimes Unit.'
His title catches me off guard. 'You think she was murdered?'
'That's getting a little ahead of ourselves, don't you think?' he asks with a laugh that's even more forced than the way he buttons his shirt. 'Far as we can tell right now, it looks like a simple heart attack--autopsy'll tell for sure. Now, you're the one who found her, aren't you?'
I nod.
'How long before you called it in?'
'Soon as I realized she was dead.'
'And when you found her, she was exactly like that? Nothing moved?'
'Her head was down when I walked in. But when I shook her and saw her eyes--the way they are now--the way she looks back at you. That's when I crashed into the wall.'
'So you knocked the picture over?'
'I'm pretty sure. I didn't expect to see her like--'
'I'm not blaming you, Michael.'
He's right, I tell myself. There's no reason to get defensive.
'And the phone on the floor . . . ?' he asks.
'The whole room was spinning--I sat down to catch my breath. In a panic, I pulled it off the desk to call for help.'
As I explain what happened, I realize he's not writing anything down. He just sort of stares my way, his sharp blue eyes barely focused on me. The way he's watching--if I didn't know better, I'd think he was reading cartoon word balloons just above my head. No matter how hard I try to get his attention, our eyes never meet. Finally, from his pants pocket, he pulls out a roll of butterscotch Life Savers and offers me one.
I shake my head.
'Suit yourself.' He puts the top of the pack in his mouth and bites one off. 'I'm telling you, I think I'm addicted to these things. I'm up to a pack a day.'
'Better than smoking,' I say, motioning to one of the many ashtrays in Caroline's office.
He nods and looks back at the word balloons. The small talk's over. 'So when you found her, what were you coming to see her about?'
Over his shoulder, I spot the small stack of red file folders that are still on Caroline's desk. 'Just some work- related stuff.'
'Any of it personal?'
'Not really. Why?'
He looks down at the pack of Life Savers he's holding and pretends to be nonchalant. 'Just trying to figure out why she had your file.'
Adenauer is no dummy. He set me up for that one.
'Now you want to tell me what's really going on?' he asks.
'I swear to you, it was nothing. We were just going over a conflict of interest. She's the ethics officer; that's what she works on. I'm sure she pulled my file to check things out.' Unsure if he's buying it, I point to Caroline's desk. 'Look for yourself--she's got other files besides mine.'
Before he can answer, the Asian agent in the light blue shirt approaches us. 'Chief, did the uniformed guys leave you the combination to the--'
'Here you go,' Adenauer says. He reaches into his jacket pocket and hands her a yellow sheet of paper.
Taking the combination, she starts working on the safe behind Caroline's desk.
When the distraction's over, Adenauer turns my way and stares me down. I lean back on the couch, trying to look unconcerned. Behind the desk, there's a loud thunk. The woman opens the safe.
'Michael, I understand why you want to be as far away from this as possible--I know how it works here. But I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm just trying to figure out what happened.'
'I already told you everything I know.'
'Chief, you better take a look at this,' the Asian woman says from behind the desk.
Adenauer gets up and heads for the safe. The woman pulls out a manila envelope. She turns it upside down and the contents tumble onto the desk. One. Two. Three stacks of cash. Hundred dollar bills. Each stack wrapped in a First of America billfold.
I do everything in my power to look surprised, and to my credit, I think I actually get away with it. But deep down, as I stare at the three piles of cash that Nora left behind, I know this is just the beginning.
Chapter 8
Two hours of questioning later, I'm walking back to my office with a ruthless migraine and a throbbing pain at the base of my neck. I still can't believe Caroline had the money. Why would she . . . I mean, if she's got that . . . does that mean she was also in the woods? Or did she just pick it up later? Is that why she went after Simon at the morning meeting--because it was ten grand short? My mind tumbles through explanations, searching for the corner pieces of the puzzle. I can barely find an edge.
Around me, the hallways are almost completely empty, and as I pass every door, I can hear the faint echoes of dozens of televisions. Usually, the televisions in the OEOB run with the sound off. With news like this, everyone's listening.
The reaction is typical White House. As a former Clinton advisor explained to me years ago, the power structure of the White House is similar to a game of soccer played by ten-year-olds. You can assign everyone to a position, and you can demand that everyone stay where they're supposed to be, but the moment the game starts, every person on the field abandons their post and runs for the ball.
Case in point: the empty halls of the OEOB. Even before I check in with Trey, I know what's going on. The President is demanding information, which means the Chief of Staff is demanding information, which means the top advisors are demanding information, which means the press is demanding information. From there, everyone else is searching--calling one another and every other connection they can think of--trying to be the first one to reel in the answers. In a hierarchy where most of us are paid similar government salaries, the currency of choice is access and
