amused.
'All I did was find her,' I insist.
'Terrific,' he replies, his expression unchanged. All around me, the humming white noise is getting irritating. 'Now tell me what you know about Patrick Vaughn,' he says, once again relying on old interrogation tricks. Rather than asking if I know Vaughn, he bluffs it into the question. But my guard's up. P. Vaughn. First name Patrick. The guy who slipped the note under my door. Hoping for more, I tell Adenauer the truth.
'Don't know the guy.'
'Patrick Vaughn,' he repeats.
'I heard you the first time. I have no idea who he is.'
'C'mon, Michael, don't do it like this. You're smarter than that.'
I don't like the sound of that one--it's not a trick--there's real concern in his voice. Which means he has a good reason to believe that I should know this guy Vaughn. Time to fish. 'I swear, I'm trying my best. Help me out a little. What's he look like?'
Adenauer reaches into the folder and pulls out a black-and-white mug shot. Vaughn's a short guy with a thin, gang-TV-movie mustache, and slicked-back greasy hair. The identification card he's holding in front of his chest lists a police arrest number and his date of birth. The last line of the card reads 'Wayne County,' which tells me he's spent some time in Detroit.
'Ringing any bells?' Adenauer asks.
I think back to my neighbor's description of the guy with the gold chains.
'I asked you a question, Michael.'
My brain's still stuck on the note under my door. If the guy with the chains . . . if he was Vaughn, why's he asking my neighbor questions? Is he trying to help? Or is he trying to set me up? Until I know the answer, I'm not taking the risk. 'I'm telling you, I have no idea who this guy is. Never seen him in my life.' It's a lawyer's answer, but it's still the truth. I stare at the mug shot and cast another line. 'What was he arrested for?'
Adenauer doesn't move a muscle. 'Don't piss on my shoes, boy.'
'I'm not . . . I don't know what you want me to say. What'd he do?'
The leather crackles as he leans forward in his seat. He's moving in for the kill. 'Take a wild guess . . . I mean, you were first on the scene.'
Oh, God. 'He's a murderer? This is the guy you think killed Caroline?'
He snatches the photo from my hands. 'I gave you your chance, Michael.'
'What? You think I know him?'
'I'm not answering that question.'
Now I'm starting to sweat. There's something he's not saying. Is this the guy Simon hired? Maybe Simon's using him to point a finger at me. The white noise is making it harder to think. 'Did someone tell you something?'
'Forget it, Michael. Let's move on.'
'I don't want to move on. Tell me what's making you think that? My father? Is it something with him? Is it because this guy's from Detroit? That we're both from Michi--?'
'What if I told you he's been bagged twice in D.C. for selling drugs?' Adenauer interrupts. 'That ring any bells?'
I already don't like where this one's going. 'Should it?'
'You tell me--two drug arrests here, and a murder trial two years ago in Michigan. That sound like anyone you know?'
Focused on the drugs, I try not to think about the answer.
'By the way,' Adenauer says with a grin. 'Did you see that article about Nora in the Herald this morning? What'd you think about them calling her the First Freeloader?'
I try to keep it calm. 'Excuse me?'
'Y'know, I just figured with you guys dating and all--is it hard having to always share her with the world like that?'
I'm tempted to say something, but decide to wait it out.
'I mean, going out with the First Daughter--you must have some interesting stories to tell.' Crossing his arms, he waits for me to react. I give him a roomful of dead air. The dating's one thing, but I'm not going to let him toss me around about Vaughn and rumors of Nora's drugs. For all I know, it's a bluff based on the Rolling Stone story. Or just their old vendetta against Hartson.
'So how long you two been together?' he finally adds.
'We're not together,' I growl. 'We're just friends.'
'Oh. My mistake.'
'And what does that have to do with anything anyway?'
'Nothing--nothing at all,' Adenauer says. 'I'm just talking some current events with a White House employee. This isn't even in my log as an interrogation.' Watching me carefully, he puts the picture of Vaughn away and shuts the folder. 'Now let's get back to your story. You were fighting with Caroline before you found the body?'
'Yeah, she was--' I cut myself short. Son of a bitch. I never told Adenauer that Caroline and I were fighting. He's walking all over me.
A true Virginian, though, he doesn't gloat about it. 'I meant what I said--I'm not here to accuse you,' he explains. 'Someone in the hallway heard you yelling. I just want to know what it was about.' Before I can answer, he adds, 'The truth this time, Michael.'
There's no way around it. My eyes are locked on Adenauer's red folder. Like before, he doesn't take notes, he just reads my word balloons. Hoping to drown out the white noise with a deep breath, I tell him about my father, his criminal record, and the conflict with his benefits.
Adenauer listens without interrupting.
'I didn't think I did anything illegal, but Caroline thought I should've recused myself. She saw it as a conflict of interest.'
He studies me, looking for a hole in the story. 'And that's all that happened? When she wouldn't listen, you walked out and went back to your office?'
'That's it. When I came back, she was dead.'
'How long were you gone?'
'Ten minutes--fifteen, max.'
'Any stops in between?'
I shake my head.
'Are you sure?' he asks suspiciously. Again, I get the feeling he knows something.
'That's all that happened,' I insist.
He shoots me a long look, giving me every opportunity to change my story. When I don't, he picks up his file and stands from his seat.
'I swear, I'm not lying--that's the tru--'
'Michael, were you being blackmailed by Caroline?'
'What?' I ask, forcing a laugh. 'Is that what you think?'
'You don't want to know what I think,' he says. 'Now help me out with this one. This wasn't the first time she pulled your file, was it?'
My body's frozen. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'It's right here!' he shouts, pointing to the file. He flips it open and shows me the Request Log stapled to the inside cover. From the two signatures in the Out column, I can see Caroline's pulled mine twice: Last week. And six months after I started work. 'Care to tell what the first one's about?'
'I have no idea.'
'The more you lie, the more it's going to hurt.'
'I'm telling you, I have no idea.'
'Do you really expect me to believe that?'
'Believe what you want--I'm giving you the truth. I mean, if I killed her, why didn't I remove my own file? Or at least take the money?'
