happening there?'
Another two phones go off. 'It's a friggin' zoo--like nothing you've ever seen. Every reporter in the country has called us. Twice.'
'How bad am I going to be hit?'
There's a short pause on the other line. 'You're Dan Quayle.'
'Have they issued--'
'No statements from anyone--Simon, Press Office, not even Hartson. Rumor is they're going live at five- thirty--to make sure they have something for the nightlies. I'm telling you, man, I've never seen anything like it--the place is paralyzed.'
'And your friend at the Post?'
'All I know is they got a photo of you standing outside the building--probably the one taken by that photographer. Unless they get something better, he says it's running A1 tomorrow.'
'Can't he--'
'I'm trying my best,' he says. 'There's just no way around it. Inez got everything--you leaving Caroline's office, the WAVES records, the tox reports, the money . . .'
'She found the money?'
'My buddy says she knows someone at D.C. police. They typed your name in and it came up under 'Financial Investigations.' Ten thousand big ones seized from Michael Garri . . .' Trey's voice trails off. 'What?' he asks, sounding muffled. He's got a hand over the receiver. 'Says who?'
'Trey!' I shout. 'What's going on?'
I hear people talking, but he doesn't answer.
'Trey!'
Still nothing.
'Trey!'
'Are you there?' he finally asks.
I'm so sick, I'm going to vomit. 'What the hell's going on?' 'Steve just got back from the Press Office,' he says hesitantly.
'Is it bad?'
I can't hear it, but I know I'm getting the rub. It's a record-breaker. 'I wouldn't panic until they confirm--'
'Just tell me what it is!'
'He says they found a gun in your car, Michael.'
'What?'
'Wrapped in an old map; hidden in your glove compartment.'
I feel like I just took a kick in the neck. My body's reeling. I hold on to the phone booth to stand up. 'I don't own a . . . How did they . . . Oh, jeez, they're going to find Vaughn . . .'
'It's just a rumor, Michael--for all we know, it's--' Once again, he stops short. So does everyone in the background. The place is silent. All I hear are phones ringing. Someone must've walked in.
'What're they saying?' a female voice demands. I recognize it instantly.
'Here you go, Mrs. Hartson,' another voice says.
'I gotta run,' Trey whispers into the phone.
'Wait!' I shout. 'Not y--' It's too late. He's gone.
Lowering the phone to its cradle, I look over my shoulder for help. The only one there is the cab driver, who's already lost in his newspaper. I hear the taxi coughing and wheezing from years of abuse. The rest of the garage is silent. Silent and abandoned. I put my hand over my stomach and feel the knife twisting in my gut. I have to . . . I have to get help. I pick up the receiver and stuff another set of coins in the pay phone. Without even thinking, I dial her number. It's the first thought that comes to my brain. Forget what happened--call her. I need the front lines; I need to know what's going on; and more than anything else, I need some honesty. Guerrilla honesty.
'This is Pam,' she says as she picks up the phone.
'Hey,' I say, trying to sound upbeat. After our last conversation, she's probably ready to rip me apart.
She pauses long enough to let me know she recognizes my voice. I close my eyes and get ready for the tongue-lashing.
'How you doing, Pete?' she asks with a strain in her voice.
Something's wrong. 'Should I--'
'No, no,' she interrupts. 'The FBI never called--they wouldn't trace the phone lines . . .'
That's all I need to hear. I slam the phone back into its cradle. I have to hand it to her--regardless of how pissed she was, she came through. She'll be taking major heat for that one. But if they've already closed in on my closest friends . . . Damn, maybe Trey didn't even know. Maybe they already . . . I back up from the phone and race toward the cab. 'Let's get out of here,' I shout to the driver.
'Where to?' he asks as the tires screech toward Wisconsin Avenue.
I've only got one other option. 'Potomac, Maryland.'
Chapter 34
Almost there,' the cabbie announces twenty minutes later.
I raise my head just enough to peek out the left window. Flower beds, manicured lawns, plenty of cul-de- sacs. As we drive past the recently built McMansions that dot Potomac's way-too-conscious-to-be-natural landscape, I slouch down in the seat, trying to stay out of view.
'Not a bad neighborhood,' the driver says with a whistle. 'Check out the lawn frogs on that one.'
I don't bother to look. I'm too busy trying to come up with other places to run. It's harder than I would've thought. Thanks to the FBI's original background check, my file is filled with my entire network. Family, friends. That's how they check you out--they take your world. Which means if I'm looking for help, I have to step outside the maze. The thing is, if someone's outside the maze, there's usually a good reason for it.
'There it is,' I say, pointing to what I have to admit is a stunning New England-style colonial on the corner of Buckboard Place.
'Turn here?' the cab driver asks.
'No, keep going straight.' As we pass the house, I turn around and watch it through the back window. About two hundred yards away, I point to the empty driveway of a messy little rambler. Unkempt lawn, peeling shutters. Just like our old place. The black eye of the block. 'Pull in here,' I say, studying the dusty front windows. No one's home. These people work.
Without a word, we roll into the driveway, which runs perpendicular to the street. He pulls the cab in so that everything but the back window and the trunk are hidden by the house next door. It's a great hiding spot--a room with a view.
Diagonally down the block, I keep my eyes on the old colonial. It's got a spacious two-car garage. The driveway's empty.
'So how long until he gets back?' the cabbie asks. 'You're running up some serious tab.'
'I told you, I'll cover it. Besides,' I add, looking down at my watch, 'he'll be here soon--he doesn't work full days anymore.'
Settling in for the wait, the cab driver reaches for the radio. 'How about I turn on the news, so we can--'
'No!' I bark.
He raises an eyebrow. 'Whatever you want, man,' he says. 'Whatever you want.'
* * *
Within fifteen minutes, Henry Meyerowitz turns onto the block in his own personal midlife crisis--a 1963 jet black Porsche roadster convertible. I shake my head at the SMOKIN personalized plates. I hate my mother's family.
To be fair, though, he's the only one who ever reached out to me. At the funeral, he told me I should give him a call--that he'd love to take me out to a nice dinner. When he heard I got a job at the White House, he reiterated
