CHAPTER 40
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Todd Hutchinson was a classic, midforties narcissist incapable of recognizing that his better days were already behind him. A career B-team Secret Service agent, Hutchinson, or Hutch as he insisted on being called, had risen just about as high in the organization as he ever would. Though he was a thoroughly competent agent, simply by being “Hutch” the man had grated on the nerves of almost everyone who had ever worked with him, including the majority of the people he was charged with protecting.
One of the few exceptions was Theresa Alden. Through some opportune twist of fate, Hutch had been assigned to her detail during the primary campaign and he and the soon-to-be first lady had professionally clicked. She was a woman with multiple anxiety problems, which often kept her from sleeping. Some said that was why Hutch often worked night shifts on her detail, as he and the first lady liked to sit and talk. No one in the Service could understand what she saw in him, and when Hutch finally outlived all of the company pools for when Terry Alden would finally wake up and request his removal from her detail, they gave up on trying to figure it out.
The best physical description of him that Elise Campbell had ever heard was that he reminded people of five- foot-eight Burt Reynolds without the mustache. The female agents in the White House were in total agreement that there was no way there could be any sexual connection between him and the first lady. How she could enjoy being around him was anybody’s guess, but Terry Alden did, and that was all that mattered. Therefore, Hutch had become a permanent fixture in the first lady’s retinue.
Elise had arranged to meet Hutch for coffee after his overnight shift had finished. Until she could account for how Nikki Hale had spent her final hour and a half before driving away drunk and killing herself and four other people, she wouldn’t be able to forget the conversation she’d overheard between the president and Stephanie Gallo.
She met Hutchinson at a Starbucks a few blocks from the White House on Pennsylvania Avenue near Seventeenth Street.
“So what’s with all the cloak and dagger?” he asked as they exited with their coffees and headed toward Lafayette Park. “We could have grabbed a table inside.”
“I thought it would be nicer if we walked.”
Todd Hutchinson looked up at the overcast sky and turned up the collar of his overcoat. “What did you want to talk with me about?”
Alone, and one-on-one like this, Campbell had expected the man to come on to her as he had in the past. Instead, his demeanor was surprisingly professional.
“I want to talk about the night Nikki Hale died.”
Hutchinson’s coffee cup was halfway to his lips when the question came, and instead of taking a sip, he lowered the cup and looked at Elise. “Why do you want to talk about that?”
“Call it professional curiosity.”
“It was a sad night for everyone,” he said, raising his coffee cup again and taking a sip.
“I understand you saw her shortly before she died.”
“Who told you that?”
“Max Holland did,” she replied.
“Why were you and Max talking about Nikki Hale?”
Campbell ignored his question and gently pushed forward with her own. “Do you think the president was sleeping with her?”
“Who?” responded Hutchinson. “Nikki? How would I know?”
“The night she died she had been alone with him for a while.”
“Maybe they were sleeping together. Who cares?”
“Max says that after she left the president, she was still on the estate for a little bit before she finally climbed into her car to drive back to her hotel,” stated Campbell.
“So?”
“So,” she replied, “he also said while she might have had a drink or two with Alden, she didn’t look drunk to him when she left.”
“What does any of this have to do with me?” Hutchinson asked.
“I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”
As a Secret Service agent, Campbell had been trained in detecting microexpressions, small facial clues that indicated someone was either lying or trying to mask an intent to do harm. As she glanced at Hutchinson’s face, she could clearly see the man was under stress and did not like answering her questions.
“Elise, listen,” he said. “If Max knows where Nikki Hale went after leaving the president that night, he should tell you. If he doesn’t want to, then that’s between the two of you.”
“Hutch, he did tell me. That’s why I’m talking to you.”
“It’s unprofessional.”
“Why?”
“Because by pointing you to me, he’s casting aspersions on the first lady.”
Campbell looked at him. “I don’t get it.”
“Listen, I know Holland doesn’t care for me,” said Hutch as they passed Blair House and entered the park. “There are plenty of senior agents just like him that I’ve either butted heads with or not gotten along with over the years. I don’t want to lose my position. I like being on the first lady’s detail.”
“How are you going to lose your position by talking to me?”
“If I start telling tales out of school and the first lady hears about it, how long do you think it’ll take for her to have me reassigned?”
Elise couldn’t argue with him. It was the same fear she’d had, still had actually, about pursuing the conversation between the president and Stephanie Gallo. “So this is a job security issue for you.”
“No,” said Hutchinson, pointing to a nearby bench. “It’s a loyalty issue. We’re here to protect these people. That’s our job. And their job is to let us, and that can’t be easy for them. They aren’t allowed many private, unguarded moments.”
“Okay,” said Elise as she sat down on the bench with him. “We all know that. It’s drilled into us as agents, but-”
“No ‘buts’ for a second,” said Hutchinson, interrupting her. “I want to know why you suddenly find Nikki Hale’s death so interesting.”
Elise had no intention of lying to Hutchinson. He had the same training she did and would be able to smell a lie a mile away. At the same time, she had no intention of being completely truthful with him either. “Someone is considering bringing a civil suit over her accident.”
Hutchinson was clearly taken by surprise. “Who?” he asked.
“Christine De Palma. The business partner of Sheryl Coleman, who was killed that night.”
“The wife of the man driving the mini-van,” Hutchinson said absent-mindedly.
“Who also,” added Elise, “was the mother of the two children killed in that crash.”
“Why now?”
“Maybe she wants justice.”
“It was an accident. A lawsuit is not going to change anything. What grounds could this woman possibly bring a civil suit on?”
“Hale obviously had way too much to drink before she left the estate. I’m not an attorney, but from what I understand, if anyone contributed to Nikki’s intoxication, and knowingly allowed her to drive drunk, they could be in some serious trouble.”
Hutchinson balanced his coffee cup on his knee and stared across the park toward the statue of Andrew Jackson.
“How do you know about this lawsuit?” he asked.
“I’m friends with a detective in East Hampton.”
“Do you think this De Palma woman is serious about the suit?”
