on my first visit I was just curious to see who might be here. That’s how I found Juan.”
“Juan?”
“My source.”
Jack shot Paulette another look of surprise. “You speak Spanish?”
“Not really. But Juan doesn’t seem to care.”
Jack was suddenly reminded of the embarrassment it caused his
Paulette made the introductions, but instead of shaking Jack’s hand, Juan hugged Paulette and said, “She’s beautiful, no?”
It was apparent to Jack that Juan wasn’t just a source.
“Sit,” he said, inviting them to take a place on the church step.
Juan’s smile was short on teeth but not on sincerity. He wore a Washington Redskins cap, black mittens, and Easter-egg-blue golf slacks that the embarrassed wife of a lawyer must have thrown into the Salvation Army box. Juan was a large man with a non-threatening manner, and the scar on his forehead made Jack guess that he was probably one of those gentle giants who got provoked into bar fights by short, drunk guys with Napoleon complexes.
Paulette said, “Juan and I have been sitting next to each other every Sunday for about six months now.”
“We met at La Casa,” said Juan.
“La Casa is a homeless shelter,” she said, “mostly Hispanic men. I volunteer down there.”
Jack tried not to look too surprised, but Paulette was turning out to be very unlike the person he had expected. And yet she hardly knew her sister.
“Got good news for you,” said Juan.
“You found our man?” said Paulette.
“Can you take us to him?” said Jack.
“No.”
“Why not?” said Paulette.
“He is hiding.”
“From who?” she said.
Jack said, “My guess is that he knows the FBI is using him as bait. That’s why the bureau released him-to see if the man who hired him as a decoy comes looking for him again.”
Paulette didn’t disagree. “Did you talk to him, Juan?”
“
Jack calculated that as a friend, once-Hispanic and twice-gringo removed. “Did he tell you anything about the man who hired him to meet me outside the museum?”
“How old of an old man?” said Jack.
“In a wheelchair.”
“A wheelchair?”
“
Paulette swallowed her laughter.
“Yes,” said Jack, “I know what a wheelchair is.”
“Did your homeless friend tell you anything else about the man?” said Paulette.
“He like Anthony Hopkins.”
“He’s like Anthony Hopkins?” she said. “Or he likes Anthony Hopkins?”
“He is him. That character in the movie.”
“You mean he’s a Hannibal Lecter?”
“No. The other one.” Juan started dancing, arms up over his head, humming to the tune of Zorba’s famous Sirtaki.
“You mean Anthony
The Greek.
A volunteer from a local shelter passed by with cups of hot coffee. Juan called to her and was about to bolt. Jack needed to get to his morning meeting anyway, so with Juan’s assurance that he wasn’t forgetting to tell them anything, Jack and Paulette bid him good-bye and walked back toward the White House. At the corner, facing the Executive Mansion, Jack and Paulette exchanged glances.
“What do you think?” said Jack.
“I think the man who sent that e-mail to you also sent that e-mail to Chloe. I think if we find out what was actually inside Chloe’s e-mail, we’ll find out why he shot her.”
“But that was your theory even before we talked to Juan.”
“Right. A theory. Now I’m convinced it’s fact.”
“How’d you make that leap?”
“It makes perfect sense that the shooter would be in a wheelchair.”
“Why?”
“Something broke down between him and Chloe. He needed to eliminate her and deal with you instead. He instructed her to walk to a bus stop where he could drive by, make the hit from his car, and make a quick escape. A clean job and a clean getaway for an old man who can’t walk.”
Jack considered it. “That actually makes some sense.”
“Of course it does. You factor in the way the FBI has shut down the flow of information to both you and me, and it makes even more sense. The guy has
“I don’t follow that last part. If he has some dirt on the president, why not just blackmail him or his supporters? Why come to me, the son of the vice presidential nominee?”
“I haven’t figured that one out yet. But this much I can compute: right now the FBI is pulling out all the stops looking for an old Greek man in a wheelchair. We should be, too.”
“How many of those can there be in Washington?”
“No idea,” she said.
“Me neither,” said Jack. “But something tells me we’re going to find out.”
Chapter 15
Jack was surrounded by lawyers.
He counted thirteen in all. They were gathered in the walnut-paneled courtroom on the ninth floor of the law offices of Carter and Brooke, the high-powered law firm that would be the Washington muscle behind Jack and Harry at the confirmation hearings. It was a moot courtroom, used primarily for dress rehearsals of important trials, and Jack could only imagine what kind of corporate skulduggery had been tested here.
