Room two twenty-seven, the last room on the floor, stood at the far end of a long shadowy hallway. Rickety floorboards creaked and cracked beneath a worn-out green carpet that stretched the full length of the corridor. The noise made Robert wonder if Charlie chose that spot knowing any unwanted guest would be ceremoniously announced by the old squeaking floor.
Robert reached the room, and drew his gun when he heard someone moving around inside. Back against the wall, he listened closely, but didn’t hear any voices. Probably one person.
He turned the knob, nudged the door open a few inches, and peeked inside. A lone figure packed papers and clothing from an old chest of drawers, stuffing a gym bag and brown paper sack. He pushed the door open and rushed inside. “Freeze!”
He jerked his gun from one side of the room to the other, his eyes darting back and forth, scanning for movement. “Drop the bags on the floor and raise your hands up over your head! Now! I won’t ask again!” The raggedly dressed person abruptly dropped the two bags on the floor. One an old, gray, leather gym bag, half open, with socks and a bunch of tattered clothing stuffed inside, the other, a large, brown paper grocery store bag, full of papers now scattered across the floor.
“Turn around slowly,” Robert ordered, his gun trained directly at the person’s head. To his surprise, the face of a frightened old woman came into view. A black skullcap sat on her head like a tired alley cat. Dirty gray hair protruded from it down to her ears. Rot carved most of her teeth, and her face spoke hardship and survival.
“I’m sorry,” she said, in a panicked voice. “I didn’t mean no harm. I was jus tryin’ to clean out this stuff fo’ a friend. I didn’t mean no harm.” Robert lowered his gun. She hardly appeared threatening. “Who are you?”
“I’m jus here to clear out some stuff fo a friend,” she repeated, shaken and confused.
Robert’s eyes widened. Popeye’s words hit him. Julie Rice? He took a step closer. She moved a few steps back. “What’s your name mother?”
She didn’t speak.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said. “You just surprised me, that’s all.”
The old woman took a breath and relaxed. Her hands shook, but the fear in her eyes melted. “Name’s Beth,” she told him. “You a friend a Charlie’s?”
“Sort of,” said Robert, his disappointment obvious only to him.
“Why are you here clearing out his things?”
“Cause he’s dead,” she said abruptly. “He’s dead and he told me if he died, to come get his stuff. Said I could keep what I want and throw the rest away.”
“How’d you know he was dead? It’s not common knowledge.”
“Got’a call from his friend Popeye. I live in the hotel. I know’d Charlie for a long time. Popeye said he died, but didn’t say much else.
Charlie’s done, that’s all he said. He hung up, and I run up here.” Robert rubbed his forehead. Beth bent over and gathered the papers and clothing. Disappointed, he looked around the lifeless room, its army style cot and nondescript furniture, hoping answers would seep out of the walls. He knelt down to help her.
“You must’ve been real close to Charlie for him to leave you all his stuff.”
“Closer than most, not as close as some,” answered Beth.
“The closest?”
“Knew Charlie for years,” said Beth. “Didn’t get too close to many people. Liked his privacy, ‘cept when it come to Jules. He was real close to her.”
“You mean Julie Rice?”
“You know old Jules too?”
“No, but I’m trying to find her. Any idea where she might be?”
“Haven’t seen her for some time now,” Beth answered. “She and Charlie fell out about somethin, and it must’a been a beaut, cause those two thick as thieves.”
Most of the papers on the floor looked useless and unimportant. Old magazines, newspaper articles, junk mail, coupons, and incoherent scribbling on several legal pads.
But to Robert’s surprise, included in the pile of junk, were more than a dozen cemetery brochures, all featuring mausoleums and crypts.
“I need to take these brochures.”
“Take’em. Don’t know why Charlie kept’em anyway. He always lookin at em, like he was gonna die any day. I told’em carryin those things around was bad luck.”
Robert examined the brochures closely, but didn’t see markings or notes on any of them, not an indication one stood more important than the other. “Did he have a favorite?”
“Never talked about ‘em,” said Beth. “Least not to me. I asked him once. He almost bit my head off. I said to hell with it, and never asked again.”
Robert helped Beth up. He thanked her and asked if she needed any help.
“No, but thank you anyway,” she said, friendly and relieved.
Robert stuck the brochures in the inside pocket of his coat, placed a gentle hand on Beth’s shoulder, said goodbye, and left. If the evidence is in one of these twelve, we have a chance. He jumped in his car and threw on Earth Wind and Fire, dialed Thorne, and headed straight for the office.
14
Old and cliche, visiting the White House no longer held a commanding presence for Edward. Until recently.
Over the years, he held at least one face-to-face with every President since Lyndon Johnson, initially joining his father and grandfather. He marveled at the command and authority the senior Rothschilds exerted over the Commander in Chief. He learned even Presidents took orders, answering to more than Congress or the American people.
His limo reached Pennsylvania Avenue and the White House came into view. President William Claymore twice shunned his request for this meeting, until Edward finally sent an “urgent” message through back channels. He often found himself at odds with President Claymore, who proved a most irreverent and difficult President to control.
However, today Edward wanted to secure President Claymore’s endorsement and support for Charleston’s Presidential bid, a move certain to spark controversy, especially since the Vice President, Lucas Springfield, confirmed his candidacy the day before. A risky move, getting Claymore’s support would be difficult but not impossible.
Edward held a few chips he intended to call in. Favors he planned to cash out. Not to mention several Presidential indiscretions recently brought to his attention. I’ll turn the screws if necessary.
A procession of sedans, limousines and government vehicles, lined-up in the White House driveway waiting for the impeccably uniformed Secret Service guard to wave them through. The parade included presidential aides, cabinet members and staff on their way to give the early round of briefings, on everything from foreign affairs to the world economy. Edward smiled. Many of these individuals worked on his payroll, and provided him with the same information as the President, sometimes more.
They reached the guard, who checked his clipboard, peeked inside the car, and asked for their identification. Once identified, they pulled through the gate to another barrier, where a series of lasers and cameras scanned the car for explosives or weapons. They passed muster and continued to the side entrance, where Sarah Ellison, White House aide, waited at the curb.
“Good morning Mr. Rothschild,” said Sarah, bright and cheery. “The President is looking forward to your meeting this morning.”
“Wonderful,” Edward answered, amused. “Will anyone be joining us?”
“Not this morning sir. The President wants to give you his undivided attention.”
Odd, Edward thought. They passed through another checkpoint inside and continued on to the Oval Office. President Claymore never meets with me without a witness. Why the sudden change?
He and Sarah marched in unison along the rich, deeply cushioned, blue carpet, passing portraits of former
