Dead to the Last Drop Read online

  “Of course you do,” I continued, “because you’ve done your research.”

  Fortunately I no longer had to worry about a deadly crash. Abby had entered the Washington Park traffic circle—and she couldn’t seem to find her way out.

  While she looped around a second and then a third time, a flock of black SUVs appeared. Expertly jockeying through traffic, two vehicles flanked us like hungry raptors while a third pulled up right behind, and a fourth zoomed in front of us.

  Boxed in by the bigger vehicles, Abby was forced to slow to a reasonable speed. But by now, she’d given up the fight—and flight.

  “You see, Ms. Cosi, there’s no getting away,” she said as we came out of the circle, onto Pennsylvania again. “Freedom is fun. But it’s fleeting. And that’s inevitable.”

  She glanced at me. “It’s best to know what’s inevitable, don’t you think? Only crazy people get blindsided by life’s little surprises. I never want to be crazy. Not ever again.”

  “Whoever said you were crazy?”

  “Forget it,” Abby said. “Helen said I should never, ever use that word.”

  “Helen? Is that a college friend?”

  “No. She’s on the White House staff.”

  Before I could ask more questions, Abby announced—

  “We’re here!”

  She turned off the blaring radio, and I prayed my hearing would come back before I met the President’s wife.

  I noticed our escort vehicles came to a stop, allowing Abby enough room to drive her car through a narrow corridor between huge, traffic-blocking concrete-potted plants.

  As we reached a tall iron gate beyond, guards appeared to open them. These members of the Secret Service Uniformed Division had obviously been expecting Abby. They immediately waved us through the gate, and we rolled deeper into the White House grounds.

  Abby followed a narrow road that ran parallel to the lush lawn, until we reached the East Appointment Gate.

  The gate opened automatically, and we were waved through.

  Previous to this, I’d only admired the White House through books and strolled past as a curious pedestrian, gazing through the fence. It gave me chills to be on the other side.

  We followed a gently curved driveway around a bubbling fountain, then Abby pulled right up to the two-story, colonnaded East Wing building, which I already knew served as the office of the First Lady and her staff.

  More people were gathered outside the virgin white structure, all waiting for us. Things got more crowded when Agent Cage’s SUV and two others parked behind ours.

  I felt the door slam and realized Abby was already out of the cab and was racing for the entrance. I rolled my window down and called after her.

  “You’re leaving me?”

  “The Secret Service will take care of you,” Abby yelled back. “I’ll see you inside.”

  That’s when I saw a torn piece of sheet music lying in the driver’s seat, my name scrawled on it.

  I turned it over. In the same hand I saw eight words.

  Watch out for my mother. She’s onto us.

  I didn’t know what to do with the note. If I were in a spy movie I’d probably eat it. Instead I stuck it between the seat cushions—and just in time, too, because the frowning face of Agent Sharon Cage suddenly filled my window.

  “Please step out of the vehicle, Ms. Cosi. You’ll have to clear security before you meet the First Lady.”

  Thirty

  I entered the somber, wood-lined East Wing Lobby anticipating a security check along the lines of a TSA airport screening.

  I got that—and a whole lot more.

  The difference was: here in the People’s House, under the watchful eyes of the Presidents and First Ladies, whose portraits hung on the walls, things were polite . . .

  Exceedingly polite.

  “Welcome to the White House, Ms. Cosi. My name is Carol. How nice of you to visit us today.”

  My greeter had a light Virginian drawl and a rosy, cherubic face like Mrs. Santa’s on a vintage Coca-Cola poster. This jovial woman also possessed a tasteful bouffant of snow-white hair, and the most gracious and genuine smile I’d ever encountered.

  I liked Carol instantly. I couldn’t help myself, and her warm, wise sapphire eyes told me she liked me, too. That’s when it struck me, looking at her rosy cheeks, white hair, and blue eyes.

  Carol seemed to embody the best of America itself.

  “May I take your wrap?” she asked. Without a hint of condescension or even levity, she relieved me of my Village Blend apron. Then she draped it over her forearm as if it were a full-length chinchilla coat.

  “Come along with me, Ms. Cosi. We’ll get the messy stuff out of the way as fast as we can so you can get on with your day.”

  Heels clicking, Carol ushered me along the East Colonnade, a long corridor with massive windows along one wall. We trod along a central gold rug that reminded me of the yellow brick road. In the February sun, the floors on either side of that rug were as slick and shiny as just-Zambonied ice before a Penguins hockey game.

  (Sports analogy again. Yes, I was that nervous.)

  Agent Cage silently followed, while Carol happily chatted away, informing me that these windows faced the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden.

  “Trees, shrubs, and flowers all seem to thrive in the shelter of the south-facing White House,” Carol noted. “The rays of the spring sun are reflected and magnified by these white walls. The light helps everything in the garden grow, which is as it should be, I think.”

  Because it was late February, the view wasn’t as colorful as it soon would be, but my guide regaled me with descriptions of the coming pink tulips and magnolias, and the bronze and gold spoon chrysanthemum Starlet in the fall. Carol pointed out the dedication plaque, then directed my attention to a white, cast-iron Rococo Revival garden bench that had been on the White House grounds since 1850.

  “I like to think Abraham Lincoln rested there during our nation’s most trying days,” Carol said, eyes misty.

  Next we arrived in the East Garden Room, a sunlit space with double doors that led to the Kennedy garden we’d passed. An enormous bronze bust of Lincoln by Gutzon Borglum occupied a niche on the west wall. The east wall was dominated by four massive presidential portraits.

  “This room, I admit, is a bit austere. But I wish you could have seen it a few months ago,” Carol said, beaming now. “Christmas decorations hung everywhere, and the official greeting cards the First Family received were displayed on the wall panels beside Lincoln.”

  Carol’s holiday story was heartwarming, but there was little goodwill toward men in this room at the moment. I suddenly found myself flanked by officers of the Secret Service Uniformed Division, here to complete my screening process.

  I was asked to remove my shoes, along with the claddagh ring Mike gave me, and a delicate gold cross on a long chain that was my confirmation gift from my nonna. But instead of dropping my stuff in a dirty plastic tray, Carol took them for safekeeping.

  In another especially nice, extra personal touch, Agent Sharon Cage used the security wand on me herself.

  “I didn’t even have time to grab a coat,” I told her. “So you can bet I’m not armed.”

  “We already know you don’t have a gun,” Agent Cage informed me. “Magnetometers scanned you when you drove through the gate, and again when you entered the lobby. Right now I’m checking for chemical or biological agents, as well as explosives.”

  I made my arms into angel wings. “Check away.”

  Thirty-one

  SHARON Cage seemed almost disappointed to find me free of anthrax, nuclear waste, and improvised explosive devices.

  But all was not lost.

  Cage stepped back and signaled a courteous but annoyingly thorough female member of the Uniformed Division, who began a pat-down of
my person.

  Cage took the opportunity to poke and prod me, as well—not with her hands but with questions and innuendo.

  “I see you were previously screened to attend one of the DOJ’s holiday parties.”

  “Yes, it was held at the Lincoln Cottage. A lovely affair—”

  “Affair? Is that a Freudian slip?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Were you on a real date or were you with a beard?”

  “A beard?”

  “Sometimes a prominent man’s wife and mistress both insist on attending a prestigious event. He escorts his wife, and finds a beard to take his—”

  “My date was Michael Quinn,” I said, cutting her off. Not only had I heard enough from this impertinent young woman, but the uniformed agent unexpectedly began probing a few tender spots.

  “I don’t know any Quinn at Justice,” Agent Cage said suspiciously.

  “He’s an NYPD detective on special assignment with the DOJ. If you need to know more, I suggest you call—Yikes!”

  The gloved hand that slipped inside my sweater and between my breasts caught me a little off guard.

  “I’m so sorry,” Cage said in a tone that was not at all apologetic. “After our high-speed chase over here, I asked the security screeners to be particularly thorough.”

  The hand withdrew and I adjusted my clothing.

  “So how close are you to this New York cop?” Cage asked. “Are you sleeping with him, or simply stringing him along?”

  I slapped a probing hand away from my ponytail and freed it for inspection myself. As my chestnut hair came tumbling down, I turned to face Agent Cage.

  “Look, I understand you have to do your job, but you’ll find I don’t intimidate easily.”

  “That’s all I am doing, Ms. Cosi, my job.”

  “Is it your job to dislike me?”

  “I dislike anyone who knowingly endangers the President’s daughter.”

  “That’s an unfair charge and you know it. And I’ll tell you something else. I’m a mother, which means I know from hard experience that keeping kids in protective bubbles only works if the kids go along. If they want out, they always manage to find a way.”

  Cage stopped goading me after that. She stopped talking to me, too, but in her eyes, I could see that I’d made my point.

  She knew as well as I did that Abby wasn’t a kid. She was a twenty-year-old woman, smart enough to evade her security detail if that’s what she was determined to do.

  And yet, in that moment, I did seriously consider violating Abby’s confidence and telling Cage about her escape to my coffeehouse the night before.

  But there would be consequences to my speaking up.

  For one thing, Abby would never trust me again. And I sensed she needed people in her life she could trust.

  For another, there was my official statement to the DC Metro police. I’d lied to protect Abby, but they wouldn’t see it that way, and I knew the First Family wouldn’t want their daughter dragged into a messy situation like that.

  Nevertheless, my internal struggle continued, right up until a male voice called out—

  “Agent Cage, would you step over here, please?”

  Thirty-two

  AS Sharon Cage was called to a spot beside Honest Abe, a shiver went through me. For a few minutes there, I’d forgotten that President Abraham Lincoln had once lived on these grounds. That fact swung back on me with awesome force.

  I thought about those years when our country was at war with itself—and the Underground Railroad was at work under my temporary home on N Street.

  It was hardly the same, yet I couldn’t help seeing the similarities in Abby’s situation. From her point of view, she was waging her own little rebellion, complete with her own secret routes to freedom.

  As the voices buzzed across the room, I tried to make out what they were saying. Two stern-looking men in three-piece suits were showing Agent Cage something on a tablet computer.

  “Who are those guys?” I asked Carol as she returned my jewelry.

  “Oh, they’re the fussbudgets from the Protective Intelligence squad.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Seems they ran some background checks on you and hit a few snags.”

  “What sort of background checks?”

  Carol tapped her ruddy cheek and turned her blue eyes skyward.

  “Well, they surely went to the National Crime Information Center, and the National Law Enforcement Telecommunications System to see if you’ve ever been arrested. They likely ran your name through the LexisNexis Accurint for Law Enforcement, too. After that, they would have gone to the FBI, the DEA, the IRS, the NYPD . . . Oh, and did I mention Interpol?”

  “With that kind of thoroughness I’ll bet a security check on Mother Teresa would have ‘hit a few snags,’ too.”

  As Carol chuckled, I hung the cross back around my neck and tucked it into my sweater. Next my escort surprised me with the loan of a compact mirror and a hairbrush. In a few moments I did what I could to control my flyaway hair. I would have to go with the little makeup I had on.

  As I handed back the mirror and brush, Agent Cage returned.

  “Do you have your driver’s license on you?”

  Why? I thought, blinking at the woman. Are my parking violations now a matter of national security? But what I said was—

  “Sorry. I don’t have it.”

  “Sharon! I’ve got it!”

  The Secret Service agent I mistook for a Saudi in my coffeehouse now hurried across the gleaming diamond-checkerboard floor, waving a piece of paper.

  “Good work, Agent Sharpe.”

  I pointed. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “It’s a photocopy of your New York State driver’s license,” Agent Sharpe said as he passed the sheet to his boss.

  “Would you mind telling me where you got that?”

  “When you opened your club, you applied for a C license to serve liquor in DC. At that time, you were required to submit a copy of your ID.” He flashed a self-satisfied grin. “I contacted the Alcohol Beverage Regulation Administration, and they e-mailed a copy over to us.”

  I shouldn’t have been surprised. Quinn’s own interdepartmental work in New York had taught me that government bureaucracy was one big happy family. With a very Big Brother.

  “But why all the fuss for my license?”

  “Your passport and your license both display your photo,” Cage explained. “We need two visual IDs to confirm you are really you.”

  “Because you already have my passport photo, right?”

  Agent Sharpe nodded. “And by the way, the State Department informed us that your passport has expired. If you plan to travel, you’ll have to renew it.” He paused. “Do you plan to travel outside of this country, Ms. Cosi?”

  “No, I don’t plan on leaving the country . . .” And I’m not a foreign operative, I swear. “But thanks for the advice on the passport—”

  Just then, the staccato whip-cracks of snapping fingers echoed through the quiet space with all the comfort and joy of dry bones rattling in a midnight cemetery.

  The sound was especially chilling because it was so familiar.

  “Let’s go, Lidia, I have another meeting to get to . . .”

  And there she was, Quinn’s boss at the U.S. Justice Department. Acting Director Katerina Lacey.

  Thirty-three

  KATERINA’S assistant, an attractive young Latina, was working hard to balance herself on high heels while overburdened by a briefcase and a tall stack of legal-sized files.

  Acting Director Lacey was hands-free, of course. All the better to snap those obnoxiously impatient fingers.

  I had to admit the woman was striking, easily the most attractive person in the room. In contrast to her somber gray pinstripes and pointy leather pumps, Katerina’s f
lawless alabaster skin seemed almost spectral. She was as tall as half the men in the room, which explained her assistant’s attempt to rise to her level—at least in height. She wasn’t shapely, but her slenderness was fashionable, and with her shiny, blunt-cut, strawberry blond hair perfectly framing her face, Katerina turned a few heads.

  Despite the attention from the males in her gravity, however, Katerina must have felt my gaze on her as well, because she looked right at me. Immediately my emerald eyes met her pea-greens. With a toss of her hair, Katerina lifted her perpetual pout into a smirk. Then, to my horror, she turned her kayak-shaped toes toward me.

  “Clare, isn’t it? What a place to meet!”

  “Funny, huh?”

  “What are you doing at the White House? Do tours begin this early?”

  “I’m here on official business. And you?”

  “The same.” Katerina’s pretty brow wrinkled. “But I wasn’t aware of any catered events scheduled for today. And I certainly didn’t know your little shop had the gravitas to be commissioned for such a function.”

  Oh, brother.

  “My coffeehouse hasn’t been commissioned for anything, Katerina. I’m—”

  Carol reappeared. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but the First Lady is quite anxious to receive Ms. Cosi. Shall we go?”

  I expected Katerina to register shock, but she didn’t raise one plucked eyebrow.

  “Good luck,” she said instead, in a tone that wished me anything but. Then she whirled on her low, pointy shoes and strutted to catch up with her still-tottering assistant.

  After Mike’s revelations, and my own misgivings about this woman, Katerina’s lack of surprise came as something of a shock to me.

  Perhaps it shouldn’t have, for as Carol ushered me through the same doorway Katerina and her assistant had exited, my White House guide spoke in a suddenly hushed tone.

  “We’re in the presidential residence now. This is the main building of the White House. You should feel honored to be invited here.”

  I would, I thought. Except that Katerina was just here, which means she likely met with the First Lady or a member of her staff.