Both of the surveillance devices I installed are gone.
And with them the identity of Diana’s killer.
I have no leads and nowhere to go.
Chapter 26
After parking my Triumph, I walk the streets of the capital, stopping often to double back and watch for anyone paying close attention to me. I find a coffee shop in Georgetown and sit with my back to the wall, watching everyone who walks into the place. A muscle-bound Asian guy. Two cute college girls. An elderly woman and two grandchildren. A slick suit talking into his earpiece.
I don’t know whom to suspect. Anyone could be watching me anywhere.
At 10:00 a.m., I get a text message from the White House. The president is back from a week on Martha’s Vineyard and is holding a press conference at 2:30 this afternoon. It’s my week to cover the briefing room, and I consider asking my partner, Ashley Brook Clark, to cover it for me. But today it’s a welcome diversion.
Inside the Brady Room, the major network reporters are dolled up in their makeup, coiffed hair, and neatly pressed clothes, doing stand-ups, predicting to the audiences at home that the president will comment on the next secretary of agriculture, the unrest in Libya, and the resumed fighting in Chechnya. Me, I have an online newspaper, so I don’t need to care much about my appearance—but even for me, I’m looking worse for wear today. I’ve only slept a handful of hours over the last forty-eight, and, not being able to return home, I was forced to buy clothes at Brooks Brothers. My shirt is still creased from the package, and the sport coat is too big in the shoulders. I look like a disheveled kid.
The press secretary, Rob Courtney, is prepping us with some details of the president’s schedule over the next week and some background on the appointment he’s announcing today. I don’t need it. I’ve known who was going to be the next secretary of agriculture for two weeks now. It pays to know people on the inside. And when I say it pays, I mean that literally. Usually it’s Redskins or Nationals tickets. Several years ago, I flew a source in the State Department and his girlfriend to Manhattan and back for the evening in my Cessna. She had a wonderful birthday dinner at Moomba and I had a nice headline story about how the ambassador to Australia was planning to resign to run for governor of Ohio.
“Blue shirt, red tie,” predicts the reporter next to me, Wilma Grace. A running joke with us, and a running bet. Being the gentleman that I am, I always let her pick first.
“White shirt, blue tie,” I counter.
I look around the briefing room and slowly calm. I’m safe, if nothing else, within the confines of the West Wing, and seeing familiar faces is comforting.
“The president of the United States,” says Rob Courtney.
President Blake Francis strides in with the fluid ease that accompanies power, with a fresh tan from vacation, and with a blue shirt and red tie.
“You saw him today already,” I whisper to Wilma.
“Never said I didn’t.”
“That’s cold, Gracie. That’s cold.”
“You might want to take the price tag off your sport coat,” Wilma suggests. Yeah, I’m feeling better. I’m glad I came.
“Afternoon, everyone,” says the president. “It’s nice to be back. I can’t tell you how much I missed all of you.”
Polite laughter from those of us in the peanut gallery. The aides flanking him laugh like he’s just told the funniest joke ever uttered.
“Before I discuss the appointment I’m here to announce, I’d like to make one comment. Many of you were as saddened as I was to learn of the recent death of Diana Hotchkiss, who worked for several years on Congressman Carney’s staff and then as a liaison for the CIA.”
I blink. Did he—did I hear him correctly?
“And I understand that her family has suffered a second tragedy recently with the death of her brother,” he continues. “I’d just like to say that Libby and I send the Hotchkiss family our very best.” President Francis gives a presumptive nod. “Okay. Now, as you know, I promised that before I appointed the next secretary of agriculture, I would search high and low…”
I look at Wilma, who returns my glance but doesn’t seem to be registering any undue surprise. She shrugs her shoulders. “Some staffer on the Hill, I guess?” she whispers.
I nod back. Wilma obviously didn’t know Diana. She meant a great deal to me, but to most people Diana was one of thousands of faceless, ambitious staffers toiling behind the scenes of power.
So how did she warrant a mention in a nationally televised news conference with the president of the United States?
Chapter 27