Baby Carter (Baby Grand Trilogy, Book 3) Read online

  “Damn shit machine.”

  “And you named her Lucky?”

  “Not very creative, I know—I don’t have your writer’s mind—but it seemed appropriate. I took her to the vet to get that eye fixed. I had these grand ideas of turning her into a watchdog—especially after she grew to this size. But she was having none of it. Look at her …” Jamie glanced toward the window where the dog had apparently grown tired of waiting for Faith to return to the area rug or the couch and had plopped down next to her. “I guess you can’t change a dog’s nature,” Bailino said.

  An engine sounded, and instantly Bailino and Jamie stood, reaching for their respective guns.

  “Momma, there’s a car coming,” Faith said, pointing out the window.

  “C’mere, sweetie,” Jamie said, running toward Faith. She pulled her away from the window and out of sight. “Who is it?” she asked Bailino.

  Bailino walked toward the front window, holding his gun in such a way that Faith couldn’t see it, and peered out. After a moment, he stuck the gun back into the waistband of his jeans.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, grabbing his wet coat from the hook near the front door. He went outside and closed the door quickly before Lucky could follow him.

  “Who is it, Momma?” Faith asked.

  “I’m not sure. Go have some of your hot chocolate. It’s cool now.”

  As Faith ran to the table, Jamie stood next to the front window, peeking through the glass as Bailino trudged through the snow toward a large truck with Wyoming plates. The vehicle was about to pull into the driveway before Bailino stepped in front of it. The car’s window rolled down, and Jamie could see a woman sitting in the driver’s seat. She had long brown hair and sunglasses, and was smiling widely when Bailino leaned onto the window to talk to her. She put her hand on his, but he pulled away. Bailino pointed to Jamie’s rental car, and the woman pointed toward the window, and Jamie hoped she hadn’t seen Faith.

  After a few moments, the truck made a U-turn. As it drove back up the driveway, Bailino watched it go until it was out of sight. He stood there for several minutes more, and then he turned back toward the house. He entered without saying a word, closed the door, locked it, and hung his coat back on its hook.

  “Who was that?” Faith asked, breaking the silence, and Jamie shushed her.

  “It’s fine,” Bailino said, returning to his seat at the table. “It’s a lady that I know here. She works at the pet store in town.”

  “What’s her name?” Faith asked.

  “Ellie.”

  “Is she your girlfriend?”

  “Faith,” Jamie said firmly.

  “It’s fine … No, she’s not my girlfriend, Detective Faith,” he said, which made Faith giggle into her hot chocolate. His cheeks were red, probably from the cold, but Jamie had the sudden and strange thought they might be red from embarrassment. “Do you have a computer with you?” he asked Jamie, changing the conversation once again.

  “No, I didn’t bring it.”

  “Good,” he said. “Any web activity you need to do should be done through my laptop, which is connected to an anonymizer. This way, your IP address can’t be traced. Same goes for phone calls. If you need to make a call or retrieve a voice mail, you need to use one of my phones, like if you need to call Edward. Or Phillip Grand, like you mentioned.”

  Jamie knew she probably needed to call Edward first. News about the attempted bombing of the White House was going to get out, if it hadn’t already, and she didn’t want him to worry, but she wasn’t sure what to say to him. Where would she say she was? And why did she bring Faith someplace far away? Edward, like the rest of the world, thought Bailino was dead, and she couldn’t tell him otherwise—for Faith’s safety, and also Bailino’s.

  Bailino handed her a phone. “Here, use this,” he said. “Do what you have to do.” Then Bailino shifted gears once again. “Hey, cupcake,” he said to Faith. “Do you know how to make an omelet?”

  Faith placed her empty mug on the table. A wet chocolate moustache glistened on her top lip. She shook her head no.

  “You like peppers?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “How about onions?”

  Faith wrinkled her nose.

  “Okay, get your coat, and we’ll go get some peppers outside.”

  Faith stood up. “Where?” she asked, puzzled. “Out there?” She pointed to the window.

  “Yep. C’mon, I’ll show you. And your mom can come too, if she wants.”

  Jamie reached for Faith’s coat that was hanging on the chair, but her daughter was already putting on the men’s coat Bailino had given her.

  “Where are the peppers? In your car?” Jamie asked.

  “You want to know, you have to come.” Bailino smirked, and Faith giggled again. It was clear that she liked him. Jamie remembered how Faith had taken to Bailino years before. She wondered if there was a small piece of her that somehow remembered him. Bailino zipped up Faith’s coat and folded up her sleeves until her tiny hands poked through.

  Faith pulled down her knit cap until her eyes were barely visible. “You coming to get peppers, Momma?”

  Bailino held up another one of his coats. “It’s up to you. We’ll only be a few minutes. We’re not going far.”

  For some reason, Jamie felt like this was another one of Bailino’s tests. In her mind’s eye, she was back at the river at his Albany log cabin with little Charlotte Grand in her arms, getting an earful on the lessons of loyalty. Was Bailino testing her loyalty now, or was he simply asking her to go and get some peppers? She shrugged.

  “I guess I can’t miss out on a pepper adventure,” she said, to her daughter’s delight. She placed the phone on the dining table and took the coat from Bailino’s outstretched hand.

  When Bailino opened the door, the wind had kicked up and blown more freshly fallen snow on the front porch. Faith took hold of Balino’s hand with her left hand and then grabbed Jamie’s with her right, and the three walked down the snowy steps with Lucky tagging along behind them.

  CHAPTER 13

  Phillip knew Clark was talking because his mouth was moving, but all Phillip could hear was Jim Olsen’s question ringing in his ears: Mr. President, does a Hello Kitty watch mean anything to you?

  Phillip had lied, of course. That was not information that was to be released, and all through the morning’s press briefing he could feel Olsen’s eyes on him like laser beams. Phillip and Agents Fuller and Wilcox decided they should give only the most general of details about the attempted bombing, and most of the journalists seemed content with finally getting some confirmation, with the exception of Olsen.

  Phillip glanced absently at the pedestrians along the area streets gawking and pointing fingers at his tinted windows as the motorcade, a black metal caterpillar, turned right on Wisconsin Avenue, crossing into Maryland. The fact that Olsen had gotten that information meant one of two things: Either there was a leak in his administration, in addition to what was possibly a security breach, or the bomber had contacted the newspaper.

  Phillip’s cell phone rang, and he looked at the caller ID.

  “Excuse me, Josef,” he said and put the phone to his ear. “Yes, Agent Fuller.”

  “According to the phone records, it looks like the anonymous tip was made to the Times from a burner phone, Mr. President,” Brandon said without wasting any time. Even after all his years in public service, it always astonished Phillip how quickly the Secret Service and FBI were able to attain information.

  “So we’ve got nothing,” Phillip said.

  “Well, it looks like the call was local and made after business hours. That’s something,” Brandon said, and Phillip knew the young agent was trying to be positive. “But, yes, we don’t know if the call was made by someone working inside the White House or by someone outside. At this point, it can still be anyone.”

  “Thank you, Brandon. Keep me posted,” Phillip said and placed the phone on his lap.

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nbsp; “Bad news?” Clark asked. He held up his arm to hold onto the top of the automobile—affectionately dubbed “The Beast” by the past two administrations—as the car made a wide turn.

  “Well, it’s not good news,” Phillip said. Like the press, Clark, and just about the rest of Phillip’s inner circle, knew the general details about the explosive device but nothing about the Hello Kitty watch or the phone call to Jim Olsen. That information hadn’t been made available to anyone.

  “Mr. President, if you’re not feeling well, we can put off—”

  “I’m feeling fine, Josef,” Phillip said. “Really, I am, and I’d rather not put off this visit.”

  Phillip never liked to cancel his “well wishes” visits to Walter Reed National Military Medical Center. He knew how much the wounded service members receiving medical care there looked forward to them—as did he. And with the holidays approaching, it was an especially difficult time for them, particularly those who were away from their families. If Phillip could offer a smile or a handshake, it was worth it.

  It was not so long ago that Phillip was a patient there. As was Bailino. A random image of the two of them watching Roseanne in Phillip’s hospital room popped into his head, although Phillip couldn’t recall Bailino ever smiling or laughing at the sitcom. He tended to watch television like he did everything else—with a laser focus.

  “Strange how Vice President Mitchell isn’t visiting with you today, Mr. President,” Clark said, his voice coated with the usual disdain whenever he uttered Rudy Ray’s name.

  “I told him he could sit this one out,” Phillip said. “His daughter is in a school play this morning.”

  Clark raised his eyebrows in obvious disapproval.

  “Now, don’t get all judgmental on ol’ Rudy Ray,” Phillip said. “He’s as devoted to the military as I am, but family is what’s most important. He can schedule another visit to Walter Reed.”

  “Just strange, is all,” Clark said, his Louisiana accent permeating every word, a habit he had when he was trying to infer a point without actually making one, which was most of the time. His staffers knew that, when it came to Clark, the Po’ boy always preceded the Pitbull.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well,” Clark chuckled, “it’s nothing, really …” which is what Clark usually said before he launched into a story. “Last night, around midnight, I guess, I was packing up my gear to head home and was about to dismiss my interns, Ben and Brad …”

  Poor kids, Phillip thought. He knew that Clark worked his interns hard. He imagined that Ben and Brad hadn’t had a decent dinner since the inauguration. Clark thought that the best way to know if someone was cut out for the business of politics was to work them until they nearly passed out from fatigue. It was like his own little version of Navy SEAL Hell Week. It was not Phillip’s way, but Phillip couldn’t fault the guy’s work output. His office was a machine. And those interns who did make it through had an in with Josef Clark for life. Perhaps that was worth the price of exhaustion.

  “ … I overheard them talking about having enough time to get to the pool. Well, curious, I asked them what swimming pool would be open that time of night.” Clark looked Phillip straight in the eye. “You would have thought I asked them to brand their arm with my initials! They looked plum scared to death. I could tell they were up to somethin’, so I said, ‘All right, out with it.’ And that’s when they told me.”

  “I don’t understand,” Phillip said. “Told you what?”

  Clark looked out the window at the passing storefronts. “They weren’t talking about a swimming pool. They were talking about a betting pool.”

  “A football pool?”

  “Not quite. Mr. President, it looks like our intern staff has some thoughts about who is involved with the attempted bombing of the White House.”

  Phillip adjusted himself in the leather seat. “Are you telling me that there is a White House intern pool about the attempted bombing of the White House?”

  “And the odds of it being good ol’ Rudy Ray Mitchell is two to one, apparently. He came in second among the most likely suspects.”

  Phillip let out a long exhale and ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Now, now, no need to get concerned,” Clark said. “You know how young people are with their conspiracy theories and social media surveys these days. Can’t do a damn thing unless it’s been crowdsourced and they’ve taken an online quiz about it. I don’t like it none either, but, still, I believe it’s rather harmless.”

  “Not for poor Rudy Ray,” Phillip said. “So let me get this straight … Rudy Ray’s big plan was to get rid of Katherine and me and just ease into the presidency?”

  “I agree. It doesn’t make much sense, which is why I think you should disregard it.”

  “But you said yourself you thought it was strange that Rudy Ray wasn’t here.”

  Clark adjusted some file folders on his lap. “The timing of it is strange is all, Mr. President. Me finding all this out, and his canceling on this morning’s trip.”

  “And just who exactly did my crack team of interns come up with as the primary suspect of the attempted bombing? And please don’t tell me it’s Katherine.”

  “No.” Clark shook his head. “The First Lady was ranked sixth. Edna Wyatt was number one.”

  “Edna?” Phillip asked, louder than he intended to. He glanced at the agents in the front seat and then lowered his voice. “A fifty-three-year-old housekeeper with grandchildren? A woman who was kind enough to help us through the transition and stay on?”

  “Word has it that she is loyal to the previous administration.”

  Phillip leaned his head back against the headrest. He was tired of all the social media chatter, the conspiracy theories, the way people who have absolutely no knowledge of the facts somehow have the loudest voices in the room.

  “What could Edna believe killing Katherine and me would do?” he asked. “It would only make Rudy Ray Mitchell the new president. It wouldn’t bring back the old one. For Pete’s sake,” Phillip said with disgust. “I want you to squash this nonsense, Josef, however harmless you think it is. I’ll have none of that speculation and innuendo in any part of my administration.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.” Clark made a notation on his tablet and looked out the window.

  Phillip did the same. It had begun to rain, the drops smearing the red taillights of the other cars in the motorcade. An awkward silence had settled upon them, and Phillip was glad when Agent Summers said from the front of the vehicle, “Five more minutes, Mr. President.”

  Even in the rearview mirror, Phillip could spot the sadness in the agent’s eyes. He had wanted to say a little something to Summers before they started the trip, but the agent had been all business. And Phillip couldn’t blame him. There was no getting over the death of a child. Although Phillip hadn’t lost his daughter, he had come dangerously close, and that was close enough. He offered a small smile, but Agent Summers’s gaze had already returned to the road ahead, and Phillip noticed a little girl’s pink plastic ring on one of the agent’s fingers.

  Normally, the trip to Walter Reed took about a half hour, but a bit of road construction along Rockville Pike seemed to have stalled traffic flow. Phillip didn’t mind. He preferred riding in the car rather than the helicopter, which they took from time to time. He was glad to be outdoors, on the ground with his fellow Americans, and away from the White House, which was beginning to resemble Fort Knox. Over the past few days, there had been a doubling up of FBI and Secret Service agents, particularly in the private quarters. As much as Phillip and Katherine tried not to let that spook the children, it was hard to convince them that there’s no such thing as monsters when there was a Secret Service agent checking under their beds every night.

  “Should be moving shortly, Mr. President,” Agent Summers called.

  Phillip glanced out the window, trying to recognize his surroundings. For security reasons, his routes varied each time he vis
ited, so he was never quite sure through which entrance the motorcade would go. All he knew was that today he would be visiting Ward 57, the amputee ward, and getting a briefing on some of the newest advances in prosthetics, an area for which he was eager to find funding. When his Republican colleagues talked about beefing up the military budget, they were usually referring to tanks and guns and weapons of warfare. However, Phillip was just as interested in the medical technology that would make sure American veterans were taken care of long after their service was over.

  He gazed up at the buildings of Walter Reed National Military Medical Center when they came into view, the looming campus a reminder of the good that was still in the world—thousands of doctors, nurses, and hospital staff all tending to those who had devoted their lives to protecting the nation. Phillip wanted to do all he could to help them while he was in office and perhaps when he was out of office as well. He couldn’t think of a nobler endeavor.

  On the sidewalk, outside of what he now recognized as the north gate, a small group of men, women, and children had gathered. Phillip’s visits weren’t publicized, so there generally wasn’t much fanfare, aside from a few families of the wounded and some random passersby who, by luck, would manage to get a quick glimpse of the president.

  A little boy was holding his mother’s hand and waving an American flag high in the air with the other hand. The boy was wearing jeans and a camouflage jacket, and his hair was so blond that it looked almost white.

  “Stop the car a moment, Agent Summers, please,” Phillip said.

  “But, sir, they are waving us to turn and to go through the gate up ahead,” the agent said.

  “Just for a moment, Agent Summers.” He met the agent’s sad eyes through the rearview mirror again.

  The car stopped, and Phillip pressed a button on his side control panel. Instantly, as his window rolled down, there was the sound of doors opening and slamming, and bodies of Secret Service agents appeared, surrounding his vehicle. The men and women on the sidewalk, surprised by the sudden photo op, pulled out their phones as Phillip directed his attention to the towheaded boy.