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

  She paused it once more. “I’d say a bullet through the eye counts as foul play, wouldn’t you?” ToniAnne said with a laugh.

  “Gimme that.” Lorenzo swiped the remote from her hands. “I’m getting seasick.” He unpaused it.

  “Both APD and the FBI are on the scene, interviewing witnesses and friends, and, we’re told, persons of interest. The FBI asks that anyone with information contact them at Bureau headquarters.”

  Lorenzo pushed the pause button. “Should I pick up the phone?” he asked snidely, nudging ToniAnne with his elbow.

  “Very funny.” ToniAnne grabbed the remote back.

  “We’ll have more as the story develops,” Seth said with a nod. “Back to you, Susan.”

  ToniAnne lowered the television volume and put the remote down on the couch cushion.

  “It’s about time they found him. I’m sure he stunk,” Lorenzo said, pushing down on the muscles of his biceps.

  “Just like you do.” She pushed him away.

  “Oh, you love it, baby,” he said and nuzzled his face in her breasts.

  “Ewww … Get away from me until you shower. Seriously. And you have to get going anyway, don’t you?”

  Lorenzo got up and stretched, interlocking his fingers and pushing his hands toward the ceiling in a Mr. America pose.

  “Jesus, you really did shave everything,” she said, motioning to his armpits.

  “Want to see where else I shaved?” he said, pulling on the waistband of his gym shorts.

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Why are you in such a pissy mood?” he asked. “It sounds like they know nuthin’.”

  “And they won’t know anything,” ToniAnne said. “Like my father always said—God rest his soul—APDs, NYPDs, any PDs, are a bunch of dummies.” She laughed. She missed the old son of a bitch and his weird expressions. She wished he would have let her visit him more in prison.

  “Can you make me a snack?” Lorenzo said.

  “Jesus, do you ever not eat?” She got up and walked toward the kitchen on the heels of her feet, bending down to tighten the toilet paper twined around her toes.

  “You better hope the Feds aren’t on to you. You can’t run too fast like that.” Lorenzo laughed and disappeared into the bedroom.

  “Please, there ain’t no one alive who can connect me with that college asshole,” ToniAnne called with a dismissive wave of the hand. She pulled leftover fried chicken cutlets from the fridge and set them on the counter. “Of that, my hairless friend, I can assure you.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Bailino stared at the little girl lying next to her mother, with the covers pulled up to her chin. All that was visible were her eyes and nose and her right hand, which dangled toward the floor and onto the belly of Lucky, who had figured out that if she lay directly beneath the little girl she could enjoy a belly rub for most of the night.

  “Aren’t you tired?” Bailino asked. “I made the bed up in my room for you.”

  “No.” The little girl shook her head. Her dark eyes were bright and blinked at the television. “Anyway, me and Momma like to sleep together.”

  “She keeps you safe?”

  Faith nodded. “And I keep her safe.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No, thank you.” She shook her head again and rubbed her nose against Jamie’s cheek. “Is something wrong with Momma?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Usually Momma hears me when I talk or feels when I do this”—she rubbed Jamie’s cheek again with her nose—“and her eyes open, but now her eyes are closed.”

  “She must be very tired,” Bailino said. “She traveled a long way.”

  “I know, she drove miles and miles to see you.” She looked around the house. “Do you live here all alone?”

  “No. I have Lucky.” He smirked.

  “Does Lucky have a last name?”

  “That’s a good question. Do dogs have last names?” he asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Well, then her last name must be Carter, like mine.”

  “And mine.” The little girl’s face opened into a wide smile, lifting her cheeks and making it heart-shaped like her mother’s. Bailino couldn’t believe how grown-up she had become in three short years. She was articulate, smart, and thoughtful. Also like her mother.

  “What’s your name?” she asked. “Your first name, I mean.”

  “Don,” Bailino said.

  “Don Carter?” Faith asked.

  Bailino shrugged. “Well, that’s what they call me around here.”

  “I’m Faith Carter. That’s what they call me where I live.”

  “I know.”

  “How do you know? Did Momma tell you?”

  Bailino hesitated. He didn’t want to contradict anything that her mother had told her. He was unsure of what she knew—if anything—about him. “Yes, she told me your name a long time ago when you were a little girl.”

  Jamie shifted in her sleep, her arm poking out from under the blankets and absently settling on the covered outline of her daughter.

  “You know Momma for a long time?” Faith asked.

  “Well, not too long.”

  “Do you know my Uncle Eddie too?”

  Bailino nodded. “We’ve met.”

  “His last name is Carter too.”

  “I know. Did you know there’s a president that was named Carter?”

  “Yes, he was president when my mother was born.”

  Bailino looked at Jamie, who suddenly seemed so young. That sap Lyndon Johnson had been president when Bailino was born.

  “But the president’s name right now is Phillip Grand,” Faith said. “He’s Charlie’s dad.”

  “Tell me about this Charlie. You like her?”

  “She’s nice, but sometimes she always interrupts me when I talk. She says I talk too slow.”

  “Is that right?” Bailino asked. “Meanwhile, you could recite the Gettysburg Address during the pauses in her father’s campaign speeches.”

  Faith laughed politely, although Bailino was sure she had no idea what he had just said. She cuddled next to her mother.

  “Is that real?” she asked, pointing to the antique gun on the wall.

  Bailino was impressed by how quickly her mind processed information and at her natural curiosity. It had been a long time since he had been around young children, and he had forgotten how refreshing it was. They usually said what they meant and meant what they said. His kind of people.

  “Yep, it’s an old antique pistol.”

  “Why do you keep it up there?”

  “That’s a good question …”

  “Maybe it’s one of your favorite things.”

  “Yes, I guess it is.”

  “This is one of my favorite things …” Faith reached underneath her shirt and pulled something out. “It’s my necklace.” She held it up.

  For the second time that day, Bailino was stunned. He stared at the familiar gold cross that Faith held between her tiny fingers, the cross that had been given to him by his paternal great-grandmother when he was a baby. He had figured the necklace had gotten confiscated by the Feds and was being stored somewhere in the annals of the Bureau. He never imagined it would ever get to the person for whom it had been intended. “It’s very beautiful,” he said.

  “My dad gave it to me when I was a baby.”

  Make that three times.

  The little girl said the word so naturally. Dad. And she looked at him with calm, confident eyes. Bailino wondered what Jamie had told Faith about her father, but he didn’t have to wonder for very long.

  “My dad died,” Faith continued. “He died trying to save me and my mom. He was a hero.”

  “Wow,” Bailino said, “just like you.”

  “Me?” Faith pointed to her chest.

  “Yeah, you saved everyone at the White House.”

  “Does that mean I have hero’s blood in me?”

  “I think so.” />
  “Is hero’s blood better than president’s blood?”

  “I think so,” Bailino said, and the little girl smiled.

  Jamie murmured something in her sleep and turned slightly, tightening her hold on Faith.

  “You must spend a lot of time with your momma,” Bailino said.

  “Yes, we’re like this.” Faith tried to wrap her pointer finger around her middle finger, but it got stuck, so she helped it along with her other hand. “Charlie thinks we spend too much time together. She said Momma should be finding me a new daddy.”

  “That Charlie sounds like a piece of work.”

  “Charlie never does her homework. She thinks she doesn’t have to because her dad is the president.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Anyway, Momma says she doesn’t really want to be with other boys anyway.”

  “She’s a smart woman, your mother,” Bailino said. “Most guys are jerks. What else does Miss Charlotte Charlie Grand have to say?”

  “She says that she always should get to hide first in hide-and-seek, because she’s the oldest, and that’s the rule.”

  “Well, I never heard that rule,” Bailino said. “And I know everything there is to know about hide-and-seek.”

  “Serious?” she asked.

  “Serious.” He rubbed his beard. “It sounds to me like she’s just being bossy. Like her mother.”

  Faith’s eyes opened wide. “I thought only Momma and me knew that.”

  “That the First Lady is bossy? Trust me, it’s no state secret.”

  Faith giggled. “I like talking to you. You’re funny.”

  “I like talking to you too,” he said, and his mind flashed back to when Joey was a little boy—how shy he was, but so incredibly smart. Faith reminded Bailino of him. Unfortunately, the kid had been born into a family of nitwits. Bailino had almost gotten him out. Almost. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep?” He pointed to the wall clock. “Are you comfortable?”

  Faith nodded. “You goin’ to sleep?” she asked.

  “I think so.”

  “All the way in there?” She pointed to the bedroom.

  Bailino smirked. “Well, I might stay up for a little while longer. Is that all right?”

  The little girl nodded and laid her head on the pillow next to her mother’s.

  “Okay, good night.” Bailino flipped the television station to CNN to see if there were any new developments he should know about, but there was a commercial, so he turned off the set and headed into the kitchen. He could feel the little girl’s eyes on him as he pulled out a chair at the dining table and sat.

  He was pretty tired. Damn country living was turning him into an old man. Plus, his biological clock never seemed to reset from Eastern Time. Even after more than three years.

  He pulled his cell phone out from his back pocket and his reading glasses from his shirt pocket, and he scanned the national news websites. They all had the same headline about the kid in Albany who had posted the YouTube video of Grand who had been killed. Bailino scanned the CNN story—no mention of how O’Connell died, but it looked like Wilcox was back in action.

  “Momma says it’s not a good idea to be on your phone right before bed.” Faith’s little head popped up from the sofa. “It’s not healthy.”

  “Your momma’s right,” he said, looking at the little girl’s tired face over the rim of his glasses. He placed the phone on the table. “Try and get some sleep now.”

  Faith’s head disappeared, and Bailino leaned back in his chair. If the death of the YouTube kid and the planting of the White House explosive device were connected, it complicated matters. It meant that some powerful people were involved—people who had access to the White House’s inner sanctum and, quite possibly, New York State law enforcement. And Bailino knew of only a few organizations that could pull off stunts like that.

  He glanced over at the sofa, which was now still.

  She drove miles and miles to see you.

  That remained to be seen, but Bailino was glad that Jamie’s instincts brought the kid to Wyoming, whether she knew he would be there or not. Because if what he saw on his phone was any indication, the little girl was right. None of it was healthy. For any of them.

  CHAPTER 11

  Phillip was sitting on the Truman Balcony off the Yellow Oval Room, one of his favorite spots at the White House. It offered the best—and most secluded—views of Washington. In the east, the sun rose, casting a reddish glow on the grounds and making the carefully cut lawn appear like crushed velvet.

  Across from him, seated on white wicker chairs, Agent Fuller and Agent Wilcox, looking tired from his long day in upstate New York, were exchanging notes. The murder of Samuel O’Connell had been a development that had stunned Phillip. The thought that the young man he met back in 2014 could be involved in an attempted bombing at the White House was almost laughable. His impression of O’Connell at the time was that of an aloof college student of few words and even fewer aspirations, one who had simply been in the right place at the right time when he stumbled upon Phillip coming out of that farmhouse.

  “How is Samuel’s mother?” Phillip asked. Like her son, Phyllis O’Connell had left a lasting impression on Phillip. During her 2014 visit to the Executive Mansion, she had had a strange preoccupation with the building’s array of artwork, on loan from some of New York’s museums. When Phillip had inquired whether she was a fan of art, she replied with a guffaw, “No, but I’m a fan of all the money it’s worth.” Still, the woman had lost a child. “I should call her,” Phillip said.

  “Frankly, there’s no need, Mr. President,” said Wilcox, whose lanky frame seemed to overpower the petite wicker furniture. He took a sip of water. “Mrs. O’Connell has no reason to believe what happened to her son has anything to do with the White House. I believe your calling her would only raise suspicions.”

  “But you believe there is a connection?” Phillip asked.

  “I do, Mr. President,” he said. “However, I can’t provide you with any proof other than a hunch at this time. When everything went down at the Barbara farmhouse three years ago, some puzzle pieces didn’t fit, something didn’t feel right, and in my time as an agent for the Bureau, I’ve learned that when something doesn’t feel right it often isn’t.”

  Brandon flipped through a report. “When did O’Connell’s murder take place again?” he asked.

  “Coroner put the time of death sometime between Tuesday and Wednesday morning,” Wilcox said.

  “So after the attempted bombing?” Phillip asked.

  “Looks that way,” Wilcox said. “Any word from Jamie Carter, Mr. President?”

  “Not yet.” Phillip had put off calling her in the hopes that she would check in. He had to admit: It was strange not to hear from her. In the time she had worked for him, he didn’t think a day had gone by that he didn’t speak with her or get an email or text, but it had been three days since Faith discovered the explosive device, and as much as he wanted to give her space, he was becoming concerned. Plus, Edward had been calling and asking about her. Apparently, she hadn’t checked in with him either. “I will call her,” he said finally. “Today.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Wilcox said just as Phillip’s phone buzzed.

  He looked at the caller ID, hopeful that it was Jamie, but instead it was Collins. Since his disastrous press briefing the day before, Collins had become a bit unhinged and was calling upon Phillip regularly for direction.

  “It’s Collins,” Phillip said to the FBI agents. They returned to their paperwork, and Phillip swiped the phone screen. “Yes?”

  “Mr. President,” he said, in what had become his usual panicked voice. “I just received a call from a Jim Olsen at The New York Times. He said you know him.”

  “Yes, I know him well.” Olsen seemed to have gotten a promotion along with Phillip, moving from local to national politics as Phillip moved from New York to Washington, D.C. “What is this about, Collins?”
r />   “He says he has some information that he needs confirmed about what happened on Monday.”

  “Did he mention the IED?”

  “Not directly,” Collins said, “but I have a feeling he knows something.”

  “The briefing is in a few hours.” Phillip had put off the press long enough—there was too much speculation and fear-mongering—and he had decided that he, himself, would address the media that morning and give Collins a break. “Tell him to wait.”

  “I told him that,” Collins said, “but he was adamant about getting confirmation now.”

  “What exactly does he know?”

  “I don’t know. He wants to talk with you directly.”

  “That’s not how this is done, Collins.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I know that, sir,” Collins finally said, sounding a bit injured. “But Olsen said he’s ready to publish online and would like confirmation from the White House—the president—immediately.”

  Phillip sighed. Olsen was playing hardball. “All right, Collins, thank you. I’ll handle it.” He placed his phone on the glass table. “Sorry for the interruption, gentlemen. You were saying?”

  “We were talking about Jamie Carter,” Wilcox said. “How it’s best that she returns, for her safety as well as yours. I hate to press, but the sooner you can reach her, the better. At the very least, she can deal with the press. It would be helpful to have your full attention on this matter.”

  “Agreed.” Phillip looked at his watch. It was probably an hour or two earlier where Jamie was staying, wherever that was. He took out his cell phone, scrolled to the number Jamie had given him, and dialed. He got up, stretching his legs, as Wilcox too stood and picked up his cell phone.

  The line rang on Phillip’s phone several times, but Jamie didn’t answer, so he left a message. When he was through, Phillip placed the phone in his shirt pocket just as Wilcox was sliding his phone back onto the clip on his belt.

  “She wasn’t there,” Phillip said. “I left a message. Brandon, how about your team? Anything new?”

  “Unfortunately, no, Mr. President,” Brandon said. “I’ve personally interviewed all of the staff, with the exception of Jamie”—he glanced at Wilcox—“and, unfortunately, we don’t have anything usable. Several kitchen workers identified the utensils and other things used in the device, but couldn’t recall when they had gone missing. In some cases, they thought months, which means there was a lot of time for the perpetrator to piece this thing together.” Brandon began to rock slightly in his seat in the way Phillip had seen him do on his feet. “And, unfortunately, Mr. President, because we are talking about a long period of time, there’s really no ‘alibi’ to speak of. Whoever did this was stealing a few minutes here, a few minutes there.”