“Well, I’m here for you, brother. I know this sounds bad, but I hope they suspend you.”
“What?”
“You need a vacation, and I’d love to see you in Japan.”
“I don’t need a vacation.”
“You’re just like Pops. You’ll work till the day you’re dead.”
“Sounds like you, too. Hey, keep your eyes open. I sent your birthday gift with some extra things, too, so you can share it with your colleagues.”
“I can’t wait! You’re always so thoughtful.”
“You, too, sis. Well, I better sign off. Gotta get ready for my meeting.”
“You have a meeting on a Saturday?”
“This investigation is kicking into overdrive. LeRoy wants to know my side of what happened, and nobody cares whether it’s Saturday or Sunday.”
“Good luck with the King!” she said. “Call to update me right after. Love you.”
Chapter 12
Cain enjoyed cooking, but he hadn’t shopped since his trip. He opened the refrigerator and saw it was empty, except for leftover Chinese, a bottle of mustard, some salsa, eggs, and a few bottles of Coke—the ones made in Mexico with the real sugarcane instead of the fructose corn syrup. He grabbed two eggs and placed them in a pot of water. While they boiled, he brewed a batch of Community Coffee. He flipped through a stack of mail while he sipped the chicory coffee his dad had sent him. Mm. This is good. Feel the life coming back to me.
During the commute to the office, his mind naturally went to his interview. What should I say? Should I be forthcoming about Tomcat? He eventually settled on a plan to discuss only things he had firsthand knowledge about. He wouldn’t speculate about rumors or side conversations he’d had with Tom Jackson and the other agents.
Cain was so deep in thought that he was surprised at how quickly he arrived at the White House. He grabbed his wallet from his back pocket and flashed the uniformed Secret Service officer his credentials, which displayed his official photograph and the US code that delineated his authority and jurisdiction.
“Welcome back, Agent Lemaire,” the officer said. “I heard it was quite the party trip.” The cocky officer smirked.
What a jerk! Cain thought. But he understood the conflict between the uniformed division and the agent corps. The agents knew that the officers wanted to be agents, and the officers complained that agents were egotistical prima donnas who thought they were God’s gift to federal law enforcement.
“For an agency with ‘Secret’ in its name, it’s troubling how fast gossip travels,” Cain replied, not trying to hide his annoyance. “For someone of your tenure, I would have expected better.”
“Is it gossip when there’s a picture of you and a few others out drinking the night before the president arrives?”
Cain’s head rocked back. “What are you talking about?”
“It hasn’t made the American news yet, but our intelligence branch showed us a photo this morning during roll call. It shows you, Agent Jackson, and a few others throwing darts with beers in your hands.”
Cain was blindsided. “Open the gate!” he demanded. He stomped on the throttle and skidded his government sedan into one of the first come, first served parking spots. Sunrise was still an hour away, so there were still plenty of spots. His plan had been to work out in the office gym before employees started trickling into the building. That’ll have to wait. I gotta track down this photo.
Instead of using the normal door to his office, he went straight to another entrance. The uniformed officer allowed him to pass. Cain strode through the hallway adorned with portraits of past presidents. The red carpet beneath his feet was about an inch thick. He made a left turn and went toward some downward stairs. A chain blocked the entrance and a sign said RESTRICTED ACCESS. He unhooked the chain and proceeded to the intelligence branch, which occupied a secure command center in the basement of the White House. They monitored everything from CCTV cameras: the airspace around the White House, even the air quality the president breathed.
The analyst was managing two computer screens on her desk.
“The officer outside told me you had a picture of agents out drinking.”
“Good morning to you, too, Agent Lemaire.”
“I’m sorry, Annie. I just got the news dumped on me from the guard outside.”
“Bad news travels fast.”
“You’re telling me.”
“Give me a second and I’ll pull it up on the big screen.”
“Oh, no! Don’t do that. Just pull it up on your computer. I’ll look at it here with you.”
For the first time, Cain saw the picture the reporter had taken while they were at the British pub. “I was off duty and off the protective detail by that point,” he muttered under his breath. Regardless, he knew the perception would not be good. “How’d you get this picture?”
“The State Department received it from our embassy. The photo was broadcast on a news story.”
“Oh, God,” Cain said as he buried his head in his hand. “How can we squash this from spreading?”
“Cain”—she looked at him sympathetically—“you know I’d help you if I could. But it’s too late.”
“What do you mean it’s too late?”
“This picture came in last night when I wasn’t on shift. It was forwarded to the director. He has it now.”
“The director? What did he say about it?”
“He said he would take care of it. Whatever that means.”
“That means it ain’t good. I should’ve snagged that camera myself and shoved it up Tomcat’s ass.”
Chapter 13
Supervisory Special Agent LeRoy “the King” Hayes grew up in Harlem and had worked as a beat officer with NYPD before getting hired by the Secret Service during the Clinton administration. He liked the status that came with being a special agent but was unhappy with the agency. He believed his skin color kept him from getting promoted any higher in the organization. “The only color this agency recognizes is white,” he would often say.
“My day is just starting, and I’m having to deal with this buffoonery,” LeRoy said now in an agitated tone. A flashy dresser, he prided himself on his fancy suits and silk ties, designer ones he’d get his academy classmate, now stationed at the US embassy in Rome, to ship him. Cain’s well-manicured supervisor had a thin mustache and a bald head, and he puffed on a purple e-cigarette with gold leaf clusters. “Tell me what happened, and don’t lie to me.”
“I wouldn’t lie to you, and you know that,” Cain fired back.
“Hell, I know. But those bastards in the ivory tower are crawling up my ass. The brass wants blood on this one. It’s bad.”
“You can’t get blood from a turnip, or from me, on this one,” Cain said, wondering if that was true.
“Just explain the situation and leave all that Southern talk out of it.”
Cain looked beyond LeRoy’s mahogany desk and at the wall displaying a black-and-white photo of Dr. King giving his famous “I Have a Dream” speech. Next to it was LeRoy’s Columbia University degree. Despite his resentment of the perceived racism in the Service, LeRoy never forgot how far he had come in life. “From the slums to the show,” he would remark proudly. Cain knew of LeRoy’s sacrifices and had a great deal of respect for his life journey.