At Any Cost (7 page)

Fallon instantly lost all capacity to fake courtesy. She grabbed the receiver from Ingrid's slack hand and hung up. Bright red splotches appeared in Ingrid's pale cheeks as her eyebrows floated dramatically upward.

“Give me the search warrant,” Fallon demanded.

Ingrid stood up. “You have no right—”

“Give me the search warrant,” Fallon repeated with ice in her voice.

Ingrid stiffly turned to the credenza behind her and waved it at Fallon. “I am sure Alan has spoken with you …”

Fallon snatched the document from her hands. Ingrid, inflamed for missing an opportunity to milk the moment for all its glorious humiliation, reached for Fallon as if to strike her.

Tom grabbed Ingrid's wrist. “Don't,” he said.

Fallon couldn't stay to argue or play games with this office sociopath. She had to get out. Quickly, before the tears came.

Back in Fallon's office, her hands were shaking so violently she kept dropping the warrant. “Calm down,” Tom said soothingly. “Do you want me to read it?”

Fallon handed the document to Tom and shut her door.

She could not sit. She could not stand. She paced, finding a little comfort in the nervous movement. A search warrant! It was ridiculous—unthinkable. Her mind reeled at the sheer craziness of it, while at the same time, knowing that no matter how crazy it was, her life would have to be about this now. On top of an insane amount of work and the friction caused by her father's transition into the presidency, she would now have to spend every day defending herself, explaining every decision, and opening her life not only to prosecutors but to the public. Another wave of nausea coursed through her.

Staring at the empty desk where her laptop was supposed to be, she tried to imagine if the search warrant would actually reveal something incriminating. In law school, one of her professors said that nobody was innocent of everything. If any authoritarian party had the ability to search freely, they would eventually find something that could prove either embarrassing or illegal. Fallon had not believed him at the time. But now that the FBI was searching her computer, trepidation forced her to think twice. What was on the hard drive anyway? Emails from law school friends. Jokes. Bookmarks, research notes. She tried to remember if she had ever looked at porn while at work. She certainly did not think so, but sometimes friends sent links that didn't exactly pass the white glove test.

Realizing this could be the end of her career, a fresh upsurge of panic washed over her. It was over before it really began.

“It's an FBI warrant,” Tom said. “They're accusing you of selling a fatal dose of cocaine to a Leo Jacobellis of Malibu, California five years ago.”

Fallon felt the blood drain from her face, her expression slacken. The words were so true, she could not even keep up the pretense of innocence. Hearing that name had the strange effect of making everything very clear and very quiet, as if something inside had been struck with a tuning fork. In the silence, she could hear the muted typing from the office next door and her heart outpacing it. She saw Tom's confused face and wanted to explain, but her throat closed and no words could squeak through.

The last two weeks of the campaign, in a classic October surprise, in between the onslaught of insinuations about her parent's marriage and accusations from women who would swear to meeting Preston Taylor Hughes in some trashy motel, an opposition research consultant turned up something juicy for the Ballard campaign about Fallon Hughes—and Gil Parry used it to maximum political advantage. The Ballard campaign ran scary ads with the announcer warning in a swoopy timbre, “If Preston Taylor Hughes can't run his own house, how can we trust him to run the White House?”

Her father could only answer that politician's children were off limits and there were serious issues facing the nation that needed our attention; energy wasted on gossip was better spent schooling our children, helping our neighbors, and making the United States a better place to live. Despite his tepid response, the election results resolved—barely—in Hughes's favor.

This was going to reignite the scandal.

Fallon was suddenly thirsty. Her whole body felt desiccated, and she recognized it as life being drained out of her. This was only the beginning. It would only get worse. As an intensely private person, she would have to see her life and her family torn apart, examined, criticized. Her whole life would be about this now. Fighting some prosecutor, trying to prove her innocence.

“FBI agents are probably at my house with a search warrant,” she said stiffly. “Come on, I need to go home.”

Tom radioed the vehicles that Avalon was en route downstairs. A knock at the door startled her. Tom opened it, and she was relieved to see it was Sam Cahill, her boss, not the FBI prepared to arrest her.

He looked at her with genuine concern. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, instantly clicking into professional mode.

“You look like you've swallowed a tack.”

“It's bad,” she whispered.

“I heard. Take the rest of the day. I'll run interference for you.”

The gratitude nearly knocked her sideways. “I didn't do anything …”

“I know. Go take care of this.”

Scrabbling in her handbag, she found her phone and, with shaking fingers, dialed her father's cell phone. Blake Henley, her father's chief of staff, answered. “Hi, let me talk to my dad,” she exhorted, alarmed at how breathless she sounded.

“I'm sorry, we're in the car, just arriving at the fireman's union for his speech about …”

Disappointed in herself for having to say it, she cut him off: “Interrupt, please Blake. This is a family matter.”

“Just a moment.”

After some back and forth, her father's voice came on the line.

“Daddy,” Fallon gushed, and to her horror, her voice broke. “Somebody has a search warrant for me and they issued it at work.”

“A search warrant for what?”

“The … Jacobellis incident. They're accusing me of murder.”

Preston Hughes inhaled a shocked little breath. Fallon squeezed her eyes shut, feeling his disapproval emanating from the phone. “Ballard has stacked that goddamn agency with cronies and supporters. It is the most politicized Justice Department in history. This is beyond the pale and …”

“Dad …”

Keeping his voice level, he said, “I'll call Max.”

“I'm heading home because the FBI is probably there right now. Have the lawyer meet me at my place.”

“I'll have Max meet you there. Do not speak to anyone until you have counsel.”

In shock, Fallon nodded, then realized her father couldn't see her on the phone. “Okay. Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“I'm sorry.”

“Stay calm,” he answered. He mumbled, “One minute,” to someone else—a personal assistant, press secretary, chief of staff. This was just another to-do in her father's long list of action items. She was interrupting him with her problems. She hung up and turned to Tom.

“I need to go home.” She moved toward the door of her office, but Tom grabbed the sleeve of her coat. “Hold on,” he said. “Let me get the limos lined up first.”

In the haze of terror that had enveloped her, she recognized, dimly, that he was trying to protect her. No doubt word had spread through the office that a search warrant had been served, but if she ran out, white with shock, and he was issuing orders into his cuff mike, it would only excite more gossip.

“Okay,” she nodded. She shut her eyes, trying to find some equilibrium between extreme happiness and
pure fucking hell
.

Tom quickly conveyed the information and then opened the door for her, walked with her to the elevators, pushed the buttons, and got her the hell out of there.

At the door of her loft, Fallon was shaking so violently she could not fit her key into the lock.

“Let me,” Tom said, and inserted the key. “Check it out. I'll wait here.”

Leaving the door open, she disappeared inside. Tom pushed the door wide on its hinges, looking for any obvious sign of disturbance in the apartment. He watched Fallon hurry up a staircase of wide, broad glass or Lucite stairs—they were clear, which Tom found unsettling for some reason. Entering a protectee's home was beyond the purview of his job. Nevertheless, he took a step inside the foyer to get a better look around. Everything looked normal, but his neck was crawling weirdly.

“All clear?” he called from the doorway.

From the interior depths of the loft, Fallon called, “I'll be right there.” After a few tense moments, she descended the stairs. “Would you come inside? I don't want to be alone. I'm scared they're going to show up any minute.”

After a moment of hesitation, he entered, leaving the door open.

Fallon's loft was full of Bohemian charm. Overstuffed cream and jewel tone furniture was spread over what seemed to be an acre of clear space, made more dramatic by the cathedral ceiling and a sinuously curved glass wall extended the entire length of the loft, admitting a sweeping view of the Potomac River and green-gray hills of Arlington, Virginia. She was a woman who needed to see the world—literally. African masks and several good pieces of modern abstract art hung on the walls. Colorful vases and figurines were placed unobtrusively throughout the room—collectibles from the farthest reaches of the world. On one wall, an assortment of black and white photographs showed Fallon in various exotic locales: Fallon in a Jeep with a family of giraffes behind her; Fallon at the Taj Mahal; Fallon and her friend Gwen with their arms around each other's shoulders, grinning into the camera with the Eiffel Tower behind them. Several pictures featured Fallon with her young brother Evan. He was tow-haired with a stiff, lopsided smile. Tom averted his eyes from those pictures, unable to tolerate the creamy sweetness of them.

Fallon's jittery, unsettled movements and restless energy reminded him of a hummingbird or bumblebee. She looked beyond scared as she whipped open the cabinets in her immaculate, modern kitchen. Even terrified out of her wits, she was so stunning that Tom's breath arrested in his chest. He wasn't sure he would ever be able to think of her as just a protectee.

Fallon poured two glasses of soda, then added a generous splash of rum to one. She kept that one and offered the soft drink to Tom.

She took a long swig then set it on the counter. “Tell me again what the warrant says.”

“It says the Department of Justice has probable cause to believe that five years ago you sold a fatal dose of cocaine to Leo Jacobellis.”

Fallon frowned and shook her head pensively. “I never sold him anything. I've never done any illegal drugs at all. But … Leo was my boyfriend. And he did overdose on cocaine. You probably heard about it during the campaign. Dad's opponent made sure that every person in America believed I was a drug-addicted whore.”

Her voice had turned bitter; he saw that Fallon had been genuinely hurt by the attacks. But voters apparently believed that nasty gossip had nothing to do with the ability of Preston Hughes to govern, which made the timing of the search warrant even more curious. If the incumbent administration was going to harass the opposition with a murder investigation, why wait until it was too late to affect the outcome of the election?

Fallon was still visibly shaking. She was so pale that for the first time, he noticed

fine, coppery freckles sprinkled over the bridge of her nose. Had they always been there? He tried to remember.

Lifting the drink to her lips, she swallowed the rum and coke in huge, fast gulps. Then poured another. She still had that scared, glittery look in her eyes, like shaken dice offered in a cup.

“I didn't kill him,” Fallon said. “Though I think … I think it will be difficult to prove that.”

Tom could have laughed. The thought of Fallon killing someone was actually amusing. But he only said, “It won't get to the stage where you have to prove it. ”

A loud knock at the door was followed by an authoritative male voice saying, “Miss Hughes?”

Fallon stiffened. Kevin White, the agent posted to the control room all morning, peered inside. “Ma'am, please pardon the interruption. Max Hall is here to see you. He says he has an appointment.”

“Oh thank God,” Fallon muttered, visibly relieved that the reinforcements had arrived. “Let Max in, please.”

Max Hall had been the president's personal attorney for thirty years. In all the time Fallon had known him, even on social occasions, he never lost the patina of supreme competence. In a town full of attorneys and politicians, Max Hall had a monopoly on composure; he simply did not lose control, ever. It was this element of his personality that permitted Fallon a faint glimmer of hope that this nightmare would be handled well and quickly.

“Max, they served a warrant on me at work,” she said, thrusting the document at him. “It's not true. I've never bought or sold or used cocaine. I don't know how this happened. Why now?”

Max let her babble while he scanned the document. He flipped to the back page and read the signatures of the FBI agents and judge. “This is shit,” he said calmly. “They haven't been here yet?”

“Not yet.”

“They will be,” he said. “They are looking for indications of drug transactions, financial records, and narcotics and narcotics paraphernalia.”

“Oh God,” she groaned.

“Where I can make a call?”

Fallon indicated the back of the house, toward the office area. She took another gulp of her rum and coke, then stood very still at her black-granite bar, looking bewildered, as if she recognized nothing about her own life.

The burning anxiety in her eyes activated all kinds of protective instincts in Tom. It went beyond the rote throw-yourself-in-front-of-a-bullet training to something altogether more personal. Fucking his protectee in a hallway was the epitome of bad judgment, but it also helped clarify just how intensely he was committed to keeping her from harm, whether it was a bullet, an indictment, or a map of the keys, whatever that was.