Dead to the Last Drop (37 page)

“Impenetrable jungle? Or having doubts?”

The President smiled. “The American public doesn’t want us to be fallible, and we do our very best, but the shape of the Oval Office is more than a physical design. So many times, we go around and around on big decisions, wondering if our choices are the right ones: Will they help? Will they hurt? Will history show us to be brilliant . . . or blinded?” He paused. “Well . . . at least TR and I agree on one thing that helps immensely when making historic decisions—”

“Consulting your spouse?”

“That, too. But I was going to say—a bottomless cup of coffee!”

We both laughed once more. Then, after expressing sincere delight at speaking with me, the President excused himself. As he walked away, the hyper focus in the room went with him, including the Walls in worsted, and I nearly collapsed with relief.

Abby’s stepfather seemed like a nice enough guy, but I could practically feel the power radiating from the man, a fiery, sunlike energy impossible to outshine, and dangerous to cross.

Abby’s mother was the same.

I recalled the uncomfortable heat of the
actual
fire she had roaring during our lunch in the Diplomatic Reception Room. I remember how it
made me sweat. And the way she pressed me to say
yes
to her ideas by force of personality—and position.

But that was politics, wasn’t it?

I understood Abby’s predicament much better now. She was a shadow child trapped on an inescapable planet with blinding twin suns.

Blinded
, I thought. That idea of being blinded had come up in my discussion with the President. Parker said history would judge him to be brilliant . . . or blinded.

But blinded by what?
I wondered.

I didn’t wonder long, because I hadn’t forgotten about Helen Trainer.

Somewhere
near the bar was a tipsy White House Curator. It was time I pumped some good strong coffee into the happy-hour historian, and got the truth out of her.

I’d been keeping state secrets close to my heart for more than a week—and that was long enough!

O
ne Hundred One

U
NFORTUNATELY, I couldn’t find Helen near the bar or
anywhere
in Flag Hall.

She and Bernie Moore weren’t on the swirling dance floor, or at the buffet tables, or the coffee bars (where she
should
have been). When I finally did locate her, she was alone, slowly weaving her way to the exit.

“Helen, have you forgotten? We have to speak!”

She faced me. “I’m not leaving the party, Clare. I’m simply heading upstairs to the Hall of Music.”

“Fine,” I said. “Let’s go up together. But wait for me to grab us coffees.”

And for you
, I thought,
maybe two coffees . . .

Tito had just refilled the urn with a fresh batch of my Great Americas blend. I grabbed a pair of disposable eight-ounce cups—then I had a better idea.

Helen hadn’t yet picked up her personalized Jefferson quote mug. It was one of the few still remaining on the courtesy table.

That cup’s sixteen-ounce capacity was just what this barista ordered, so I went to the communal urn and filled Helen’s mug to the brim with the hot, sobering brew. Then I poured a disposable cup for myself.

On the way to the stairs, I noticed Katerina’s assistant, Lidia, lingering nearby. When she saw me, she tossed her hair and gave me her shapely back.

I see that girl is still working her Katerina 2.0 “thang.”

Helen and I climbed to the third floor. The Hall of Music was in the west wing of the museum. No guests were around because there wasn’t anything to see in this area, just an empty concert space.

Helen, however, had a reason to be here, and refused to speak of anything else until she satisfied her curiosity.

She led me through the doors of the dimly lit hall. Excited now, she hurried down the aisle, climbed onto the stage, and flipped on a few lights.

That’s when I saw it—the famous “Gold Grand.”

This magnificent piano stood on gold-leafed legs carved into American eagles. As we sipped our sobering brews, we walked around the Steinway, taking in its many, many—perhaps too many?—details. Most impressive to me was the painting on the lid, depicting ten women in pink, gray, and mauve centennial revival ball gowns against a vivid green background.

“This instrument was built to celebrate Steinway’s fiftieth anniversary in 1903,” Helen explained. “Here in the museum it’s usually displayed in the First Ladies Hall, but Valentina Ysenko is going to play here tomorrow afternoon, and she specifically requested the use of this piano. Given her Ukrainian background, it’s a brilliant symbol for her—music and freedom.”

Helen sank down on the bench. “So here it is, tuned and ready, and in a worthy acoustical space for the first time since it was moved from the East Wing of FDR’s White House!”

She tapped the keys, spread her delicate fingers over the keyboard, and began to play. It sounded like a snippet from Debussy’s Nocturnes. After a minute, Helen abruptly stopped.

“I’m no good at this,” she declared. “I never was.”

Her inebriated exuberance had turned maudlin, but she showed little signs of sobering up. I sat beside her on the ornamental bench.

“Helen, please tell me. What did you find out about Abby’s father, Andy/Aamir Ferro?”

She shook her head and muttered under her breath. “Andy Ferro is Aamir Tuli Abdal, that’s what I found out, and I can’t talk about the rest.”

“What do you mean?! Why was he Aamir Tuli Abdal? Was that his alias?” I added it up fast and came to a clear conclusion. “Was he a terrorist, Helen? Did he die in those Casablanca bombings because he set off one of them?”

She looked at me through unfocused eyes. “I’m tired.”

I urged her to drink more coffee, but she took only a few sips.

“Please, Helen, tell me what you found in those e-mails.”

“I can’t,” she said with finality. “My source swore me to secrecy, asked
that I only tell Abby and no one else. Better you don’t know. Look what happened to me . . . to my office.”

She shook her head. “Fourteen years at the White House. Three administrations. Now suddenly I’m living in George Orwell’s universe and I’m angry.”

“Do you have any idea who’s responsible? Was it the Secret Service? Someone else on the White House staff? The FBI?”

“I don’t know who did it.”

“What about your meeting with Jeevan Varma. Was anyone else aware of it?”

She shook her head. “I told no one, not even Abby. Why would anyone know? Wait a minute . . .”

“What? Tell me.”

“The day after the meeting, one of the First Lady’s acquaintances asked me if Mr. Varma had been helpful to me.”

“Who was it?”

“A lawyer. I think she works at Justice. Katerina something—”

“Katerina Lacey?”

“That’s her. I assumed she was friends with Mr. Varma, and that’s how she heard about our meeting. But it was my private business, and I told her as much—civilly, of course.”

I didn’t like this revelation. Not one bit. “Was there anyone else who may have known about your meeting?”

“Mr. Varma might have told others. I don’t know. And I don’t know what’s next. Maybe a security escort out of the building, which would be fine. Frankly, I don’t even want to work in that . . . that
place
anymore.”

Helen’s weary eyes scanned the concert hall and then appeared to glaze over.

“Did you know this museum’s music program coordinator is retiring? The director asked me to take the position.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“It would be a step down. On the other hand, it would be so very enjoyable.” She sighed. “You know, after my husband died, my passion for music history died with him. But helping Abby blossom . . . it’s connected me to that again. Working here, in this new Hall of Music,
would
be an invigorating change. Perhaps it’s time . . . but I fear what it will look like, that step down. What do you think, Clare?”

My gaze drifted to the black-and-white keys. “‘I dream a world . . . where every man is free . . . And joy, like a pearl, attends the needs of all mankind . . .’”

“That’s beautiful. Is it from a poem?”

I nodded. “Langston Hughes, my co-manager’s favorite jazz poet . . . and it seems to me, Helen, what I told Abby in your office applies to you, too. Freeing yourself from what others think, being true to who you are and what makes you happy . . . that’s the only path I know to real joy.”

“‘Like a pearl,’” she whispered, touching the string my daughter gave me. “Thank you,” she said after a moment and met my gaze. “I’m so sorry I can’t share what I found out—”

“I understand—I think. Anyway, I hope the e-mails helped, before your file was stolen, that is.”

“They helped. But not entirely. When I reached out to the former White House chief of staff, he told me what he knew, in confidence, and it finally connected the last few dots.”

She stared straight ahead. “I sat Abby down yesterday and told her the entire
true
story of her father. It was the hardest thing I ever had to do . . .”

“Oh, Helen. Is the truth that terrible? Was her father really a murderer?”

Her eyes grew hard. “I can’t tell you, Clare, I really can’t. It’s a question of Abby’s safety. Please try to understand.”

“Fine,” I said, despite my exasperation. Then I pointed down my neckline. “So what am I supposed to do with this?”

“Place it in the hands of the Metro DC detectives.” She stared at me a moment. “You
are
talking about the flash drive, aren’t you?”

Oh, for pity’s sake.
“Yes, Helen! Drink some more coffee!”

She did. “All kidding aside. Someone
must
pay for what happened to Jeevan Varma.”

“I agree,” I said, and silently added,
I just hope it won’t be me.

Glancing at my watch, I rose from the bench. “I’ve got to get back to the party. Are you coming with me?”

She shook her head and leaned against the Steinway.

“I’m going to stay here awhile, think about that job change . . . then I’ll finish the coffee and take a cab home.” She touched my hand. “I really am sorry I can’t tell you more.”

“It’s all right. Get home safely, okay?”

“Clare!” she called before I left the stage. “Remember, I can’t tell the Metro detectives what the e-mails mean, but I
can
and
will
tell them everything I know about Mr. Varma and the apparent blackmail scheme that got him killed. Don’t worry. I’m determined to set the record straight on
that
part of the story.”

O
ne Hundred Two

“W
HAT happened next?”

In the yacht’s galley, Mike Quinn lifted the French press and poured the last drops into my cup.

“This story has come full circle,” I told him, “like the Oval Office, and the DC Beltway, and those infernal Washington traffic circles. Two days after the Smithsonian party, you were pulling up to the front of my coffeehouse, asking me to trust you, and pushing me into an SUV.”

“Then you didn’t see Helen again, after that night?”

“No. My catering work took over. I was so tired that I went into autopilot. We packed up and went home. Then you came home from Baltimore Sunday evening, and I finally told you about the flash drive.”

“I remember . . .” Quinn nodded. “I advised you to hand it over to Sergeant Price on Monday.”

“And I agreed. But Price was a night-beat cop. So I saw no harm in putting in a solid workday. I planned to find him at the precinct in the evening and tell him the whole story.”

“But I showed up first.”

“Which brings us back to Abby. You know I still have that flash drive. It’s in the bedroom, pinned to my bra. I know we talked about it before we met Danica. But now that you’ve heard the whole story, do you
still
feel the same? That it can’t help us?”

“It’s useless, Clare. That information isn’t a secret to President Parker and his wife. If it could have helped determine who kidnapped—or killed—Abigail, then the FBI has it already because the Parkers would
have told them. So we’re back to three theories: Abby was kidnapped or killed. Abby committed suicide—”

“Or Abby is a runaway bride,” I finished for him.

“And with all the conspiracies swirling around her, you still believe the latter? That Stanley McGuire proposed to her in front of the ruby slippers? That she ran away with him to elope? And they’re hiding in the old Underground Railroad bunker beneath the Georgetown mansion on Cox’s Row?”

“Look, given the blood trail to the river, the scarf with Abby’s hair, and Stan’s Hoover cane, it’s clear something went wrong. But I believe the Underground Railroad was part of their original plan. And if it was, we may find evidence that they were there, which could give us a new lead . . . or they
could
still be hiding under the house now.”

“Then let’s get some rest. In the morning, we’ll have to go there and see for ourselves.”

“I agree. It’s too risky to involve anyone else. If there’s heat to be taken, you and I should be the ones who take it.”

“And . . . I hate to say it, but, given the blood in the park, whoever opens that subbasement door might find the bodies of Romeo and Juliet.”

“Oh, God, Mike, please don’t think that.”

“We have to consider all the possibilities, Clare, even the dark ones.”

“I’m not giving up hope.”

“Neither am I. When Danica comes back in the morning, we’ll make a plan.”

O
ne Hundred Three

A
FTER a short sleep fraught with disturbing dreams of blood and black water, I rose to a hot cup of coffee and instructions—both from Mike.

“Drink up. Danica will be here in thirty and we have to be ready to move.”

Half an hour later, we met up with Danica in the parking lot. The detective greeted us with a nod as we piled into her familiar silver SUV, Quinn in front, me in the back, a big floppy hat and sunglasses masking my features.