The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [131]
When Violet handed it over, Lisbeth’s arms, legs, and whole body went cold as she finally got a look at the puzzle . . . and the President’s handwritten answers . . . and the jumble of initials scribbled in the left-hand margin.
Her hands were shaking. She read it, then reread it to be sure. I don’t believe it. How could we be so—?
“What?” Violet asked, clearly confused. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing . . . just— I can reach you at this number, yes?” As Violet nodded, Lisbeth copied the phone number that was handwritten on the base of the phone. Standing from her seat, she continued to clutch the crossword in her hand. “Listen, can I make a copy of this? I’ll bring it right back as soon as I’m done.”
“Sure, but—I don’t get it. What’d you find, Dreidel’s handwriting?”
“No,” Lisbeth said, sprinting for the door, flipping open her cell phone, and already dialing Wes’s number. “Something far better than that.”
79
Silent for almost twenty-five minutes, Rogo was hunched over the archival box in his lap as his fingertips walked through each page of the open file. “Who d’ya think the mom is?” he finally asked as the sun faded through the nearby window.
“Of Boyle’s kid?” Dreidel replied, picking through his own box. “I’ve got no idea.”
“You think it was someone big?”
“Define big.”
“I don’t know—he could’ve been sleeping with anyone: a senior staffer . . . some intern . . . the First Lady—”
“First Lady? You joking? You think we wouldn’t notice if Mrs. Manning—while in the White House—started vomiting, gaining weight, and suddenly seeing a doctor—not to mention if she showed up one day with a kid that looked like Boyle?”
“Maybe she didn’t have the kid. It could’ve been—”
“‘Paternity issue’ means the kid was born,” Dreidel insisted, crossing to the other side of the table and picking up a new box. “It would’ve said ABT if they thought there was an abortion. And even if that weren’t the case—the First Lady? Please . . . when it came time to leave the White House, she was more upset than the President himself. No way she’d put any of that at risk for some dumb fling with Boyle.”
“I’m just saying, it could’ve been anyone,” Rogo said, nearly halfway through the file box as he reached a thick brown accordion folder that held two framed photos. Pulling out the silver frame in front, he squinted down at the family shot of Boyle with his wife and daughter.
Posed in front of a waterfall, Boyle and his wife playfully hugged their sixteen-year-old daughter, Lydia, who, at the center of the photograph, was in mid-scream/mid-laugh as the ice-cold waterfall soaked her back. Laughing right along with her, Boyle had his mouth wide open, and despite his thick mustache, it was clear that Lydia had her father’s smile. A huge, toothy grin. Rogo couldn’t take his eyes off it. Just one big happy—
“It’s just a photo,” Dreidel interrupted.
“Wha?” Rogo asked, looking over his shoulder.
Behind him, Dreidel stared down at the framed shot of the Boyles at the waterfall. “That’s it—just a photo,” he warned. “Believe me, even though they’re smiling, doesn’t mean they’re happy.”
Rogo looked down at the photo, then back to Dreidel, whose lips were pressed together. Rogo knew that look. He saw it every day on his speeding ticket clients. We all know our own sins.
“So the mom from Boyle’s paternity problem . . .” Rogo began.
“. . . could be anyone,” Dreidel agreed, happy to be back on track. “Though knowing Boyle, I bet it’s someone we’ve never even heard of.”
“What makes you say that?” Rogo asked.
“I don’t know—it’s just . . . when we were in the White House, that’s the way Boyle was. As Manning’s oldest friend, he was never really part of the staff. He was more—he was here,” Dreidel said, holding his left hand palm-down at eye level. “And he thought the rest of us were here,” he added, slapping his right palm against the worktable.
“That’s the benefit of being First Friend.”
“But that’s the thing—I know he kinda got sainthood when he was shot, but from where I was standing on the inside, Boyle spent plenty of days in the