The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [30]
“Kill him?”
“Why else would he come out of hiding after almost eight years? Just to say hello?”
“I guess, but . . . to kill him? Isn’t that—?”
“Kaiser Soze,” Dreidel interrupts. “Greatest trick the devil pulled off: convincing the world he didn’t exist.” He looks back up at me, and I swear there’s almost a smile on his face. “Man, can you imagine? Being legally dead but still alive? Y’know how much freedom that gives you?”
I stare down at Dreidel’s room key and try hard not to picture the fluffy white bathrobe that comes with it.
“Maybe that’s what Boyle wanted all those years ago,” he adds. “Just a way out.”
I shake my head but still catch the deeper point. The only way to understand what’s going on is to understand Boyle. “So where does that leave us?” I ask.
“Us? This ain’t my disaster.” He laughs as he says it, but he’s definitely not joking. “C’mon, Wes, you know I’m just joking,” he adds, knowing I get the point. Like any great political trickster, his first move is to remove his own fingerprints. It’s why I called him in the first place. He spent almost four years by the President’s side, but you’ll never find him in the background of a single photograph. No one’s better at being invisible, which is, right now, the number one thing I need if I plan on finding out the truth.
“Got any connections with law enforcement?” he adds, already two moves ahead. “If they can take a peek at Boyle’s background—”
“I’ve got someone perfect for that,” I tell him. But he’s glancing over my shoulder, back toward the entrance to the restaurant. Following his stare, I turn around to find the black woman with the braids. She’s traded the bathrobe for the other Palm Beach uniform: white slacks with a pale orange designer T-shirt. All set for a day on the town.
“Listen, I should run,” Dreidel says, already out of his seat. “Just be smart about this.”
“Smart?”
“Careful. Be careful. Because if Manning is in on this . . .” He takes another look around, then leans in close. “You thought America turned on him before? They’ll crucify him, Wes. Seriously. Crucify.”
I nod. Across the restaurant, his girlfriend shoots us a look. “And while we’re on the subject, Wes. I’m happy to keep your secret—just promise me you’ll keep mine.”
“O-Of course. I’d never say a word.”
He turns to go, leaving me with the bill. “By the way, you interested in forking over five hundred bucks and coming to my fundraiser tonight?”
I shake my head in disbelief. “Dreidel, how much did your soul cost when you finally sold it?”
“You coming or not?”
“I would, but I’ve got a Manning event tonight.”
Dreidel nods and doesn’t linger. He knows who always comes first.
As he heads for the door, I decide not to turn and stare at the girl. Instead, I hold up my spoon and use the bottom of it as my own little fun-house mirror. Over my shoulder, I spot Dreidel just as he approaches her. He doesn’t reach out to hold her hand until he thinks they’re out of sight.
“Excuse me,” someone says over my left shoulder. I turn, expecting to see the waiter. Instead, it’s a blond guy in a black T-shirt. And a U.S. Open baseball hat.
“Wes Holloway?” he asks, opening his wallet to show me an FBI badge. “Terrence O’Shea. You have a few seconds to chat?”
15
St. Elizabeths Mental Hospital
Washington, D.C.
Breakfast bell’s ringing, Nico. French toast or western omelet?” asked the petite black food service woman with the vinegar smell and the pink rhinestones set into her pink fingernails.
“What’s for dinner?” Nico asked.
“You listening? We’re on breakfast. French toast or western omelet?”
Putting on his shoes and kneeling just in front of his narrow bed, Nico looked up at the door and studied the rolling cart with the open tray slots. He’d long ago earned the right to eat with his fellow patients. But after what happened to his mother all those years ago, he’d rather have his meals delivered to his room. “French toast,” Nico said. “Now what