The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [57]
I stop right in front of our final honcho, a young redhead in a modest black suit. Dreidel goes to put a hand on her elbow to escort her forward. She brushes him off and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Just the people I’m looking for,” she says proudly. “Lisbeth Dodson—Palm Beach Post. You must be Dreidel.”
29
Mclean, Virginia
Limping up the icy driveway and holding his fist against his chest, The Roman eyed the front windows of the classic stucco Colonial with the For Sale sign in the front yard. Although the lights were off, it didn’t slow him down. After hiding his wound—by slipping his bloody foot into one of Nico’s old shoes—he flashed his badge to push his way out of the hospital and quickly made the call. He knew Benjamin was home.
Sure enough, as he reached the side of the house, he grabbed the cold metal handrail and hobbled down a short cement staircase. At the bottom, he reached a door with a faint glow of light peeking out from under it. A small sign above the doorbell said Appointments Only. The Roman didn’t have an appointment. He had something far more valuable.
“Les?” he called out, barely able to stand. Leaning against the doorjamb, he couldn’t feel his left hand, which was still in the same blood-soaked glove that helped him hide it at the hospital. His foot had gone dead almost an hour ago.
“Coming,” a muffled voice said from inside. As the pins and springs of the lock turned, the door opened, revealing a bushy-haired man with bifocals balanced on a plump nose. “Okay, what’d you do this ti—? Oh, jeez, is that blood?”
“I-I need—” Before he could finish, The Roman collapsed, falling forward through the doorway. As always, Dr. Les Benjamin caught him. That’s what brothers-in-law were for.
30
Mr. President, you remember Ms. Dodson . . . columnist for the Palm Beach Post,” Wes said mid-handoff.
“Lisbeth,” she insisted, extending a handshake and hoping to keep things light. She glanced back to Wes, who was already pale white.
“Lisbeth, I would’ve gotten your name,” Manning promised. “Even if I don’t know the donors, only a fool doesn’t remember the press.”
“I appreciate that, sir,” Lisbeth said, believing his every word, even as she told herself not to. Could I be more pathetic? she asked herself, fighting off a strange desire to curtsy. Sacred Rule #7: Presidents lie best. “Nice to see you again, sir.”
“Is that Lisbeth?” the First Lady asked, knowing the answer as she moved in for her own cheek-to-cheek hug. “Oh, you know I adore your column,” she gushed. “Except that piece when you listed how much Lee was tipping local waitresses. That one almost had me take you off our invite list.”
“You actually did take me off,” Lisbeth pointed out.
“Only for two weeks. Life’s too short to hold a grudge.”
Appreciating the honesty, Lisbeth couldn’t help but smile. “You’re a smart woman, Dr. Manning.”
“Dear, we’re the ones who’re supposed to be currying favor with you—though I will say you can do better than silly little squibs about what people are tipping, which, let’s just admit, is below you.” Slapping her husband on the arm, she added, “Lee, give the girl a nice quote about cystic fibrosis research so she can do her job.”
“Actually,” Lisbeth began, “I’m just here . . .”
“We should get you onstage, sir,” Wes interrupted.
“. . . to see your right-hand men,” Lisbeth added, pointing at Dreidel and Wes. “I’m doing a piece on loyalty. Thought maybe I could grab their quotes and turn them into superstars.”
“Good—you should,” the President said, putting an arm around Dreidel. “This one’s running for Senate. And if I still had the keys . . . he’s Vice President caliber.” The President paused, waiting for Lisbeth to write it down.
Pulling a notepad from her overstuffed black purse, Lisbeth took the cue and pretended to scribble. Over her shoulder, she could feel Wes seething.
“Don’t worry,” Lisbeth said to Manning. “I’ll take it easy on them.”
“Mr. President,” a throaty female voice called out as they all turned to the middle-aged woman in the designer suit and matching