The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [96]
“Jana, it’s Wes. Can you put me through to Oren?”
“Hiya, Wes. Of course—transferring you to Oren right now.” There’s a soft click, two chirps, and then . . .
“This is Oren,” my officemate answers.
“How we looking?”
“They’re getting it set up right now,” he replies. He’s even faster than I thought. “All you have to do is go pick it up.”
I nod to Lisbeth. She rams the gas. And away we go.
56
Got everything you need?” the secretary asked The Roman as he left Bev’s office and trudged across the presidential seal carpet in the main reception area.
“Apparently so,” The Roman replied, hiding his bandaged hand from view. “Though I—”
The receptionist’s phone rang on her desk. “Oop—excuse me,” she said, putting on her headset. “It’s a beautiful day in President Manning’s office. How can I help you?”
The Roman headed for the door.
The receptionist waved good-bye, never taking her attention away from the caller on her headset. “Hiya, Wes. Of course—transferring you to Oren right now . . .”
The Roman stopped midstep, the toe of his left foot digging into the head of the eagle on the presidential seal. A thin grin returned to his face as he pivoted around.
Tapping a few buttons on her phone, the receptionist sent the call on its way and looked up at her guest. “I’m sorry . . . you were saying?”
“Just that I need some directions,” The Roman replied, pointing left, then right. “Which way is Oren’s office again?”
“Second on your right. See it?” the receptionist called out.
The Roman nodded. “You’re an angel.”
He paused outside the office and waited for the click of Oren hanging up his phone. With a sharp rap of knuckles against the door, he stepped inside and flashed his badge. “Oren, right? Agent Roland Egen. United States Secret Service.”
“Everything okay?” Oren asked, already halfway out of his chair.
The Roman shrugged. “You have a few minutes to chat?”
57
Standing outside the Mediterranean cypress plank doors set into an arched coral stone entryway, I ring the pearl doorbell and offer a smile for the security camera that stares down at us.
“Who’s calling?” a delicate female voice asks through the intercom, even though she just buzzed us in three minutes ago when we first pulled up to the twenty-foot-tall hedges and wrought-iron gate that protect the estate.
“Mrs. Sant, it’s Wes Holloway,” I say into the intercom. “From President Manning’s office.”
With a click, the front door opens by remote control. Ten feet away, a young woman with perfectly arched eyebrows, sheer lip gloss, and flowing blond hair straight out of a shampoo commercial strolls toward us through the anteroom. She’s wearing a peach cashmere sweater with a low enough V-neck to reveal why she’s a trophy wife. And like the best trophies in town, she has breasts that are perfect and real, just like the diamond bracelet that engulfs most of her wrist.
Anxious to be out of sight, I go to step inside. Lisbeth tugs on the back of my button-down, keeping me in place. Protocol says I’m supposed to wait to be invited in. And with money this big, protocol rules.
“So nice to see you again,” Mrs. Sant says in an Australian accent, even though we’ve never met. Like most Palm Beach wives, she knows better than to take a chance.
Finally reaching the doorway, she studies my face, then glances over my shoulder at Lisbeth’s beat-up car. Again, perfect Palm Beach. Judgment first, niceties later.
“I take it the President’s not with you,” she adds, still staring at our car. It’s not until she’s done with me that she even notices Lisbeth.
“No, he’s actually meeting us in—”
“Ms. Dodson?” she asks excitedly, grabbing Lisbeth’s hand as if she were proposing marriage. “I met you that night at the Alsops—oh, I’m sorry,” she adds, patting her own chest. “Cammie Sant—my husband’s Victor,” she explains as if that’s all the introduction she needs. “Oh, what a treat! I read you every day! Come in, come in . . .”
I don’t know why I’m surprised. When you cover society, part of the job is having society suck up. But instead of reveling in the moment,