The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [32]
“You shouldn’t’ve told me any of this.”
“What?”
“You need to be smart, Beecher. And you’re not being smart.”
“What’re you talking about? I am being smart. I’m getting help.”
“That’s fine. But look at the full picture you’re now in the middle of: Of everything that’s happened, there’s only one detail—just one—that can’t be argued with.”
“Besides that I’m screwed?”
“The book, Beecher. Where’d you find that book?” he asks, pointing to the dictionary.
“In the chair.”
“Yes! It was hidden in the chair. Y’understand what I’m saying? You may not know if it was hidden by the President, or for the President, or by or for his Secret Service agents or some other party we don’t even know of—but the act of hiding and finding something, that’s a two-party agreement. One hider and one finder. So to hide the book in that SCIF… to even get in that room…”
“You think it’s someone from our staff,” I say.
“Maybe from our staff… maybe from Security… but it’s gotta be someone in our building,” Tot says as we stop at a red light. “I mean, if you’re hiding something, would you ever pick a room unless you had the key?”
Up ahead, the Washington Monument is on my right. But I’m far more focused on my left, at the wide green lawn that leads back, back, back to the beautiful mansion with the wide, curved balcony. The White House. From here, it looks miniature, but you can already see the specks of tourists lingering and snapping photos at the black metal gates.
“Beecher, don’t think what you’re thinking.”
I stay silent, eyes still on the home of Orson Wallace.
“That’s not who you’re fighting, Beecher. This isn’t you against the President of the United States.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Sure I do. If it were, the paramedics would be carrying you under the sheet by now.”
I shake my head. “That’s only because they don’t know I have their book.”
For the first time, Tot’s silent.
As we turn onto Pennsylvania Avenue, as he pulls past our building—a huge neoclassical granite archives that fills over two city blocks on our right—I ignore the fifty-foot-high columns and instead stare at the two smaller limestone statues that flank the front doors. There are four statues in total, representing the Future, the Past, Heritage, and Guardianship. Tot knows better than I do which is which, but there’s no mistaking the carved old man holding a scroll and a closed book on the right. Engraved at the base it says, “Study the Past.”
I open the Washington dictionary and again read the words. Exitus acta probat.
“Think about it, Tot, of all the people in the building yesterday, I can account for everyone being where they were—Orlando… Dallas… Rina… even Khazei—everyone except for President Wallace, who just happened to pick the exact day, at the exact time of death, to stop by for his visit.”
“Actually, he’s not the only one.”
“What’re you talking about?”
He looks my way, turning far enough that I can see his good eye. “Tell me about the girl.”
“Who?”
“The girl. The high school crush you’re all gushy about.”
“Clemmi?”
“Clemmi? No, no, no, don’t do pet names. You barely know this girl two days.”
“I’ve known her since seventh grade,” I say as I reach to change the radio station.
“What’re you doing?” Tot challenges.
“Huh?”
“Don’t change my station. What’d I tell you about messing with The Gambler?”
“I know, and you know I love The Gambler, but—Can’t we just…?” I twist the dial, searching for music. “I just want to hear something new—like maybe—do you know which stations play rap or even… Joan Jett?”
He pumps the brakes, nearly putting me through the windshield. “Beecher, don’t you dare hit menopause in my car.”
“What’re you talking about?”
He raises his voice, trying to sound like me. “I need something new. Where do they keep the rap music?” Returning to normal, he adds, “This girl’s been back in your life barely forty-eight hours, and what—suddenly you don’t want to eat