The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [40]
“Dustin Gyrich,” we both whisper as my phone rings for the third time. For the third time, I ignore Security.
“This guy Gyrich from us?” I ask as I pull open my top drawer and start flipping through our staff list. A… B… C… G… H… I… No one named Gyrich.
“I don’t think he’s a pro either,” Tot adds, referring to the professional researchers people can hire by the hour.
Across the office, the door again swings open. “Beecher, you here!?” a familiar voice shouts.
Even without raising periscope, I smell the pipe smoke on Dallas. On most days, he ignores me. Today, his footsteps head right for me.
“Beecher?” he adds, sounding almost concerned. “You there or not?”
“Yeah… right here,” I say, stepping out from my cube.
“Dammit, then why didn’t you say something!? Security’s worried—After Orlando—Don’t do that!” he scolds, all his concern already faded in anger. “Next time someone calls your sorry ass, pick up the damn ph—”
Dallas cuts himself off, stopping midstep as he reaches my cube. He’s not looking at me anymore. He’s looking at what’s behind me. I spin around, worried he sees the dictionary. But the dictionary’s already gone—tucked away by the person still sitting at my desk.
“Hey, Tot,” Dallas offers, scratching at his starter beard. “Didn’t realize you were there.”
Tot doesn’t say a word. He just stares at Dallas, unblinking. It’s nothing personal. When he turned seventy, Tot decided there were ten rules for living a happy life. The only one he’s shared with me thus far is that, as an archivist, he won’t make friends with anyone who says FDR knew about the impending attack on Pearl Harbor, since there’s not a single sheet of paper in our building to back up that claim. I know another of his rules has something to do with white cotton panties and the keys to a great sex life (I made him stop talking because—just the thought of it made me want to be blind). And from what I can tell, there’s a third rule that enshrines a venomous hatred for bullies—especially those who curse at Tot’s friends.
The best part is watching Dallas take a half-step back. Even the most stubborn of cubs knows when the big cat’s around.
“I was just saying…” Dallas stutters, “… I was telling Beecher I was worried about—”
“How’d you know someone was calling him?” Tot challenges.
“Pardon?”
“When you came in,” Tot says. “You said Security was calling. How’d you know they were calling?”
“I-I was there,” Dallas says.
“In the Security Office?”
“No… at sign-in… with the detectors,” he says, referring to the check-in desk on the Penn Avenue side of the building. “They have a visitor for Beecher who’s pretty insistent that she see him…”
“She?” I ask.
“Your friend. From yesterday. The one with the nose pierce…”
Tot shoots me a look. He’s already called her the daughter of Lee Harvey Oswald. The last thing he wants is me bringing her in again.
“Clementine’s downstairs right now?” I ask.
“Why do you think they keep calling you?” Dallas says. “They saw you check in at the garage, but when you didn’t answer your phone—”
I glance at Tot, who doesn’t need help putting the rest together. The only way to get Clementine into this building is if I personally go down and sign her in. And while the last thing I need right now is to put myself higher on the suspect list because I’m helping out the daughter of a killer, the less time I let her spend with Security, the safer I’m gonna be.
“Tot…” I say with a glance as I run for the door.
Go. I have it, he replies with a nod. It’s never taken me more than three minutes and twenty-two seconds to get to the sign-in desk. And while I need to get Clementine, priority number one is still finding out who Dustin Gyrich is and why, on the same day the President was set to arrive here, Gyrich requested this old dictionary.
“I’m old and hate small talk,” Tot tells Dallas as he turns back to my computer.