The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [97]
All I needed was the Cleveland News Index and their digital archives of the Cleveland Plain Dealer. I searched every keyword I could think of, including the names of family members. Not a single article on February 17th mentioned Wallace. But there was one—and only one—that did mention Wallace’s hometown of Journey, Ohio:
Local Man Goes Missing
From my inside jacket pocket, I pull out the printed-out story, which was buried in the back of the newspaper. Just like Orlando. According to the piece, a twenty-year-old man named Griffin Anderson had gone missing the previous night and was last seen voluntarily getting into a black Dodge Diplomat with two other twenty-year-olds. All three men had tattoos of a black eight-ball on the inside of their forearms—a sign that police said made them a part of a Cleveland gang known as the Corona Kings.
“And that’s all you found?” Tot challenges.
“Was there something else to find?”
“Tell me this first: Why were you testing me?”
“What’re you talking about?”
“What you just did—you were testing me, Beecher. You came to pick me up, you knew you had done the same research, yet you stayed quiet to see what I offered up.” If Tot were my age, this is the part where he’d say I didn’t trust him and turn it into a fight. But he’s got far more perspective than that. “So what’s my grade?” he asks. “When I said the word eight-ball, does that mean I passed?”
“Tot, if you know something else…”
“Of course I know something else—and I also know I’m the one who told you not to trust anyone, including me. So I don’t blame you. But if you’re gonna insult me, try to be more subtle next time.”
“Just tell me what you found!”
He ignores the outburst, making sure I get his real point: No matter how good I think I am, he’s still the teacher. And still on my side.
“It’s about the eight-ball tattoo, isn’t it?” I ask. “I was going to look it up…”
“There’s nothing else to look up—not unless you also happen to have an old colleague who still works in the Cleveland Police Department.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will,” Tot says. “Especially when you hear who, twenty-six years ago, also happened to be in the original police report.”
61
The barber knew the hotel well. But as he followed the curving staircase from the Capital Hilton lobby up to the second floor, it didn’t stop the sense of dread that was now twisting into the small of his back.
“Sir, can I help you?” a passing hotel employee with close-cropped red hair asked just as Laurent hit the final step.
Laurent was nervous, but he wasn’t a fool. He knew that when the President was in the building, the Secret Service disguised their agents in hotel uniforms.
“I’m fine, thanks,” the barber said.
“And you know where you’re going?” the hotel employee asked.
No question. Secret Service.
“I do,” the barber said, trying hard to keep it together as he headed left and calmly turned the corner toward his destination: the far too appropriately named Presidential Ballroom.
“Good morning!” an older blonde with a homedone tint job sang out. “Welcome to the Caregivers’ Conference. What can I do for you?”
“I should be on the list,” Laurent said, abruptly pointing to the few unclaimed nametags—including the one he’d been using for so many months now. “Last name Gyrich.”
“Mmm, let’s find you,” the woman said, scanning the names one by one, but also stealing a quick glance at his face.
Laurent felt the dread digging deeper into his back. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. When Orson (he’d known the President since Wallace was little—he couldn’t call him anything but Orson) first showed up all those years ago… in that rain… Laurent was just trying to do what was right. And when they first started in D.C.… when he first agreed to help with the Plumbers, it wasn’t much different: to do what’s right… to serve his friend… to serve his country.
“Here we go! We have you right here, Mr. Gyrich,” the woman said, handing the barber the nametag. “You’re the one they called about… the guest of