The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [98]
“That’s okay,” he said, sliding the nametag into the pocket of his pea coat. “I’m not staying very long.”
“This way, sir,” a uniformed Secret Service agent said, motioning him through the metal detector that was set up just outside the main doors of the ballroom. From inside, he heard the familiar yet muffled baritone of President Orson Wallace booming through the ballroom’s speakers. From what he could tell, Orson was keeping this one personal, telling the crowd about the night of Minnie’s stroke and that moment in the ambulance when the paramedics asked her where she went to school, and the twelfth-grade Minnie could only name her elementary school.
In many ways, Laurent realized, it was the same problem at the Archives. The way they were rushing around—to even let it get this far—Orson was letting it get too personal.
“Enjoy the breakfast, sir,” the Secret Service agent said as he pulled open the ballroom door. Underneath the brightly lit chandelier that was as long as a city bus, every neck was craned upward, all six hundred people watching the rosy-cheeked man who looked so comfortable up at the podium with the presidential seal on the front of it.
As always, the President glanced around the crowd, making eye contact with everyone. That is, until Laurent stepped into the room.
“… which is no different from the personal myths we tell ourselves every day,” the President said, his pale gray eyes turning toward the barber in the back of the bright room. “The myths we create about ourselves are solely there so our brains can survive.”
Across the red, gold, and blue carpet, the barber stood there a moment. He stood there waiting for the President. And when the two men finally locked eyes, when Laurent nodded just slightly and Orson nodded right back, the barber knew that the President had seen him.
That was it. Message sent.
Pivoting on his heel, the barber headed back out toward the welcome desk. The President cocked his head, flashing a smile and locking on yet another stranger in the crowd.
For the first time since this started, the Plumbers finally had something going their way.
62
So you’ve never heard of this guy Griffin?” Tot asks, stealing a glance at me as the Mustang zips through Rock Creek Park and we make our way to Constitution Avenue.
“Why would I’ve heard of him?”
“And there’s no one you know who has an eight-ball tattoo?”
“Is this you testing me now?” I ask.
“Beecher, I’m seventy-one years old.”
“You’re actually seventy-two.”
He thinks on this a moment. “I’m seventy-two years old. I have plenty of patience. I just don’t like having my time wasted—and right now, since you’re treating me like the enemy, you seem to be wasting it,” he explains without any bitterness.
“I know you’re not the enemy, Tot.”
“Actually, you know nothing about me. For all you know, this is just another attempt to reel you in and grab you with the net. Do what you’re doing, Beecher—keep asking the tough questions. And as for the toughest one so far: Every neighborhood in the country has a guy like Griffin.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning according to the police report, Griffin’s first arrest came when he was in high school—selling fake marijuana to a bunch of ninth graders. Then he got smart and started selling the real thing. His dad was a pharmacist, so he quickly graduated to selling pills. During one arrest—and remember, this is still in high school—Griffin spit in a cop’s face, at which point he became the kid that even the tough high school kids knew you didn’t mess with.”
I see where he’s going. “So when Griffin was kidnapped—”
“Not kidnapped,” Tot corrects, approaching the end of Rock Creek Park. “They never use the word kidnapped. Or abducted. In the report, they don’t even call it a crime scene. But you’re painting the picture: When this guy Griffin finally disappeared, neighbors weren’t exactly tripping over themselves to form a search party.”
“It’s still a missing kid.”
“You sure? Griffin was twenty years