Oak and Dagger (26 page)

I took a sip of the flavorful tea. Even it couldn't ease the tension coiled around my throat. The clock hanging on the wall looked like an orange tabby cat, with great big eyes that moved from side to side and a tail that swished with each passing second.

Ten minutes passed.

Fifteen minutes.

I finished most of the tea. Tired of waiting, I rose from the sofa and swung my backpack over my shoulder. A loud creak stopped me in my tracks as one of the room's bookcases swung out to reveal a secret passage.

Startled, I jumped back. My backpack knocked over a small figurine of a shepherdess that had been sitting on one of the sofa's end tables. The poor shepherdess tumbled off the table to smash into a thousand pieces on the hardwood floor.

I glanced at shattered porcelain and then back at the opening in the wall. The man who emerged from the other room wasn't the towering hero everyone had been telling me about, but the unfriendly guy who protested in front of the White House.

He leaned heavily on his cane as he hobbled into the room. “Let me help you with that,” he said, wagging a crooked finger at the smashed figurine.

“It's okay. I've got it.” My hands trembled as I scooped up the broken pieces and set them on the table. “I suppose I've bought it.” I turned the broken piece with the price tag around in my hand. “It won't break the bank.”

“Glad to hear it. Do you mind if I sit with you a bit? It's been a long day.” He settled on the sofa where I'd been seated.

“I was supposed to meet someone,” I said. It was twenty-five minutes past the hour. “I don't think he's coming.”

The old man thumped his cane on the floor. “You were stood up? Impossible!”

I smiled at his burst of anger on my behalf. “It's okay. I think I'd much rather talk with you.” I glanced at the shattered shepherdess on the end table. “I don't think I was ready to meet the man who was supposed to come. I doubt I ever will be.”

“That sounds ominous. Who were you waiting for?”

I thought about how I should answer that before saying, “No one important.”

“Hm . . . Should I call you on that lie or change the subject? No, don't worry,” he swiftly added. “I know who you're meeting is none of my business, so I'll change the subject. How is Gordon doing?” His voice was gentle and nearly as soothing as the chamomile tea.

“He's finally awake.”

“But that troubles you?” He tapped the sofa cushion, inviting me to sit next to him.

“The murder investigation troubles me,” I said after joining him on the sofa. “What if Gordon isn't the man I think he is? What if—”

“No one ever is truly who they appear to be on the outside,” the old man said. “We all wear masks of some form or another.”

“But—”

He clutched my hand in his. “Listen to me, Casey. Forget the evidence that has been thrust upon you. Trust what you feel in your heart. If your heart tells you that Gordon Sims is innocent, then you have to believe it. You have to fight to make others believe it.”

“But he practically confessed to the crime when I visited him.” I don't know why I'd said that, and to a man who was a stranger to me. But once I'd started, it was as if a dam had broken. The words I had been too afraid to tell Jack or anyone else poured out of me. “Gordon knew all about the treasure. He said that Frida knew too much and had to be silenced. I don't want to believe it, but he confessed to the crime.”

“Did he?” the old protestor asked.

“I think so.”

“What exactly did he say?” When I hesitated, he added, “You can trust this old protestor. I won't say anything to help the fuzz.”

I had to smile. “That's what my aunt Willow calls the police.”

I then related what I could remember about the conversation Lorenzo and I had with Gordon. His frown deepened with each new detail.

“Listen to me going on and on. You're so easy to talk to. I appreciate your company,” I said, realizing I'd taken up too much of this nice man's time.

“What about the thefts you were telling me about? How are they connected to Gordon killing Frida?” he asked, tapping his finger to his chin.

“The killer needed the papers to help him find the treasure. Wait a minute. Why would Gordon steal the schematic to the South Lawn when he could have access to it at all times?”

“Good point.” He leaned heavily on his cane as he rose to leave. “I've only met one other woman as clever as you are. Lord, I miss that girl more than a flower misses the sun.”

He started to walk away.

“Wait. You've never told me your name,” I said.

He extended his hand. “I'm James.” He hesitated. “James Calhoun.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, “I lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.”

—ELEANOR ROOSEVELT, FIRST LADY OF THE UNITED STATES (1933–1945)

“
Y
OU
?” I shot up from the sofa. “You're my—”

He nodded.

“
Why?
”

My emotions erupted in a blinding flash. I suddenly couldn't catch my breath. I sank back to the sofa and buried my face in my hands.

“Why? Why did you abandon us? How could you? She died. Because of you, she died.”

“I didn't mean for it to happen that way.”

I lifted my head. The old protestor . . . um . . . my
father
started to pace. It was a slow, uneven gait as he leaned heavily on his cane.

“I left because your mom and I thought that if I ran, the Yurkov brothers would follow me. They were hunting us because of the information we'd found.”

“But it didn't happen that way,” I said.

He shook his head. “No . . . It didn't. We were set up.”

“Who were they, these Yurkov brothers?”

“KGB.” His icy gaze made goose bumps run up my arms. “They were part of a large sleeper cell in the U.S. You don't have to worry about them, though. Justice was served.”

“So if they were gone, why didn't you come back for me? For two years I was lost in the foster system. No one knew my identity. Or if they did, they ignored it. They sure as heck knew who you were. Your name was plastered in the newspapers, even. How could you have let that happen? How could you have let me suffer alone?”

“I had no other choice,” he said, sounding defeated. “Someone within the agency had sold our identities to the KGB. After your mother died, I couldn't risk losing you. So I made sure your paperwork—and your identity—was lost. Your life was still in danger. I'm sorry, Casey.”

“And after you found the leak in the agency? Why didn't you come back then?”

“I sent you to your grandmother. She knew how to care for you.”

I clung to my anger. Without it, I'd have completely fallen apart. “And that's supposed to explain why you never came back? Why you never visited? Why you abandoned your only daughter?”

“Don't you see? I did what was best for you. I kept you safe. If I had been able to choose,
I
would have died that night! But I didn't. So I had to continue the work your mom and I were doing. And I couldn't do it with a child to worry about.”

“
How dare you
.” I couldn't stay here and listen to this. I jumped up from the sofa and started for the exit. “You didn't die. I don't know what I'm doing here. You should have never gotten Mom mixed up in your dangerous world in the first place.”

“It didn't happen that way.” He thumped his cane on the floor several times. “Emma, she recruited me. Espionage and counterintelligence was her life, and she was damn good at it, too. I would have never asked her to quit.”

“So you're blameless. Is that what you're saying?” I slashed my hand through the air as I hurried toward the exit. “No, don't try and defend yourself. Don't tell me how hard it was for you. You weren't there for us. You didn't have to watch her die. And as far as I'm concerned, you're not here, either.”

• • • 

THE DYING SUN'S ANGRY RED STREAKS JUTTING
across the late afternoon sky matched my mood. My nails dug so deeply into the palms of my hands as I emerged from the Metro station and marched across McPherson Square, I wondered if I'd drawn blood.

Boy, oh boy, that man and his empty explanations could make even a preacher cuss. The nerve of him. He hadn't even bothered to apologize. If he'd had, I would have thrown it back in his face. No apology could absolve him of his sins. Even if he hadn't killed my mom, by running away from his responsibilities and abandoning his only child, he had destroyed his family just as effectively as those murderers who had stolen my mom from me. There was no forgiving that.

I darted across the street against the light and followed Vermont Avenue to Lafayette Square. Unlike my father, I didn't shirk my responsibilities. Despite everything that had happened today, I was determined to get Seth those plans for the rescheduled tree planting.

I crossed the seven-acre Lafayette Square, and even though I knew he wouldn't be there, I deliberately kept my gaze turned away from the empty spot where my father, for months, had set up his lawn chair and had held his protest sign directly across the street from the White House.

Some men spent their retirement years golfing. Others honed their woodworking skills in the garage. My father apparently chose to spend his golden years spying on his estranged daughter. Lucky me.

I'd been so wrapped up in my own maelstrom of emotions I almost didn't notice Lorenzo leaning against a rake next to a large oak tree. The first thing wrong about this picture was that Lorenzo was dressed in one of the grounds office's dark blue windbreakers. He rarely wore his. And while both Gordon and I occasionally pitched in and helped the grounds crew with the lawn work, Lorenzo nearly always found an excuse.

Not that he was actually doing any work now.

I crossed the park to find out what he was up to.

“Lettie.” He drummed his fingers on the rake's handle. He gestured with his chin in the direction of a bench a few hundred yards away. The First Lady's sister, dressed in old jeans and a sweatshirt and with an oversized hobo bag slung over her shoulder, paced back and forth in front of the bench.

Unlike immediate members of the First Family, extended family members could come and go without Secret Service protection. For the most part they remained anonymous. Just last week, I'd bumped into Lettie at the nearby convenience store and was the only one in the shop that knew she was related to the First Family.

“What is she doing?” I asked as I watched Lettie continue to pace, taking the same path over and over in front of the bench.

“Don't know,” Lorenzo answered without taking his eyes off her.

“If she keeps that up, she's going to kill the grass.”

Lettie abruptly stopped pacing as if she'd heard my complaint. I held my breath, afraid she'd caught us watching her. Her gaze passed over us and then shifted to her watch. She said something and then started pacing again.

“She's waiting for someone. Perhaps the journalist you'd heard her talking with this morning?” I wondered aloud as I scanned the park's seven acres.

“Probably.” Lorenzo slumped against the rake's handle. “Not that it matters anymore. Once Manny talks with Gordon, it'll be all over for him.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “Gordon didn't exactly say he killed Frida.”

“It sure sounded that way to me.”

“He was coming out of a medically induced coma. He was groggy and confused.” My father had been right about one thing. If I believed in my heart that Gordon was innocent, it was my duty to stand up for him. Gordon would do no less for me. “We need to protect him.”

“How? We need to face the facts, Casey. He was alone in the garden with Frida. She had needled and needled him all day. On top of that, she'd destroyed his wife's career and now it looked as if she was out to destroy his. He cracked.”

Lorenzo thrust the shovel's handle at me. “I can't stand here and try to prove a lie. I can't. Milo dug those damned holes in the lawn. They don't coincide with any garden structures that would have been there in 1814 when the British invaded. I've looked and looked through our historic documents. And there's nothing there. There's no treasure. No treasure hunter. No killer.” Tears brightened his eyes. He lifted his hand when I tried to speak and swiftly turned away. “I love that man. But . . . I can't defend a lie.”

“Lorenzo, wait.”

“Sorry, Casey.” Lorenzo headed back toward the White House. “I can't do this anymore. I'm simply a gardener.”

I glanced over at Lettie to see if she'd noticed our argument. She continued to pace and seemed to be in an agitated world of her own.

Since I was standing in the grass with a rake in my hand and doing nothing but watching Lettie, I decided to keep myself occupied and rake up some of the leaves that had dropped from the park's forest of towering trees.

After several minutes, Lettie brushed off the bench she'd been pacing in front of and sat down. She fished around in her oversized hobo bag and pulled out a file folder stuffed with papers and marked with the presidential seal. That looked official. Using my raking as a cover, I inched closer.

She opened the folder and started flipping through the pages. I needed to get closer to see what was in the file. Gripping the rake handle tightly in my hand, I crossed the distance between us.

“It is you,” I said with a great big smile plastered on my lips.

She slammed the file folder closed before I could see any of the papers it contained. “Oh, I didn't see you there, Cathy.”

“Casey,” I corrected. “Do you mind if I join you?” I asked, and then without waiting for an invitation, sat down on the bench next to her. I pointed to a wall of dark clouds. “Looks like another storm will be rolling in.”

“Right,” she said, not following the direction of my gaze. “A storm.”

“I like to come out here when I need to think things through.” I tapped the rake. “Luckily for me, there's never any shortage of gardening tasks. You should see me in the spring. I can get a whole mess of thinking done then.”

“I see,” Lettie said as she scanned the park as if searching for someone.

“So I've been raking leaves just now and thinking. And do you know what I can't seem to figure out?”

“How should I know?” She kicked a pebble with her boot.

“Well, I've been thinking about Frida's murder and how Frida was looking for Jefferson's lost treasure. Those two events must be connected, don't you agree?”

“I don't know.” Lettie scanned the park again. I got the distinct impression that she wanted to push me off the bench and tell me to go away.

“You don't have any ideas? I just thought you could help make things clear in my head since you have a mind as sharp as the fictional Miss Marple's.”

Lettie's mood brightened in response to my praise. “I am rather clever when it comes to mysteries. I never reach the end of a novel without already guessing the who, what, when, and where of the crime.”

“So do you think the killer is searching for the treasure?” I asked.

“Seems like the most reasonable assumption. Who knows, maybe Gordon needed money. Or perhaps it was as Frida had claimed—professional jealousy.”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose that could be it.” I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. “But why would he need to steal Frida's notes when he knew just as much, if not more, about the gardens than anyone else at the White House? Why not just dig up the treasure before Frida could?”

“Maybe he didn't know as much as he led everyone to believe. People do that, you know. People hide behind all kinds of lies and masks.” She turned and looked me in the eye. “It's hard sometimes, you know? There's so much pressure to be the perfect sister, the perfect wife. But I'm just me. And I'm far from perfect. Maybe Gordon felt that way.”

“Or perhaps someone else killed Frida? Someone with a background in history but only a basic knowledge of White House lore.” I drew a deep breath and forged forward. “Someone who is being pressured to pay a large sum of money and has to do whatever she can to get whoever she owes off her back. You know what I mean?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” she answered and pretended to wave me off. But I could tell by the way she'd jerked as I'd laid out my scenario that I'd hit too close to the truth. “I don't mean to be rude, but I'm meeting someone. I have to go.” She stood up without bothering to zip up her hobo bag. Her quick movements caused the bag to tip to one side, spilling its contents.

The camera she'd been using earlier in the day to capture pictures of her sister and nephews landed hard with a thud on the hard-packed soil beneath the bench, which was nearly as hard as steel. The file folder slid to the ground next to it.

“What have you done?” Lettie dropped to her knees and grabbed the camera. “Please, don't be broken.”

I picked up the file folder but watched over her shoulder as she flipped through a few of the pictures. In the file folder I found printouts of the amateur shots she'd taken of her sister and the babies.

It dawned on me that Lettie wasn't meeting a reporter to pin Frida's murder on Gordon. “You're planning on selling these pictures. What news organization agreed to meet with you?” I demanded.

She mumbled the name of one of the most notorious newspapers out there. Their reputation had dropped so low that the White House Correspondents' Organization had banned their journalists from attending any White House press events.

I reached out my hand to help Lettie back to her feet. “You're going to sell pictures of your own sister and newborn nephews to
a tabloid?
”

Lettie tossed her arms around my neck and burst out sobbing. “They were the only ones who agreed to pay me.”