Hope Never Dies Page 6

  “The law says differently, Joe.”

  She was right, of course—the law was the law. Barack and I hadn’t done enough to change it. The changes we’d made were being rolled back by the new administration. It was almost like we’d never been in office.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Fine?”

  “You’re right. I’m letting my personal feelings get the better of me.”

  “So you’re going to leave my boy alone. If you insist on wasting any more of his time, you’re going to regret it.”

  But he was the one that approached me, I wanted to say. Except there was no point. She could make Dan’s life hell if she wanted to.

  I told her I’d have the Service go through the proper channels for any future requests. She didn’t need to know that the Service’s involvement here had been off the record. She didn’t need to know I’d told Barack to drop it. “How’s that sound to you?”

  “You know what, Joe?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re a lot smarter than I thought you’d be.”

  “Was that a compliment?”

  She hung up without answering. I stared out the picture window that looked onto the backyard and, beyond that, the lake. The surface of the water was as calm as a soul at rest. Part of me wondered if it wouldn’t be in everyone’s interest to just let Finn be.

  The doorbell rang. Without thinking, I undid the deadbolt and swung open the door.

  It was Steve.

  “Forget something?” I asked. I was vaguely aware that I was in my skivvies, but didn’t care. There were more important things on my mind.

  “Your flowers, sir.”

  He held out the bouquet of lilies.

  “Keep them,” I said, slamming the door in his face. The shocked look on his face as the door swung closed was priceless.

  My satisfaction, however, was short-lived.

  He rang the doorbell again, and Champ barked.

  I didn’t want to answer it, because I was still pretty wound up. Not just about the stupid flowers. About everything. If Esposito had really put the clampdown on Dan, that meant I was frozen out of my backdoor into the department. I wasn’t going to be able to convince her there was an ongoing Secret Service investigation for very long. The larger question was, why did I think I could piece together the puzzle of Finn’s final hours any better than the police could? It was becoming obvious that Finn had gotten sucked under by the currents of something dark and powerful. Now I was swimming in those same murky waters. If I wasn’t careful, the undertow would pull me down as well.

  I could sense my frustration getting the better of me. If I opened the door again, I was either going to stammer out an apology to Steve…or slam it right back in his flat face. I just wanted to go upstairs, draw a bath, and soak my banged-up knee.

  The doorbell rang again. Champ barked.

  I took a deep breath. “Stay back,” I told Champ, putting a leg between him and the door. I opened the door a crack.

  It wasn’t Steve this time. It was Barack.

  We stood there in the doorway, Barack and me, staring into each other’s eyes like a couple of gunslingers ready to face off at high noon. Except it was past five o’clock, I was in my boxers, and neither of us had a six-shooter.

  “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  12

  Slamming the door in Barack Obama’s face wasn’t an option. Or it was, but it wasn’t one that I felt like exercising. It was the nuclear option.

  I stepped aside. “Come on in, Mr. President.”

  He wiped his shoes off on the mat. Steve quickly followed, with the bouquet. Champ trotted behind them, sniffing at their pant legs.

  Barack measured up the inside of our home with narrowed eyes. “Nice place you’ve got here, Joe.”

  We were in the entryway. All he could see of the interior were the twin spiraling staircases. It was a hollow compliment if I’d ever heard one.

  “I’m going to put some clothes on. You two can head on to the living room,” I said, pointing down the hall, “and make yourselves comfortable.”

  I threw on a navy bathrobe. I didn’t have time to go through my closet looking for a clean pair of Dockers. There was still a chance I could get Barack and Steve out of the house before Jill came home.

  When I returned downstairs, I found them sitting on the leather sofa in the living room. Barack was scratching behind Champ’s ears. The dog had a blissed-out look.

  “Very Hugh Hefner,” Barack said when he spied my robe. “I like it.”

  I took a seat in the recliner. “I don’t want to be a party pooper, but Jill’s going to be home soon. If she sees you here, I’ll catch hell for inviting guests over for dinner without telling her first. She’s got dinner all planned out and—”

  “We won’t be staying long,” Barack said. He didn’t look me in the eye. “There’s just something I wanted to say, that I didn’t get to say to you in the car.”

  I crossed my arms. “If you’re here to say you’re sorry, that ship has sailed.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “Sorry for—for—” I stammered. I knew exactly what I wanted to say, but the words were stuck on the back of my tongue. “S-s-sorry for—”

  Barack and Steve exchanged glances, and Barack threw his hands up. “What I wanted to say was that there’s more.”

  “More what?”

  “I’m not trying to scare you. I know you want to let the police handle this whole situation. I know you have the utmost respect for the boys in blue—”

  “Just spit it out, man.”

  Barack turned to the agent sitting by his side. “The folder, Steve.”

  Steve was holding a manila folder behind the flowers, and started to hand it to Barack. I reached out across the coffee table and swiped it from them. Inside, there was a sheaf of eight-by-ten photographs. They were all shots of a house that looked like it had been ripped apart by a pit bull puppy on adrenaline shots.

  I looked up at Barack. “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s Finn Donnelly’s house,” he said. “Of course, he hasn’t lived there for a while.”

  “Where was he living?”

  “A no-tell motel close to the railroad tracks,” Barack said. “Finn never said anything about it? I thought he was part of your so-called second family.”

  “I say that about everyone at Amtrak,” I said. “With Finn, it was a bit truer than with most. Finn started working at Amtrak the same year I started riding—1972. I went to his wedding. I sent flowers to the hospital when his daughter was born. He didn’t always work the train I rode, but I saw him more often than not for over three decades. I rode that line—the Metroliner—ten thousand times.”

  “You counted.”

  “Some journalist did. I just inflate the number by a thousand every time I tell the story.”

  “It’s not a lie if you believe it,” Barack said.

  “Who said that? Some Marxist philosopher?”

  “My father.”

  “Huh.” I wasn’t going to touch that one. I continued, “Anyway, I didn’t know he’d moved out of his house. I didn’t even know until this week that his wife was in the hospital. His daughter said he was keeping things private. I wished he’d reached out.”

  “That may have been why he had your address,” Barack said. “He needed someone to talk to, or help him out with the bills. Some people are too proud for their own good. They should know it’s not a sin to ask for help.”

  Barack’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it and continued: “As I said, Finn wasn’t living in their family home.”

  “The house felt too big without his wife.”

  “That sounds about right,” Barack said. “So a few months back Finn starts renting out their house to a young woman and h
er son.”

  “And the new tenants…they did this?” I asked, raising the pictures.

  Barack shook his head. “The kid’s a toddler, but it takes more than a toddler to do this. These people have been model tenants—paying their rent on time, keeping the yard under control. Last night, they went to Finn Donnelly’s wake. When they came back, this was how they found the place. Somebody had forced open the back door with a crowbar, according to the officer who wrote the report.”

  “Anything missing?”

  “Tough to say. Doesn’t seem to be, though. If I had to hazard a guess, whoever broke in didn’t have any clue that the house was being rented.”

  “Does his family know?”

  “Finn’s sister knows. So does the daughter. They’re both staying in town, for the time being. A Holiday Inn Express.”

  “Nice hotels. Continental breakfast.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Barack said.

  “What’s Lieutenant Esposito think?”

  “She doesn’t think it’s connected to his death. There’ve been a number of break-ins during funerals and wakes recently. Criminals are scouring the obits for victims and striking when no one’s home.”

  “I read something about those guys.”

  “As far as the Wilmington PD is concerned, this was just a run-of-the-mill burglary.”

  “But that’s not what you believe.”

  “Nothing was stolen,” Barack explained. “It’s possible they were scared off in the middle of the job. That’s what the PD is saying. But it’s also possible they were searching for something they didn’t find.”

  Very possible, I thought. I remembered the man in the nursing home, the one with the long hair, claiming to be ministering to the patients. He’d been snooping around for something, too. I tossed the folder onto the coffee table. “Why didn’t you want to share these photos with me?”

  “I worried I was being paranoid. While we were talking in the car, I realized that I shouldn’t have had Steve follow you. It was out of line. It was wrong of me, and I’m sorry.”

  So he knows the words.

  “But…”

  “But after we dropped you off, I thought about it some more. I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I kept this from you and something happened, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. The last thing I wanted to do was scare you without reason. Having said that, I don’t buy the idea that the burglary and your friend’s death are unconnected.”

  I didn’t buy it, either. I decided there was no harm in bringing Barack up to speed. “Detective Capriotti was pushing the overdose angle hard yesterday. I would never say a bad word about our local boys in blue—especially Dan, who I’ve known forever and a lifetime—but something’s been eating at me and I haven’t been able to put my finger on it. Until twenty minutes ago, that is.”

  “What happened twenty minutes ago?”

  “I talked to Lieutenant Esposito. The reason she’s taken over the case personally isn’t because she’s some sort of micromanager. It’s because she’s worried we’ll lead her detectives around town on a wild goose chase. She wants this case shut down. I’m sure her reasoning’s on the up-and-up, too: the last thing the Wilmington Police Department needs is another case for their homicide backlog. A few years ago, they made national headlines by clearing just fifteen percent of all murders. That’s below the Mendoza line.”

  “Mendoza?”

  “It’s a baseball thing,” I said. “The department has improved, but not by much. They’re not our only hope here, though. There’s also the National Transportation Safety Board—”

  “—who aren’t even going to look at the burglary report,” Barack interjected. “They’re going to look at the engineer of the train, and the circumstances surrounding the accident, but that’s it. We may be on our own here.”

  We? I almost said, but held my tongue. There was no “we,” as far as I was concerned. On the other hand…I couldn’t dismiss Barack’s help. I didn’t know why he was so interested in Finn Donnelly, or why he’d chosen now to take an interest in my life again. But Esposito had thrown a wrench into the gears: herself. Unless I was going to ask Dan to risk his job for me, I needed Barack…or at least the Secret Service. As long as Steve was willing to play along, I was, too.

  “Has anyone checked out this motel room?” I asked. “The one where Finn was living.”

  “There’s nothing in the reports Esposito sent over,” Barack said. “I would assume his family cleaned it out, but that’s just an assumption.”

  “How many times have you checked out of a hotel and forgotten something in your room? I’m thinking under the bed or in a dresser drawer. You think you’ve got everything packed in your suitcase, but maybe you left your phone charger behind the nightstand…”

  “He didn’t have a cell phone. Last guy in America without one.”

  I threw up my hands. “I know that. I’m just saying, it might be worth checking out. We need some real evidence. Something to prove there’s more going on here than it seems.”

  Barack didn’t say anything.

  “It’s just an idea,” I said. “If you have a better one…?”

  Barack shrugged, then turned to his agent. “Find a vase for those flowers, and then we’ll head back into town. We’re looking for a joint called the Heart of Wilmington Motel.”

  “Wait. You want to go there right now?” I asked. It was a question, but only sort of—I had the sinking feeling I already knew the answer.

  “Is that going to be a problem?” Barack asked. “I know Jill. She’ll understand. Just call her and—”

  “Let me get dressed,” I said. Then, to Steve, I added, “There’s a vase in the pantry, just off the side of the kitchen. I’m sure your GPS can show you the way.”

  I dragged myself upstairs and did a mental tally of the work I needed to finish over the weekend. There were a couple of emails sitting in my inbox that I’d been avoiding all week. One had to do with my new gig at the University of Pennsylvania; another was about the Biden Institute, the research and public policy institute I’d set up at my alma mater, the University of Delaware. All of it was going to have to wait.

  My SIG called to me from the closet. We were heading into a dicey part of town, possibly past sundown. I hadn’t felt unsafe beneath the interstate, but that was then. This was now. The Secret Service agent would be armed. Why shouldn’t I be, too? I spun the dial on the safe, removed the SIG, and felt the gun’s weight in my hand. Then I returned it. I realized I didn’t need a gun. I wanted a gun. Instead I pulled out my Presidential Medal of Freedom.

  It wasn’t something you could wear every day, like a class ring. Truth be told, most people just ended up having their medals framed. I hadn’t, because I knew it would be too painful to look at every day. It was a reminder of eight great years…eight wonderful, glorious years that seemed like a lifetime ago. I placed it on my desk.

  I called Jill while I was getting dressed. It went straight to voicemail. In the kitchen, I scribbled out a note letting her know that I was out with Barack, and that I’d fill her in on the details later. I glanced up at the clock on the microwave. It was quarter ‘til six already. The earliest we could make it downtown and back during rush hour would be eight or eight thirty. It was conceivable I wouldn’t be home until nine—past our bedtime.

  I signed my name. Then, underneath, as if it was an afterthought, I added, “Don’t wait up for me.”

  13

  Barack Obama and I were two fairly high-profile individuals, so it made sense that we should take some measures to conceal our identities. We couldn’t risk causing a scene parading around town. There was already enough hoopla surrounding Finn’s case. Despite this perfect logic on my part, Barack had a fit when he saw me emerge from the house. “What is that thing on your head?”

  I touched the brim of my baseball c
ap. KISS MY BASS, it blared with all the subtlety of a trumpet in your ear. There was an embroidered bass on it, with its mouth open, ready to be reeled in.

  “It’s called a disguise,” I said. “Here, I got you one, too.” I handed him a maroon cap embroidered with a large letter P. “Phillies. Y’know, since you’re a White Sox fan. No one will ever suspect it’s you.”

  “Hmmmmmm,” Barack said, staring at the cap.

  I put on my aviator shades, then smiled. “What do you think?”

  “Remember when you flew into Minnesota to interview for the V.P. slot?” he said. “We were so worried people would learn about the interview…and you showed up wearing a plain denim baseball cap and those same sunglasses you’re wearing now.”

  “It was a different pair.”

  “Point is, nobody recognized you,” he said. “But it wasn’t because of your so-called disguise. It was because you were a senator from Delaware. Most people outside the Mid-Atlantic region don’t even know where the Delaware state lines are.”

  “Most Delawareans don’t know, either.”

  “I guess what I’m trying to say is whether we wear hats or welder’s masks, it’s going to be pretty difficult to avoid drawing attention. Plus, everybody’s seen you in those glasses.”

  “You’re saying I need to take them off to disguise myself,” I said, whipping my Ray-Bans off. “How’s that?”

  Barack stared at me. “You look like Joe Biden either way.”

  “Forget it, then.”

  “No, no. Wear them if it makes you feel comfortable.”

  “And you’ll wear the Phillies hat.”

  “We’ll see,” he said. “You ready to go, then?”

  I dangled the extra key for my Challenger. She was sitting in the garage, begging to be let out of her cage. “Want to take my car?”

  “What’s wrong with the Little Beast?”

  “We might not be able to avoid attention completely, but we can be smart about it. Think what will happen if we roll up anywhere in that…thing. Pull into that motel parking lot, and people are going to stare.”