Part 3 (1/2)

”Did you hear me? I said Colton is a soph.o.m.ore at Harvard.”

”Oh, well . . . good for him. I really think I need to reschedule if Vice President Caldwell isn't available.”

”Nonsense!” Joe turns to Colton. ”Why don't you run down to the Starbucks and get Iris one of those pumpkin coffee things all the girls are crazy about?”

I hold up my hand. ”No, that's-”

”Iris, you're probably thinkin' to yourself, 'But, Joe, it's the middle of summer. They don't have those pumpkin coffees until the fall!' And you'd be right, except that there are a few perks to being the vice president that aren't available to the general public.” He winks at me.

Except that you aren't the vice president, you total, total tool.

”I don't need any coffee,” I say. I look at the clock. It's 9:15. Not yet time to start panicking about missing the McLean appointment, but every minute definitely counts.

Then the door opens a third time, and the vice president sweeps into the room. She unloads an armful of papers onto the edge of the dining table and turns to us. Caroline Caldwell is a very pet.i.te woman. I probably have six inches on her. She has on a pale-pink skirt suit with three-quarter length sleeves. Her ash-blonde hair is coiffed in a neat bob with blunt bangs, and her makeup is flawless. Not too much but certainly enough to mask a few of her fifty-some years.

”Iris!” she greets me. At least she got that right. ”I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting. So many photo ops with Congressman Durrin's const.i.tuents. I was not expecting the turnout we had.”

The vice president kisses her husband on the cheek. ”And I see you met our son Colton. He goes to Harvard, you know.”

”Yes, as do a lot of people.” d.a.m.n, that came off a little ruder than it sounded in my head. I clear my throat to try to cover it. ”What can I do for you, Madam Vice President?”

She motions to the dining room table before turning to her husband. ”Joe, darling, the daffodils in the Public Garden are truly breathtaking. And the Globe is downstairs in the lobby. I'm sure their photographer would love to get a picture of you strolling through the scenery.”

Yeah, I'm pretty sure a professional photojournalist is not actually clambering to get a picture of a grown man out strolling through the daffodils, but I'm grateful Joe is being dismissed. He smiles and bids me a ”good day,” and then clasps Colton's shoulder.

”Nice to meet you,” Colton says in a soft Texas drawl, and I don't buy his polite niceties for one second.

”Yeah, you, too,” I say, even though I'm not sure if I actually met Colton. This morning is very weird. And it's ticking away. After they leave, I put my hand on the back of a silk chair, the only cue I can think of to show the vice president that I want to sit and start this meeting already.

She obliges me and lowers herself into the opposite chair. ”So, Iris, you're probably wondering why you're here today.”

”Yes.” I drop down into the chair. ”I a.s.sure you, Madam Vice President-”

”Call me Caroline, please.”

Well, that's a bit awkward. And also not going to happen. I clear my throat again. ”I a.s.sure you . . . ma'am . . . that I don't have any more information than I had a few weeks ago. If I did, you certainly would be among the first to know.”

Caroline smiles. It's warm, but it's a politician's smile. All pizzazz and no meaning. ”Oh, I know. Trust me, I'm kept very up to date on the inner workings of your agency.” She's still smiling. What is this?

”O-kay.” I drag the word out.

And then Caroline laughs this throaty laugh, and I squirm. ”Iris, I know this investigation hasn't been easy on you.” Understatement of the millennium. ”I know you've learned a lot about your . . . er . . . family dynamic that I'm sure you were unaware of previously.”

Like that my father is a corrupt murderer who I don't think ever told the truth one day in his life?

The VP drums her fingers along the chair's arm. ”I'm sure you're aware that I didn't exactly have the most . . . er . . . normal of upbringings.” I guess this is true. She comes from a very old political family. Her grandfather was a senator. Her father was secretary of state. ”When you're raised in the political climate I was raised in, you learn to play by different rules.”

An electronic version of a cla.s.sical song I've heard before (but couldn't name if my life depended on it) fills the air. The vice president lunges for her phone and her eyes go wide when she sees the screen. ”Sorry,” she mumbles as she leaps out of the chair and heads toward the bedroom. ”Have to take this.” The door slams shut, and I hear a terse ”h.e.l.lo?” from the other side.

I sigh and stand up. The VP has dropped her voice so low that all I can hear is a whisper. I have no idea who she's talking to or how long this call will take. I glance at the clock. Still plenty of time, but ugh.

I pace back and forth a bit, but it's clear this call isn't going to be a short one. One more glance at the clock. 9:30.

9:40.

9:45.

9:50.

Dammit.

You have to come first sometimes.

Screw it, I'm leaving. I'll jot a quick note to Vice President Caldwell, and she'll have to understand. On the desk by the window, I find a cheap hotel pen but no pad of paper. I open the top drawer of the desk. There's a hotel information binder but no paper. Great.

Then I look over at the table, where the VP dropped that stack of papers. Maybe there's a notebook or memo pad. The top stack of doc.u.ments has a cover sheet from the Office of Management of Budget. It's a Statement of Administration-something about coal miners. Looks important, and I probably shouldn't tear off the front page to scribble, Call me!

I don't mean to snoop, I really don't, and I could just tell the Secret Service guy waiting outside the door that I have to leave, but instead I flip to the next stack of doc.u.ments. And then my gut does a somersault. This one also has a cover sheet.

IN RE: MATTER OF JULIAN ELLIS.

Julian Ellis. A name I didn't know until four months ago, but one I've heard way too many times since then. Alpha's real name.

There's a subheading under that.

Testimony of Noah Masters Masters. Also a name I've gotten to know very well these past few months. Elizabeth Masters. Yellow. Nick Masters. Indigo. Noah must be their father. This is Zeta's testimony before the closed-door Senate committee a.n.a.lyzing every little thing that Annum Guard has ever done. I glance at the date. He gave this testimony only two days before he disappeared.

”CONFIDENTIAL” must be stamped across the cover page at least a dozen times.

This is playing with fire. And I'm pretty sure it's also illegal. But d.a.m.n me if I don't flip open to the first page. It looks like hearing testimony, where a senator asks questions and a court reporter copies down Zeta's answers word for word. I know this because I had to read through the transcript of my own testimony and sign off that I actually said what the reporter wrote down.

I take a deep breath. I really should close this, tell the Secret Service I have another appointment, and bolt. But instead I pause and strain to listen. Vice President Caldwell's hushed voice is still audible from the bedroom. And so I whip out my phone, open the camera, and snap a picture of the first page. Then I flip to the second and snap again. And again and again and as many times as I can until the vice president's voice becomes louder. The call is ending.

I flip the testimony shut, toss the coal-mining report on top, then straighten the pile into a neat stack.

Is that too neat?

But I don't have time to fix it as the door opens and the vice president walks into the living room, holding her phone to her chest with a pained expression. She sees me standing by the table.

”I'm sorry,” I say before she can dwell too much on what I'm doing over here. ”I have a very important personal appointment that I'm going to be late for unless I leave right now.”

Caroline looks from the table to me, then shakes her head and drops her phone onto the chair where she'd been sitting before. ”Of course,” she says, sounding frazzled. ”I'm very sorry to have kept you waiting.” And then she comes over to me. ”What I'm going to say won't take but a minute.”

I hesitate. Somehow I doubt that. I glance behind the vice president at the stack of papers. They're definitely too neat.

”Like I was saying before we were interrupted, there are certain . . . er . . . unpleasantries that come with living a life in the public eye. Times have changed, and in this era of global media, it becomes harder and harder to exercise . . . discretion.”