Autopsy(Kay Scarpetta #25)(47)

“How are you feeling?” She’s not asking to be nice.

What she’s really doing is making sure I’m up to whatever must be expected, as if I’m about to walk onto center court or enter the boxing ring. I reply that I’m fine, maybe not completely back to normal, maybe not quite as energetic as I’d like. While Benton continues acting as if he has no idea why we’re here, and I don’t believe it for a second.

“The timing is never good when horrible things happen,” Tron replies to my growing uneasiness. “But it would be a major problem if you weren’t available, and we sure appreciate you being here to help out with this situation.”

I don’t know what situation she’s talking about. Only that before now I’ve had no reason to assume I’m a major player in whatever has unfolded that demands Benton’s and my presence. I glance up at him, both of us holding the umbrella as we walk, his hand warm against mine, his face unreadable.

The Secret Service knows about the poisoned wine. But that’s not why I’m at the White House. I’ve been summoned in spite of it and any residual ill effects I might be suffering, and Benton doesn’t say a word. It’s not up to him to inform me about what’s really happening, and it goes with the turf.

We’ve been together a long time, and I’m used to being in the dark. Out of necessity so is he when I can’t tell him everything, the two of us having more noncommunications than any couple I know. But that doesn’t mean I don’t find it frustrating when he shuts me out. Especially now.

“How did you hear about the wine I carried home from Lyon?” I ask Tron since my husband’s not going to tell me.

“Interpol.” She leads us along in the spitting rain, the White House complex barely a block ahead.

The road is crowded with parked vehicles and big storage pods. American flags flutter from iron lampposts, uniformed guards on the prowl with their arsenals as trees drip, the grounds winter-drab and flowerless. I’m not seeing the usual mobs of tourists, mostly people in conservative business dress under their umbrellas.

“I was contacted by the secretary general’s office earlier this morning,” Tron says.

Of course, she would have been since she was visiting Interpol at the same time I was, both of us members of the Doomsday Commission.

“Also, of huge concern to us is that you and Benton are presidential appointees,” she’s saying. “So you can understand the United States having an interest.”

“We can’t be certain at this point of the intended target,” Benton adds. “Although I’m willing to bet a small fortune it wasn’t Kay or those of us around her.”

“I suspect we’re going to find it was Gabriella Honoré,” Tron replies. “There are other incidents, other things going on, possibly all of it connected even if indirectly because of the Russian factor.”





CHAPTER 19

IT’S ALL SHE’S GOING to divulge while noticing everyone around us, every vehicle parked in front the West Wing’s entrance. She’d have you cuffed on the ground before you can think. I have no doubt of that having seen her take down metal plates on the firing range and burn rubber on the driving course.

Benton calls Tron a bona fide badass, handling business quietly, rarely reacting to much or raising her voice. We follow her to the West Wing’s entrance, onto the rusty-red carpet runner under the big white awning, through the double glass-paned white doors beneath the gold presidential seal.

Just inside, she parks the umbrella in a stand, and to our left are a series of wooden cabinets that weren’t here when I was last. Inside them are lockboxes for our electronic devices. I find it ironic watching Tron and Benton tuck away our phones, also fitness trackers and a smartwatch. But not their guns.

Through another set of doors, another officer checks our IDs again without cracking a smile as Tron chats with him. I’m wondering what’s changed since I was here last, and I look around. Nothing seems all that different at a glance except I notice other women wearing pants and comfortable shoes like mine.

Beyond the desk, the lobby is hung with priceless oil paintings of pioneers in covered wagons, and Old Faithful going off in Yellowstone Park. I recognize George Washington crossing the Delaware in his boat, and other Americana art I’ve admired on previous visits.

The reception area for the public is surprisingly Spartan and bustling, the mood strictly business, not remotely ceremonial. There’s little room to linger, no hosts to offer coffee or to hang your coat. The furnishings aren’t nearly as lavish as one might expect when visiting the highest office in the land.

This Tuesday morning, the last day of November, there’s a touch of nervous energy in the air, and Tron informs us that the prime minister of England is expected later. Meanwhile, a VIP tour of schoolteachers congregates by the door leading outside to the West Colonnade. They’re from the Midwest, I gather, and they can’t stop smiling and shyly asking questions.

“Also known as the forty-five-second commute,” their tour guide is saying. “That’s how long it takes to get from here to the executive residence, and in the process, you’ll have a glimpse of the Rose Garden, the Oval Office . . .” They follow him outside.

Guides and other staffers in uniform are assigned to the White House Military Office. WHMO (pronounced whamo) runs all hospitality and food services. It also handles medical emergencies and transportation, whether it’s the presidential limousines, Air Force One or the helicopter landing on the South Lawn.