Cajun Justice(13)

“It’s been about two weeks. It was so funny watching them try to use Skype. Pops can fly an airplane but can’t operate a smartphone.”

Cain and Bonnie laughed together.

“Well, in all fairness,” he said, “his airplane is older than us!”

“And with the way he cares for it, it’ll probably outlive us all.” She laughed. “Did he send you the usual birthday present?”

“Yup, a box of Community Coffee’s dark roast with chicory.”

“I don’t know how the Lemaire men can drink that nasty crap. Way too strong for me.”

“It’ll certainly put some hair on your chest.”

She laughed. “That’s not the look I’m going for. Just make sure not to drink too much of it, or you’ll never get any sleep.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“Hey! I’m just concerned. You told me you were still having nightmares.”

“You can’t have nightmares if you aren’t sleeping.”

“That’s why I sent you the CD! Have you talked to the Secret Service psychologist?”

“God, no! They claim to be confidential, but if the Service is paying their salary, that’s who they’re loyal to.”

“Have you considered talking to a priest?”

He paused before responding. “I haven’t been to a church in years. You know that.”

“Well, I’m here for you, brother. I know this sounds bad, but I hope they suspend you.”

“What?”

“You need a vacation, and I’d love to see you in Japan.”

“I don’t need a vacation.”

“You’re just like Pops. You’ll work till the day you’re dead.”

“Sounds like you, too. Hey, keep your eyes open. I sent your birthday gift with some extra things, too, so you can share it with your colleagues.”

“I can’t wait! You’re always so thoughtful.”

“You, too, sis. Well, I better sign off. Gotta get ready for my meeting.”

“You have a meeting on a Saturday?”

“This investigation is kicking into overdrive. LeRoy wants to know my side of what happened, and nobody cares whether it’s Saturday or Sunday.”

“Good luck with the King!” she said. “Call to update me right after. Love you.”





Chapter 12



Cain enjoyed cooking, but he hadn’t shopped since his trip. He opened the refrigerator and saw it was empty, except for leftover Chinese, a bottle of mustard, some salsa, eggs, and a few bottles of Coke—the ones made in Mexico with the real sugarcane instead of the fructose corn syrup. He grabbed two eggs and placed them in a pot of water. While they boiled, he brewed a batch of Community Coffee. He flipped through a stack of mail while he sipped the chicory coffee his dad had sent him. Mm. This is good. Feel the life coming back to me.

During the commute to the office, his mind naturally went to his interview. What should I say? Should I be forthcoming about Tomcat? He eventually settled on a plan to discuss only things he had firsthand knowledge about. He wouldn’t speculate about rumors or side conversations he’d had with Tom Jackson and the other agents.

Cain was so deep in thought that he was surprised at how quickly he arrived at the White House. He grabbed his wallet from his back pocket and flashed the uniformed Secret Service officer his credentials, which displayed his official photograph and the US code that delineated his authority and jurisdiction.

“Welcome back, Agent Lemaire,” the officer said. “I heard it was quite the party trip.” The cocky officer smirked.

What a jerk! Cain thought. But he understood the conflict between the uniformed division and the agent corps. The agents knew that the officers wanted to be agents, and the officers complained that agents were egotistical prima donnas who thought they were God’s gift to federal law enforcement.

“For an agency with ‘Secret’ in its name, it’s troubling how fast gossip travels,” Cain replied, not trying to hide his annoyance. “For someone of your tenure, I would have expected better.”

“Is it gossip when there’s a picture of you and a few others out drinking the night before the president arrives?”

Cain’s head rocked back. “What are you talking about?”

“It hasn’t made the American news yet, but our intelligence branch showed us a photo this morning during roll call. It shows you, Agent Jackson, and a few others throwing darts with beers in your hands.”

Cain was blindsided. “Open the gate!” he demanded. He stomped on the throttle and skidded his government sedan into one of the first come, first served parking spots. Sunrise was still an hour away, so there were still plenty of spots. His plan had been to work out in the office gym before employees started trickling into the building. That’ll have to wait. I gotta track down this photo.

Instead of using the normal door to his office, he went straight to another entrance. The uniformed officer allowed him to pass. Cain strode through the hallway adorned with portraits of past presidents. The red carpet beneath his feet was about an inch thick. He made a left turn and went toward some downward stairs. A chain blocked the entrance and a sign said RESTRICTED ACCESS. He unhooked the chain and proceeded to the intelligence branch, which occupied a secure command center in the basement of the White House. They monitored everything from CCTV cameras: the airspace around the White House, even the air quality the president breathed.