Cajun Justice(19)

“Doctor, I work for the Secret Service, not the gestapo. You don’t have to lecture me on toxic loyalty. I’ve walked the grounds at Dachau. It made me sick to my stomach.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you, Cain.”

“You didn’t upset me,” Cain replied flatly, masking his spike in blood pressure.

“I’d like to transition from friendships to relationships. Many of my clients struggle with relationships. As you know, the Secret Service has a 70 percent divorce rate. I notice you’re wearing a wedding ring, but your file says nothing about your being married—except to the job.”

A flood of emotions—a mixture of anger and guilt—suddenly overcame him. He still wasn’t ready to confront it. “I still wear my wedding ring to honor my wife, Claire. She and our baby boy, Christopher, are dead. My file doesn’t mention them because I joined the Secret Service afterward.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“No,” Cain said. “It’s got nothing to do with my job performance, or my ability to protect the president.”

He looked at his watch. “My hour is up, doctor. I wouldn’t want Uncle Sam having to pay for any extra services that aren’t necessary, just so you can make the payments on your BMW X5.”

Her mouth opened in shock. “How did you know I drive a BMW?”

“I told you, doc. I read people for a living. Your accent is German, and I saw a BMW parked outside with personalized plates. The Service never authorizes personalized plates. It’s a security issue.”

“Ah,” she said with a tinge of relief. “Good observation. I guess I should change those?”

“Only if you’re concerned for your safety. I’m sure you deal with a lot of crazies in here, but I’m not one of them. I believe I’ve demonstrated that I’m capable of carrying out the duties of a Secret Service agent.”

“Yes. My report will give my blessing for you to continue your service.”

“Thank you, doc.” Cain stood to leave.

“One last bit of advice, if I may, Cain.” She phrased it in such a way that he knew the advice was coming whether he wanted it or not.

“Don’t let loyalty be your downfall.”





Chapter 17



Cain walked out the office door and took a deep breath. It was midmorning, and while the sun was out, dark clouds were moving in from the east. Thank God that’s over.

He straddled his Harley and cruised the short distance to Old Ebbitt Grill, a favorite hangout of Secret Service agents. The establishment teemed with energy and political history. Former presidents had played dominos there while discussing policy, but Hollywood made it even more famous when Clint Eastwood played the piano there during a scene in In the Line of Fire.

Cain pushed through the rotating door and grabbed a pack of matches from the hostess table. He knew the restaurant well and sat himself at the bar. Cain removed his tie and folded it before placing it in his suit’s inner pocket. He plopped his heavy elbows onto the thick wooden bar. He looked around the place, studying the stuffed animal heads mounted on the wall.

“Your usual, Mr. Cain?” the freckle-faced bartender, clad in the uniform issue of suspenders and a bow tie, asked from behind the bar. Bill was a young college student working to pay for his political science degree at nearby George Washington University.

“Not today, pal. Make it a sweet tea. Craving a taste of home.” Cain then mumbled under his breath, “Sometimes this city reminds you just how far from the farm you are.”

“One sweet tea coming up,” Bill said.

“Could you also put an order in for the shrimp and grits?”

“Absolutely, sir.” Bill punched the lunch order into his computer and then hurried to make the drink.

When it arrived, Cain squeezed the sliced lemon into his tea. He used the straw to stir the drink before tossing the straw onto the bar. He took a large sip. That hits the spot.

As Cain continued gazing around the room, the flat-screen television in the corner caught his attention. Normally a sporting event played, but today something much more important was broadcasting. The volume was too low for him to hear, but the caption read SECRET SERVICE PROSTITUTION SCANDAL. Then the photo of Cain, Tomcat, and the others playing darts with drinks in their hands at the British pub flashed on the big screen.

Cain pushed the tea aside. “Bill, I will have my usual.”

Bill looked confused. “Was it not any good, Mr. Cain? I can make you another.”

Cain was still staring at the screen.

“Hey, Mr. Cain. Isn’t that you and Mr. Tom?”

“Looks like it, doesn’t it?” Cain replied, too angry to be embarrassed.

Bill poured a double Jack Daniel’s on the rocks for Cain. “This one’s on the house, Mr. Cain.”

Cain pounded back the drink. Strong. Just like I like ’em. He didn’t enjoy drinking out of bitterness or anger, but the alcoholic drink was familiar to him. It was comforting, and he hoped it would help calm the anger boiling to the surface.

“Make me another, will you?” Cain asked.

“No judgment from me, Mr. Cain.”

Tom Jackson arrived shortly afterward and grasped Cain’s shoulder. “I love this place—for the scenery, if nothing else.” Tomcat gazed upon a group of young professional women sitting at a table about ten feet away. They were enjoying cocktails, and giggled and looked away when Tomcat made eye contact with them.