Shakeup Read online

  “How did you come to know the New York police commissioner?”

  “During my service with the NYPD, which I told you about, he and I were partners, working homicide.”

  “Well,” Maren said, “that’s the most ironclad alibi I’ve ever come across.”

  They pulled up at Stone’s house.

  “Very nice,” she said, checking it out through the tinted window.

  “May I offer you coffee?” he asked.

  “You may. Then I can satisfy my curiosity.”

  Curiosity about what? he wondered. “Your driver can park the car off the street,” he said, using his remote control to open the garage door.

  “Pull in there, Terry,” she said, and the driver did.

  Stone took her inside and pointed down the hallway. “My home office is down there.” Then he took her upstairs.

  “I love this,” she said, admiring the living room.

  “And this is my study,” Stone said, showing her in and settling her on the sofa facing the fireplace. He picked up a phone. “May I have coffee for two, please?” He hung up. “Would you like an after-lunch drink?” he asked.

  “Just some club soda with ice,” she replied. He poured it and sat down.

  “Tell me about the rest of the house,” she said.

  “Well, as I said, my office is downstairs, my secretary’s, too. Down there is a small gym and the kitchen, which faces the common garden around which all the houses in Turtle Bay are built. Upstairs, there are two floors of guest rooms and one more floor up is the master suite. I also own the house next door, where my staff live, and the two houses together give me a large garage, which you have just seen.”

  Fred came in with the coffee and Stone introduced the two. “Would your driver like some coffee, Maren? Or you can send him home, and Fred will deliver you to your hotel whenever you like.”

  “Fred,” she said, “would you please tell my driver that he’s finished for the day and can leave?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Fred said, and left.

  “Now I’ll have that after-lunch drink: Grand Marnier, if you have it.”

  “I have it in abundance,” Stone said, then poured them each one. “May I ask you the question you are most often asked?”

  “Six feet, in my stocking feet,” she replied. “It helps when the need arises to intimidate a special agent.”

  “I can imagine,” Stone said. “What else may I do for you?”

  She gave him a warm smile. “I’ll give you a hint,” she replied. “It’s most easily accomplished from a kneeling position.”

  “Are you sure that’s what you’d like?”

  “Very much,” she replied.

  Stone got up and closed the door.

  32

  They had adjusted their clothing and were finishing their drinks when the doorbell rang. Stone picked up the phone. “Yes?”

  “It’s Dino.”

  Stone pressed a button and heard Dino enter the house. “It’s Dino Bacchetti,” he said to Maren.

  “How does my lipstick look?” she asked.

  “Perfect.”

  Dino knocked on the study door. “Come in!” Stone answered.

  The door opened. “Why was the door closed?” he asked.

  “There was a draft,” Stone replied. “This is the FBI’s deputy director for criminal investigations, Maren Gustav,” he said. “She’s taken over the Clark business.”

  Dino shook her hand and pulled up a chair. He looked at them oddly, as if something were amiss.

  “We’re having Grand Marnier,” Stone said. “Can I get you something?”

  Dino stood and walked to the bar. “I’ll get myself a Scotch,” he replied, then did so and returned to his seat.

  “Well, Director,” Dino said. “How did you come to be on this case?”

  “Since one of the victims, Ms. Carlyle, was a federal employee, that makes this a federal case. The president personally asked me to take it over.”

  “I’m an admirer of the president’s judgment,” Dino said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Welcome to the case. It will be nice having someone in charge who is not in the bag or an idiot.”

  Maren laughed. “Thank you again.”

  “Has Stone taken you through the case?”

  “Let’s say that we have left no Stone unturned,” she replied.

  Dino’s eyes narrowed. “Have you an opinion of whom we should suspect?” he asked.

  “I believe that there are at least two suspects, possibly more,” Maren said. “And one abettor.”

  “Do you have enough for an arrest?” he asked.

  “Not until we turn one of them.”

  “Who’s your candidate for turning?”

  “I think Little Debby is the stupidest, so let’s start with her; I’ll go see her on my return to Washington.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “Is Viv in town?” Stone asked.

  “She is,” Dino replied.

  “Maren, will you join the Bacchettis and me for dinner?”

  “I’d love to. I’d like a little nap and to freshen up. May I do that here, instead of returning to my hotel?”

  “Of course,” Stone said. “Let me show you upstairs. Excuse me for a moment, Dino.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  Stone took her up in the elevator and led her to the master suite.

  “This is lovely,” she said. “I believe I owe you something.” Her hand wandered to his zipper.

  “You may repay after dinner,” Stone said. “I shouldn’t keep Dino waiting. There are arrests to be made in this city.” He kissed her on the forehead and left her to it.

  Dino was gazing into the fire, sipping his Scotch when Stone returned. “I booked us into Patroon, in your absence.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What the fuck was going on when I arrived? There was something in the air.”

  “There was no fucking going on,” Stone replied firmly. “You’re not happy, are you, unless you suspect someone of something.”

  “I’m usually right,” Dino said. “I must say, the quality of management at the Bureau is improving.”

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  “How do you find these women?”

  “Holly sent this one.”

  “I guess she feels guilty about leaving you without sex.”

  “Nonsense. I asked her to goose the FBI to get moving on this, and she went right to the top. Maren happened to be in New York on other business.”

  “She sounds like she’s planning to winter here.”

  “Okay with me.”

  “Am I keeping you from her side, so to speak?”

  “You are not. She wants a nap, and I am content with your company, for the time being. Did you call Viv?”

  “I did, and she approved our dinner plans.”

  * * *

  —

  They had settled into their booth at Patroon, where Maren had insisted that she be seated facing the door. “The gunfighter’s seat,” she had explained.

  They had just placed their orders when Stone saw Maren’s eyes dart toward the entrance. “Opposition?” he asked quietly. He half-expected her to produce a weapon.

  “My boss likes to think so,” she replied. “He thinks I want his job.”

  A tall, distinguished-looking man suddenly appeared at their tableside.

  “Good evening, Maren,” he said to her.

  “Good evening, Director,” she replied. “May I introduce my companions?”

  “Mr. Barrington and Commissioner Bacchetti and I have met, but I’m not acquainted with your other lovely guest.”

  “This is Vivian Bacchetti,” Maren rep
lied.

  “I should have guessed,” he replied, shaking her hand. “You’re with Strategic Services, are you not?”

  “I am,” Viv said.

  “Please give my warm regards to Mike Freeman,” he said.

  “Certainly.”

  “If you’ll all excuse me, my dinner guest is waiting.” He half-turned, then stopped. “And, Maren,” he said. “I don’t want to see this on your expense account.”

  “Ms. Gustav is my guest,” Stone said quickly.

  “Good.” He walked away from their table and took a seat at a table across the room, where an attractive woman awaited.

  “Who’s the female?” Viv asked Maren.

  “Oh, that is Ms. Not-His-Wife,” she replied. “I’m filing that as an arrow in my quiver.”

  Everybody laughed.

  “And thank you for being courtly, Stone.”

  “Why? You didn’t think you were paying, did you?”

  “A pity,” Maren replied. “I was going to put it on my expense account.”

  33

  President Holly Barker had just finished her daily intelligence briefing in the Situation Room and had returned to the Oval Office, when her secretary rang.

  “Yes?”

  “Madam President, Mr. John Henry Shaker, the director of the FBI, is here to see you.”

  “Does he have an appointment?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then ask him to wait while I receive the St. Mary’s girls’ choir,” she said. “And send them in immediately.”

  A Secret Service agent opened a door from the hallway, allowing entrance to twenty teenage girls in matching white robes, followed by a porter pushing an upright piano on wheels, their director nun, and another nun.

  “Good morning, Madam President,” the nun said.

  “Good morning to you, sister, and to all of your girls.”

  “May we begin?”

  “Please do.”

  The girls began singing “The Bells of St. Mary’s,” from the old Bing Crosby movie of that name, accompanied on piano by the other nun.

  Holly walked over to the thick, soundproof door separating her from her secretary and opened it slightly, to let the sound flow outside to her waiting room and the waiting director, then she returned to her desk and settled in her chair for the concert, which lasted twenty minutes. At the end, Holly stood, applauded, and called out, “Encore, encore!”

  The girls rendered a haunting version of “Ave Maria.” Afterward Holly went and shook each of their hands, and those of the nuns, then the room was cleared. Holly went to her desk and busied herself signing a stack of correspondence. Finally, she rang for her secretary. “You may send in the director,” she said.

  John Henry Shaker, ramrod straight and Brooks Brothers suited, entered the room.

  Holly did not stand or shake his hand, but waved him to a chair facing her desk.

  “Good morning, Madam President,” Shaker said, seeming barely able to speak the words.

  “Director. What can I do for you?” She signed another letter or two, then looked up. “Well?”

  “Do I now have your full attention?” Shaker asked, icily.

  “More or less,” Holly replied. “Must I ask you again?”

  “First, I must object most strongly to the replacement of my FBI security detail by Secret Service agents.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “As I am sure you are aware, my security detail, and those of my predecessors, have always been special agents.”

  “Certainly, I’m aware.”

  “Then I must demand that my special agent detail be returned to their work.”

  “Demand?” Holly asked. “You come into this office making demands?”

  “Ah, request, then.”

  “Request denied,” she replied, fixing him with her gaze. “It had come to my attention that your bureau detail were spending most of their time delivering and picking up your dry cleaning, or sewing on your buttons, or making you sandwiches.”

  “Are you suggesting that accomplishing those tasks myself would be a better use of my time?”

  “Perhaps,” Holly replied, “considering how you spend your time at work. You seem to have a more pronounced penchant for investigating the appointees of former President Katharine Lee than you did when Republicans held the office.”

  “The FBI does not undertake investigations that are unfounded.”

  “Perhaps the Bureau does not, but you certainly do. How long do you have left in your ten-year term, Mr. Shaker?”

  “Nine months,” he muttered.

  “Perhaps that time would be better spent securing your future in the private sector.”

  “I had expected to be reappointed,” he said, haughtily.

  “I assure you, sir, your expectations are unlikely to be met. Is there anything else on your mind? Unburden yourself.”

  “I object most strongly to you assigning cases to my deputies rather than making your requests through me.”

  “It’s only because I trust them more than I do you,” she replied.

  This time, he affected to be shocked. “Have I done anything to deserve your distrust?”

  “You’ve certainly done little to deserve my trust. In any case, it is a matter of historical record that you have little in the way of investigative experience on your record.”

  “My experience is more on the administrative side,” he said.

  “I’m sure your record is a triumph of administration,” Holly said, “but when I want something investigated, I tend to look to an investigator, not a shuffler of papers.”

  “Yes, I saw one of your investigators at work last evening at dinner, in New York, with a man not her husband.”

  “Deputy Director Gustav had business with Mr. Barrington and Commissioner Bacchetti, and she found a social setting more conducive to her work than an interrogation room. Incidentally, she is unmarried. I understand, however—from a source not related to the deputy director—that you spent the evening in a very public place with a woman not your wife.”

  Shaker actually shook. “The lady you refer to,” he said, “is a friend of my wife.”

  “And you somehow think that sounds better?”

  “Are you implying . . .”

  “Implying? I am stating a fact, something you are ill-acquainted with.”

  Shaker stood, still trembling. “Have you anything else to say to me?”

  “Well, it’s your meeting, but as long as you ask, I do. You are to return to your office, and henceforth, remain there, conducting no business more boisterous than giving tours of the building to troops of Boy Scouts, and issuing no orders to any employee of the Bureau, beyond your secretary. If, at any time, you choose to retire and draw your pension, you may consider your resignation already accepted. Good day.”

  John Henry Shaker remained, for just a moment, frozen, then gathered himself and marched out of the Oval.

  Holly buzzed the head of her Secret Service detail.

  “Yes, Madam President?”

  “FBI Director John Henry Shaker is on his way out of the building. Please meet him at the door and collect his White House pass and his parking permit. Tell him it’s on my orders.”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  34

  Joan buzzed Stone. “The president for you, on line one.”

  Stone pressed the button. “Good day, Madam President.”

  “And to you,” she replied warmly. “I understand you had a pleasant last evening.”

  Stone wondered which part of the evening she was referring to. “Yes, we all had a very good dinner.”

  “And a very good nightcap, too, I hope.”

  “Quite satisfactory,” he replied, getting a little more uncomfortable.

  “Oh, Stone,” sh
e said, “you must get over being almost as famous as I, since People published those photographs of us waltzing. I get reports.”

  “I’d like to think I’m over that.”

  “And did you find Maren Gustav good company?”

  “Define ‘good company.’”

  “I don’t need to do that, and you mustn’t mind if I send you pleasing companionship now and then.”

  “I’ll try to be more grateful,” he said. “But I’m beginning to feel that you are rendering me an unnecessary service.”

  “Perhaps so. Nevertheless, it gives me pleasure to provide it, and eases my guilt about being here instead of there.”

  “Then we’ll say no more about it.”

  “If you wish. By the way, you might ingratiate yourself even further if you whispered into her shell-like ear that she’s very likely to be the next director.”

  “Is Shaker taking a hike?”

  “Let’s just say that I have pointed him toward the Appalachian Trail and kicked him in the ass. My guess is, his ego will require him to head that way. You’ll see it in the papers when it happens. In the meantime, I have denied him the White House, and I’m thinking of ordering a major renovation of his office. I think a lot of chintz would look nice in the Hoover building.”

  “I’ll look forward to hearing about that. How are you holding up down there?”

  “Well, the conversation with Shaker lifted my spirits a bit, as did a visit to the Oval this morning from the choir of a Catholic girls’ school.”

  “Next, no doubt, it will be the cast of Hamilton!”

  “What a good idea! I could never afford the tickets on a mere president’s salary.”

  “Next time you’re in town, I know where to get seats for only the price of a small house.”

  “Oh, good. Uh-oh, I’m told the secretary of defense is waiting. We’ll talk soon.” She hung up.

  * * *

  —

  Stone worked on for a few minutes, when there was a knock at the other door.

  “Come in,” he said.

  Maren looked around the door. “Am I disturbing you?”