Dead to the Last Drop by Cleo Coyle Page B

by a blueberry-hued Village Blend, DC, apron.
    I twisted the ceiling rearview mirror to check my face. After the night I’d had, what I saw wasn’t pretty—
    “I’m going to need that!”
    Abby tugged my hand away from the mirror as the sedan swerved into the opposite lane. This time someone else’s tires screamed.
    “Why are we going so fast?”
    Abby glanced at the rearview. “They’re catching up.”
    “This is the second time you’ve done this,” I said. “Last night—”
    Abby cut me off. “Last night I was staying at my friend’s house. It’s a beautiful home, with a private garden right next to Glover-Archbold Park .” As she spoke Abby put her index finger to her lips and then tapped her ear.
    “Bugged?” I mouthed, incredulous, and she nodded.
    The park she mentioned was a beautiful strip of land running from Northwest Washington all the way down to the Potomac. My GU baristas said students used it to jog or bike the worn dirt paths between Georgetown and American University.
    With that one clue, I could easily see how she’d gotten away.
    If Abby had insisted the Secret Service give her privacy in her friend’s home, they probably stationed a few agents on the public street. She could have left her panic button and tracker in her guest bedroom, slipped out a window or back door, and moved through the home’s private garden, or even over a low wall, right into the park.
    Then it would be a straight shot, under the canopy of trees, away from closely observed streets, to Georgetown’s campus, where she could easily blend in as a student and finally make a short walk to the Village Blend, DC.
    The blare of the car radio brought my attention back to our Washington speedway. Abby had turned up the radio’s volume to hide our conversation from the planted listening device. Waving me close, she spoke low into my ear.
    “I wanted to have some time alone.”
    I studied her. “You mean alone with Stan, don’t you?”
    She nodded yes .
    “You really care for him?”
    She nodded again, with much more enthusiasm. “ Please don’t give me away, Ms. Cosi.”
    “Abby, I don’t know what to say. What you did was a risk—”
    “ Promise me. Please? It will be hard on me if you rat me out.”
    She looked so desperate. “Okay,” I found myself saying, “as long as you promise never to do that again.”
    “I won’t,” she said and smiled with relief.
    We swerved right, onto Pennsylvania Avenue. I glanced over my shoulder to find one SUV closing fast. A dour Agent Cage sat in the passenger seat. Our eyes met and the agent telegraphed her disapproval.
    “They’re right behind us,” I warned.
    Abby’s black leather boot hit the gas.
    “It’s clear you learned to drive at the Indy 500,” I said, hands gripping the shoulder strap. “But where did you learn to ditch a security detail?”
    “Easy,” Abby replied. “I did my research.”

T wenty-nine
    “R ESEARCH?”
    “Of course!” Eyes on the road, Abby beamed with pride. “After the election, but before we moved to the White House, I wanted to know what I was getting into.”
    Abby passed a slow-moving car—no biggie, except she did it by swerving into a lane with oncoming traffic!
    “I looked into the lives of other First Daughters to see how they survived living in a bell jar. It proved helpful.” She grinned. “Jenna and Barbara Bush were free spirits. A lot of times, the Bush girls did what they wanted, and the Secret Service had to play catch-up.”
    A traffic light went from green to yellow, but Abby didn’t stop. And the heavy flow of cross traffic left a brace of Secret Service agents behind at the red light, playing “catch-up.”
    “Chelsea Clinton was lucky,” Abby continued. “The Secret Service gave her a lot of space while she was in college. Of course an agent lived in the room next door, and they installed bulletproof windows in her dorm, too. But at least she could open them when she wanted fresh air.”
    “You