assured her.
“Great so long as it’s not anytime soon,” Alita replied.
“Anything new about the ” Alita shook her head before Jenny even finished.
“Nothing… and that’s part of what makes it spooky. What I heard, the FBI didn’t find any finger prints on that notebook except the ones from the housekeeping lady. So how’d its owner handle it, wear gloves all the time?”
There were several more Secret Service agents in the suite, and there would be others on the roof above them and the floor below. But in the windowless room where Baxter Brown and Jim Greenberg already sat at a table helping themselves to breakfast, no guards were present. Nor would they be after Del Rawley entered the room.
As a legacy of the Clinton administration during which Special Prosecutor Kenneth Starr had compelled agents on the presidential protection de tail to testify to a grand jury calculated risks were taken from time to time by the politicians who were afforded Secret Service protection. What the agents didn’t hear, they couldn’t be forced to reveal.
“You look beat, girl,” Baxter told Jenny.
“How kind of you to notice.”
Jim Greenberg poured her a cup of coffee as she joined them at the table.
Alita sat down. They allowed Jenny a grace period long enough to take one sip from her cup. Then they cranked up their stares, silently demanding to know what her emergency was.
She spited them by taking a bite of a cinnamon roll first.
Then she said, “I heard from a very good source last night that Del is going to be the target of a big-time smear. One that might happen any minute now.”
Alita and Jim sat back in their chairs, the better to absorb the news. Baxter Brown leaned forward and bunched his huge hands into fists.
“Who’d you hear that from?” he demanded.
“Don Ward.”
“He’s still alive?” Baxter asked.
“Real sensitive of you, Baxter,” Alita said, knowing the man was Jenny’s friend.
Jim Greenberg added, “If this comes from Hunter Ward, I believe it.”
“Believe what?” Del Rawley asked, entering the room. He made a point of watching the door close behind him.
“Have a seat, Del,” Jenny suggested. When he sat down and poured him self a cup of coffee, Jenny brought him up to speed.
“It’s that motherfucking incumbent,” Baxter pronounced.
“He’s seen that your numbers have stayed up since Chicago, and he’s petrified. So look out, brother, here comes the mud.”
“If Don says it’s coming, it’s coming,” Jenny agreed.
“But the thing I don’t understand is how it could be coming from Ron Turlock.” Ronald Turlock was the incumbent’s campaign manager.
“His reputation is that he’s a straight shooter.”
“Straight into his foot,” Baxter argued.
“That man has lost four elections in a row. He’ll do whatever he has to do, whatever he’s told to do, just like any ” Baxter realized too late where his thought would carry him, and Jenny finished it for him.
“Just like any of us mercenary hack campaign managers, Baxter? Not like you devoted staff advisers who take vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience.”
“That’ll be enough, children,” Del said mildly.
Jenny felt a flash of shame. If Del hadn’t stepped in, she and Baxter might have gone at it like Vandy and DeVito But she was too tired to hang on to the feeling for long. Besides, she had other dirty work to do, and she was the only one at the table who would do it.
“Del, I hate to ask, but I’ve got to,” Jenny said.
“Is there anything in your past you maybe forgot to tell us?” Jenny had reread the biography she’d compiled on Franklin Delano Rawley while waiting for the flight to Denver.
When the time came to hit back, she hoped to use it to refute whatever charges were made and to remind the public of some wonderful thing her man had done in the period of his life that came under attack.
The candidate frowned at her. He got up from the table, turned away and
“Great so long as it’s not anytime soon,” Alita replied.
“Anything new about the ” Alita shook her head before Jenny even finished.
“Nothing… and that’s part of what makes it spooky. What I heard, the FBI didn’t find any finger prints on that notebook except the ones from the housekeeping lady. So how’d its owner handle it, wear gloves all the time?”
There were several more Secret Service agents in the suite, and there would be others on the roof above them and the floor below. But in the windowless room where Baxter Brown and Jim Greenberg already sat at a table helping themselves to breakfast, no guards were present. Nor would they be after Del Rawley entered the room.
As a legacy of the Clinton administration during which Special Prosecutor Kenneth Starr had compelled agents on the presidential protection de tail to testify to a grand jury calculated risks were taken from time to time by the politicians who were afforded Secret Service protection. What the agents didn’t hear, they couldn’t be forced to reveal.
“You look beat, girl,” Baxter told Jenny.
“How kind of you to notice.”
Jim Greenberg poured her a cup of coffee as she joined them at the table.
Alita sat down. They allowed Jenny a grace period long enough to take one sip from her cup. Then they cranked up their stares, silently demanding to know what her emergency was.
She spited them by taking a bite of a cinnamon roll first.
Then she said, “I heard from a very good source last night that Del is going to be the target of a big-time smear. One that might happen any minute now.”
Alita and Jim sat back in their chairs, the better to absorb the news. Baxter Brown leaned forward and bunched his huge hands into fists.
“Who’d you hear that from?” he demanded.
“Don Ward.”
“He’s still alive?” Baxter asked.
“Real sensitive of you, Baxter,” Alita said, knowing the man was Jenny’s friend.
Jim Greenberg added, “If this comes from Hunter Ward, I believe it.”
“Believe what?” Del Rawley asked, entering the room. He made a point of watching the door close behind him.
“Have a seat, Del,” Jenny suggested. When he sat down and poured him self a cup of coffee, Jenny brought him up to speed.
“It’s that motherfucking incumbent,” Baxter pronounced.
“He’s seen that your numbers have stayed up since Chicago, and he’s petrified. So look out, brother, here comes the mud.”
“If Don says it’s coming, it’s coming,” Jenny agreed.
“But the thing I don’t understand is how it could be coming from Ron Turlock.” Ronald Turlock was the incumbent’s campaign manager.
“His reputation is that he’s a straight shooter.”
“Straight into his foot,” Baxter argued.
“That man has lost four elections in a row. He’ll do whatever he has to do, whatever he’s told to do, just like any ” Baxter realized too late where his thought would carry him, and Jenny finished it for him.
“Just like any of us mercenary hack campaign managers, Baxter? Not like you devoted staff advisers who take vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience.”
“That’ll be enough, children,” Del said mildly.
Jenny felt a flash of shame. If Del hadn’t stepped in, she and Baxter might have gone at it like Vandy and DeVito But she was too tired to hang on to the feeling for long. Besides, she had other dirty work to do, and she was the only one at the table who would do it.
“Del, I hate to ask, but I’ve got to,” Jenny said.
“Is there anything in your past you maybe forgot to tell us?” Jenny had reread the biography she’d compiled on Franklin Delano Rawley while waiting for the flight to Denver.
When the time came to hit back, she hoped to use it to refute whatever charges were made and to remind the public of some wonderful thing her man had done in the period of his life that came under attack.
The candidate frowned at her. He got up from the table, turned away and
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