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“How sweet?” asks Cole. “And how far?”
“Baton Rouge,” says Maddy. “Small high school. The senator’s grandson is on the football team and they’re having a god-awful season. One of your inspirational talks could make a difference.”
“How bad a season?”
“Eight losses. No wins. Dead last in the league.”
“Christ,” says Cole, shaking his head. “I’ll need my A material.”
After another half a mile, Cole hears fresh chatter from the agents around them. When he looks up at the path ahead, he sees the presidential limousine—the Beast—waiting between two armored Suburbans. Agents in dark suits are spaced around the vehicles, scanning the area. One has his hand on the open rear door of the limo.
“My ride’s here,” says Maddy. “Want a lift?”
“I’m gonna do another couple miles,” says Cole. “But thanks for the offer.”
Maddy slows down as they get closer to the curb. She grabs Cole’s sleeve and pulls him to a stop. “Cole, your visit could help break the last logjam. Getting an old warhorse like Balquière on board is a huge step toward saving this country and making history.”
Cole sees a few reporters from the press pool waiting near a van behind the Suburbans. They edge forward as Maddy and Cole get close. Maddy gives them a wave and a smile. “No remarks, guys. Just a friendly run with my husband.”
Cole hugs her around the waist and quickly kisses her on the lips. He hears the cameras snapping.
Maddy slides into the car, shielded by three Secret Service agents. She looks straight at Cole and mouthsThank you.
Just before the eighty-pound door slams shut, he waves. As the small caravan pulls away with the press van behind them, Colenods at Lambert. “Let’s go, Doug.” All around him, Cole hears the agents chatter: “Sage on the move.”
Maddy made special arrangements to visit him on his run. His usual response to her requests for these small-time pep talks is “I was a player, not a coach.” But he knows how important this next week is for her. For the whole damn country.
CHAPTER
32
Litchfield, Connecticut
The buzz of a cell phone wakes me. It’s not my phone, it’s Garrett’s. I check the screen—O’Halloran—and pass it to Garrett. “It’s your detective friend.”
Poor Garrett. He had a rough night. Every move made him groan in pain. The towel I put over his pillow is streaked and splotchy with blood from the wound on his forehead.
He sits up, wincing and grabbing his side. “Eddie! Let me put you on speaker. I’ve got my partner, Brea, right here.” He taps the screen. “Go ahead. What were you saying?”
The voice on the other end is gruff, with a thick Boston accent. “My buddy, a detective who covers Southie, called me about a homicide they caught late last night. Single mom took two to the forehead.”
My stomach starts to cramp.
O’Halloran clears his throat. “The victim’s license was from out of state. Virginia. Name on it was Lillian Brady. They checked with her neighbor, then with the police down in Virginia Beach.Court records show a name change. Turns out Lillian Brady was Amber Keenan. They have a witness, a store clerk, who says one of the shooters called her Amber.”
Screams rise in my throat and I clutch a blanket. Did my visit with Amber somehow lead to her death?
“Her two kids were outside in the car when it happened,” says O’Halloran.
Garrett goes into reporter mode. “So maybe she stumbled into the middle of a robbery.”
“No,” says the detective. “Clerk says they were waiting for her. This was a hit, pure and simple.”
“What about the shooters?”
“Masks. Pros. They even took the ejected cartridges.”
I put down the blanket and lean toward the phone. “Detective, this is Brea Cooke. I talked to Amber Keenan yesterday about the Suzanne Bonanno case.”