Page 107 of The First Gentleman

CHAPTER 103

J udge Dow adjourns early.

I look for Felicia Bonanno, but she’s already gone.

After the proceedings, the road is shut down for thirty minutes while the Secret Service extracts Cole Wright and shuttles him, ankle monitor and all, back to the inn where he’s staying.

The convoy can’t avoid the TV trucks and demonstrators that have taken over the parking lot.

I hope Felicia figured out how to bypass them.

When the road reopens, I hike back to where I parked the Subaru.

I’m just about to open my car door when my phone chimes with an incoming text.

It’s from an unknown sender.

Just a link to an article from the New York Times headlined “Columbia Professor Dies in Car Crash.”

Holy shit!

I enlarge the text and absorb the story in quick nuggets.

Cameron Graham, JD. Heart attack.

Lost control of vehicle.

Midtown East. No pedestrians injured.

I lean back against the car.

I’m stunned. But I’m not totally surprised.

Dr. Graham underwent a quadruple bypass my second year of law school.

Now what?

Garrett—gone.

Amber—gone. Amalfi—gone.

Dr. Graham—gone.

At this point, I’ve got more dead ends than good leads.

And now I’m wondering about all the secrets that died with him.

Especially about his alter ego, Doc Cams.

The news has me rattled.

I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being followed.

I take a circuitous route back to my hotel, but when I arrive, I see an unnerving sight: My watchers sitting in a car in the parking lot.

Clearly they’re waiting for me.

Enough. My adrenaline is pumping.

I want answers.

I start marching toward them.

Before I can get there, the car peels out.

Who the hell are these people?

As I open the door to my room, my phone rings.

The name on the caller ID is Laurie Keaton.

I’ve got so many names flying around in my head, it takes me a second to make the connection.

I take the call. “Hello, this is Brea.”

“Hi, Brea. This is Laurie, from the off-campus student residence in Hanover. You and your partner were here in January—you wanted a list of people who lived in the house at the same time as the Wrights. Sorry it took me so long to dig it up. Did you get it?”

“Oh, I moved about six months ago. When did you send it?”

“I mailed a copy about two months ago to an address in… let’s see… Litchfield, Connecticut.”

Shit!

My old address. I’d had my mail forwarded, but who knows what happened to that envelope.

“I’ve been watching the trial on TV and I remembered you saying those names might be important. That’s why I called to check.”

“Laurie, could you scan it and email it to me now?” I give her my email address, then run out of the room and fly down the back stairs to the hotel’s business center—a small carrel with a Dell desktop and an inkjet printer.

I hold my phone between my cheek and shoulder as I log into the computer with my room number, then open my email account.

I sit there and wait, refreshing my inbox every few seconds until it shows up.

“Did you get it?” Keaton asks.

“Got it! Thank you so much!” I open the document but don’t bother to read it before I send it to the printer.

“How about you?” asks Keaton.

“Have you been watching the trial?”

“I’ve got a front-row seat.”

“Well, if you ask me,” she says, “I think Wright might walk.”

Not if I can help it.