Page 135 of The First Gentleman

CHAPTER 131

Kingston, New Hampshire

I return to my hotel room in a daze.

My phone vibrates with a text: Check email.

I power up my laptop and go to my inbox and there it is, a huge file ready for download.

Daryna! I click on the file folder from Ukraine.

Daryna doesn’t mess around.

My screen erupts; windows open so rapidly that they overlap one another.

Dozens of them.

The first thing I notice are posts from Doc Cams; some I’ve seen, some I haven’t.

Dr. Graham was worming his way into the operation, pretending to be one of them until he could blow the whole thing up.

Next I see a pageful of posts from the anti-Wright blog, posts that Daryna has identified as being written by Rachel Bernstein.

Some of them are from the past few days.

She’s still stoking the fires against the Wrights from Berlin.

I wonder if she’s the one who arranged the anti-Cole demonstrators at the courthouse.

It looks like Daryna also found restricted police and FBI files.

Could these be the case files documenting the investigation into Suzanne’s disappearance?

The files the lawyers said were missing?

The files that somebody in the federal government requisitioned—because they might have implicated somebody other than Cole Wright?

I enlarge another window and see two prison-intake photos from the correctional center in Cranston, Rhode Island, both head-and-shoulder shots of men in orange jumpsuits.

One is John DeMarco, and I recognize the name right away.

He’s the inmate Garrett talked to who tipped us off to the grave location.

The other guy is Anthony Romero.

Jesus! Is this the Tony Romero who was Suzanne’s old boyfriend?

The one who Teresa says was the father of Suzanne’s baby?

The one who beat up Garrett and had him chased?

Daryna’s files prove that DeMarco and Romero did time together in Cranston, and now I have a pretty good idea where DeMarco got his information about the location of Suzanne’s grave.

He got it from Tony Romero.

The hacker has included a lot of detailed documents, including records of arrests and prosecutions for both men, everything from pimping to drug peddling to fencing stolen merchandise.

I check the conviction and sentence records.

Romero never served more than a few years at a time, and he’s been out for almost five years, free as a bird.

It looks like DeMarco still has ten years to go on his current stretch.

No wonder he was so eager to share info—it could shorten his sentence.

The next window is a series of photographs so grainy, I almost blow past them.

They look like surveillance photos taken inside a bar.

What stops me is the sight of Tony Romero.

He’s pouring drinks for patrons who register only as dark shapes.

One guy is slightly clearer.

He’s at the side of the bar holding a beer bottle to his lips, and his head is tipped back so that his face catches the light.

Barely visible. Like some kind of gray ghost.

Burton Pearce!

I recognize the face, but it takes me a moment to believe what I’m seeing.

The president’s chief of staff—and the man Eva Clarke says raped her—is also a known associate of Tony Romero.

Suddenly, all the pieces click into place.