The Next President (40 page)

“Down there. Seems to me if you could find a spot where the elevation hasn’t fallen off too far to ruin your sight line, a spot where there’s enough brush to cover you but still allow you a clear view, that’d be where you’d find a shooter. Might be a few other spots on a hillside off this road where a man with a gun might set up.”

“You sound very knowledgeable, Mr. Cade,” DeVito said, a clear taunt in his voice.

J. D. noticed that Jenny was looking at him, clearly interested in his response.

“Just know what I read in the papers,” he said with a shrug.

“That and common sense. A man with a gun has to find a place to hide until he can make his shot. Somewhere down there is where it would have to be. Of course, you Secret Service people and the LAPD will be working these hills with dogs to make sure nobody’s hiding in that brush, won’t you?”

DeVito didn’t say a word.

But Jenny persisted.

“Well, won’t you?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Crenshaw, I can’t give away that kind of information.”

“Then let me put it this way,” Jenny countered.

“You’d damn well better.”

Just like that, DeVito was the one on the defensive.

For the next hour they made stops in the hills. One was at a home perched directly above the back of the stage. They tried to gain access but nobody responded when they rang the bell at the gate. While waiting outside the house, J. D. asked DeVito if the security detail had considered that an assassin might use something more powerful than a rifle, say, a light antitank weapon. Fire right through the back of the building and take out everybody on the stage. At another stop, J. D. noticed a TV station helicopter buzzing overhead, and he asked if one of those things had ever been hijacked. A two man team with automatic weapons could steal a news copter and make a strafing run if the air defenses weren’t tight. With every scenario J. D. concocted, DeVito had to reassure Jenny—without going into detail—that the Secret Service had thought of everything.

“Everything but that man in Chicago.”

The very mention of which rubbed DeVito wound raw. He had to lock his jaw to keep from saying anything. But the crazy thing was that DeVito gut told him Cade really wanted the security to be airtight now.

Back at the hotel, Jenny thanked J. D. for his help, gave him a kiss on the cheek, not caring that DeVito was there to see it, and said she would see him tomorrow. She still had a lot of work to do tonight. The two men watched her go.

When she was out of earshot, J. D. turned to DeVito

“There was one thing I didn’t want to mention in front of Ms. Crenshaw.”

“Yeah, what’s that?” DeVito wanted to know.

“All the security in the world won’t help if the shooter comes from inside.”

DeVito stared hard at J. D. “You mean inside the campaign?”

“No,” J. D. said, meeting DeVito eyes squarely.

“I mean inside the protection detail.”

The Gardener considered his options. At this point in the game, he conceded that he had but two choices: to follow the aggressive path, as he’d been urged, or toss in his cards. If he went aggressive, he’d be stepping outside the guidelines of a carefully conceived plan. Any number of unpredictable—and inevitably bloody—consequences might follow. Things might turn out quite differently from the way he wanted. But one thing he was sure of: Any carnage that might ensue would not be traced back to him.

On the other hand, if he gave up the game, he would be abandoning his vision of the future, of how politics in the United States would inevitably come to be conducted. He might leave this strategy behind, but within a generation some bright, ruthless young man—or woman, to be fair—would pursue it. Then how would he live with himself? He might as well be … Well, no, he’d never want to share that coward’s fate.

He couldn’t really withdraw, anyway. He’d already set too many forces in motion. Their momentum was independent of his wishes now. Since he could do nothing to recall them, his only real choice was to give them another shove forward.

If things didn’t turn out the way he’d planned, he’d at least be able to learn a few things from his mistakes—for next time. The Gardener tapped out a number on his phone.

When his call was answered, he said, “Harold, take Evan Cade.”

“There’s no way I can change your mind?” Del Rawley asked, speaking on the phone.

“Baby,” Devree Rawley answered, “you’ve been trying for the last hour, and I’m just about packed now, and for the last time, the answer is no. I’m coming. When you step on that stage in the Hollywood Bowl, I’m going to be right there in the front row.”

“The children, then.”

“Del, our children are grown. They’re strong, wonderful adults. They’re as adamant with me as I am with you. They will be there, too.”

“The grandchildren, then.”

“I’m working on that one,” Devree conceded.

“They’re still youngsters. I’d love for them to see their grandfather onstage and—” “Devree, I will not allow it. You tell Eleanor, Colin, and Bobby that if they bring any of their babies with them, I’m withdrawing from the race.”

“You won’t.”

“I will!”

“All right, I’ll tell them. But don’t be surprised if—” “Honey, if I see those babies in what might be harm’s way, I will be forced to keep my eyes on them at all times; I will have no focus on the debate; and in the words of Mr. Reagan, I might even forget to duck—if something should happen.”

“You really think…” Devree Rawley couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

“I don’t know.”

“Then I’m certainly going to be there with you, and I know the children will feel the same way. Maybe we can work things out so that the grandchildren can see you backstage and then be taken back to the hotel.”

“That would greatly ease my mind.”

“I’ll speak to the children.”

“I’m sure they’ll see the light. I love you, Devree.”

“I love you, too… Mr. President.”

“Not yet, baby.”

“Won’t be long, though,” Devree Harper Raw-ley assured her husband.

J. D. sat at a table in the hotel bar for the better part of an hour. He nursed two glasses of sparkling mineral water with twists of lime. He engaged in a pastime usually reserved for the more celebrated denizens of L.A.: being seen.

Specifically, he wanted to be spotted by Donnel Timmons.

Any number of campaign regulars passed by. The brain trust came in and took a table of their own. Then Alita Colon stopped by to say she had a million requests from the media to interview him. She was putting them off, but if he changed his mind about talking to the press, he should let her know. A pair of special agents strode directly up to him, giving him an uneasy moment, but all they wanted was to shake his hand and tell him he’d done a balls-out job saving Orpheus yesterday. The last visitor to his table was Vandy Ellison. She came in with a silver-haired gent who looked like he could write the campaign a big check or two, but when she saw J. D. she excused herself and sashayed right over. She sat down next to him and kissed his cheek-while running her hand up the inside of his thigh. She said she could only stay for a moment but promised that someday soon she would show him some real gratitude for his heroism.

Finally Donnel entered the bar.

He noticed J. D. immediately but didn’t come to his table, just nodded and took a seat at the bar. J. D. spent a moment finishing his drink, then went to the men’s room. When he came out, he made a call from a pay phone. To get the correct time. The artifice of pretending to make contact with the “friend” who would deliver Townes’ memoirs proved unnecessary. When J. D. looked up, he saw that Donnel had already left the bar.

Donnel couldn’t possibly be uninterested in getting his hands on Townes’ book. But maybe he had smelled the trap.

Or he could be in a car outside somewhere, waiting for J. D. to make his move.

Either way, J. D. had to play things out. He stepped outside.

A valet brought J. D.‘s Lexus to the hotel entrance and handed him the keys in exchange for a tip. J. D. got in and turned south on Avenue of the Stars. He made a left at Pico. Scant seconds later, another car made the turn after him, just beating the red light. But then the driver was content to drop back, doing less than the speed limit. In L.A.” driving that slowly meant you were either a tourist, a drunk trying to be clever, or someone who didn’t want to be spotted following someone else.

There was still enough traffic that the interval between J. D. and his pursuer was soon filled by two other cars. So he couldn’t tell for sure that it was Donnel behind him. But he’d given no one else a reason to follow him tonight.

He checked his watch; the phone call had confirmed it was accurate. He had to time his drive just right. It was 9:49 P.M. when he turned left on La Cienega. The tail car was still behind him, again racing to make the light and then falling back.

He used the PCR to call the number of a movie theater and a recorded message confirmed the information on which he was relying. Twelve minutes later he stopped for a red light at the intersection of La Cienega and Third Street. Just ahead on his left was the massive, eight-story, dun-colored Beverly Center, a mall that sandwiched four levels of enclosed parking between its ground-floor restaurants, hair stylists, and Hard Rock Cafe and the top three floors of glitzy retail chains, food court, and cineplex.

The retail shops all closed at 10:00, but the last feature at the cineplex began at 10:15. So, as J. D. remembered from a previous visit, the automated barriers to the parking levels kept raising their arms until 10:05. When J. D. drove up to the winding ramp to the parking structure and stopped at the barrier, the clock on the ticket machine stood at 10:04. Just enough time for him to get through and Donnel to follow.

He took the ticket, the barrier lifted, and he goosed the Lexus up the ramp.

He turned right off the ramp and into the third-floor parking level. It was a huge doughnut-shaped space that wrapped around the auto ramp. On the east side of the parking area a pedestrian exit led to canopied escalators that ran along the exterior of the building and went up to the retail shops and down to street level. Lighting was up to code, but nobody would ever be blinded by the glare. Only a few widely spaced cars remained parked on that level, just as J. D. had hoped.

He didn’t want any company. Any witnesses.

He pulled the Lexus around the enclosure of the auto ramp. Here he was

shielded from the pedestrian exit, where somebody going past on an escalator might see him, and he was as remote as possible from the street below and the shopping complex above.

He parked the Lexus, got out, and positioned himself behind a support pillar ten feet away.

His plan was simply to shoot Donnel. For which purpose he carried the pen gun he’d originally bought to shoot Del Rawley. He hoped to hit Donnel in some critical but not vital part of his body. This being Hollywood, his gun hand would be good. But if it got down to kill or be killed…

J. D. heard the squeak of the tires on the concrete as a car hurried around the ramp enclosure. Headlight beams splashed past J. D. He was hidden but the Lexus was in plain sight.

There was another squeal of rubber as the car braked abruptly. Donnel was trying to figure out where he was, J. D. thought. How best to get at him.

The car’s headlights were extinguished, leaving only the undifferentiated parking structure illumination.

After that, J. D. heard gears being shifted and the whine of a car being driven in reverse. More tire shrieking reached him as the car backed around the ramp enclosure. Finally he heard a pair of soft metallic clicks: a car door quietly being opened and closed.

Donnel meant to come after him on foot now, J. D. thought, and undoubtedly he’d brought more firepower than a .22 caliber pen gun.

He considered his options for several moments and then carefully poked his head out from behind the pillar to see… that the pursuer’s car hadn’t been abandoned after all. It had crept back around the curve, with its lights off, and slowly enough not to make the slightest squeal. Donnel Timmons wasn’t sitting behind the wheel, either.

Arnold Roth was and when he saw J. D. he smiled.

J. D. knew immediately that his only chance was to get to the escalators, and he bolted. The roar of the car’s engine and the scream of accelerating tires told him that the chase was on. If that wasn’t enough, a gunshot echoed crazily in the cavernous space. The round struck something hard enough to deflect it; J. D. felt the ricochet whiz past his head, trailing a banshee wail.

He dodged behind one of the few remaining parked cars, then made a beeline for the pedestrian exit. His path was shorter and far more direct than the one Roth had to take, but as J. D. glanced to his right, he saw that the car’s speed would easily overcome his temporary advantage.

Still, he feinted as if he would make an all-out effort to get to the escalators, and then he sharply cut back and ran for the opening of the ramp by which he’d entered the parking area. He darted through it,

turned right, stopped quickly, and pressed himself against the wall. He pulled the cap off the pen gun. He heard mechanical growls and the shriek of tortured rubber as Roth sought to catch him. He fired his shot as soon as Roth came careening through the opening.

But the sonofabitch made the turn far faster than J. D. had expected. His shot took out the rear passenger-side window of the car but didn’t come close to hitting its target. Worse, Roth managed to get off a shot of his own. While it didn’t hit J.D.” a sliver of the concrete that the round blew out of the wall next to him nicked his neck.

He quickly ducked back into the level-three parking area. His first hope was to get to his car and put the chase on a more equal basis. But Roth came barreling off the ramp in reverse. J. D. dashed once again toward the pedestrian exit. Roth came roaring after him, still driving backward. He didn’t try to shoot J. D. now. He meant simply to run him over.

J. D. looked desperately for a parked car or support pillar to duck behind, but the nearest shelter was impossibly far away. With sweat running into his eyes and the reek of his own mortality in his nose,) J.D. tried to fake left and right, but the one glance he dared take over his shoulder showed him that Roth had not been fooled.