I give the binoculars back to Scotty. A power generator roars on, and behind us, a white tent is being set up. Somewhere in that mess of people is Randy Anderson, the Homeland Security officer I had shanghaied to conduct this unauthorized and probably illegal search.
“Where’s her detail?”
“CANARY’s detail? Over there, by that big wooden sign showing the history of the falls.”
“Get them over here,” I say.
Another wet-suited man is in the water, rope attached to his harness, and he slips and nearly falls. Scotty says, “Why?”
“Because when the body gets to shore, I want them and … you, Scotty, I want the four of you to bring her into that tent, for examination.”
Scotty nods. I say, “And another thing. Pass the word around. I see any camera flashes from anybody as she’s being taken away, I’ll shoot them dead, right on the spot. And I’m not kidding.”
“I know,” Scotty says, and he walks away.
I stand there, cold and hungry and just miserable, watching the scene unfold before me. This is not a new experience. In my years of law enforcement, I’ve seen lots of bodies recovered— from drownings like this one, from scores of traffic accidents, from burned-out apartments and trailers—but this recovery is just hammering at me. This one is going into the history books, the documentaries, the news programs, and only by the sheerest and slimmest bit of luck have we avoided having network television helicopters overhead.
The two men are there now, working in the cold, rushing waters, using ropes to secure the body, and then the body is free. The two men work very hard to keep their footing as they come back to shore.
Movement nearby. A metal Stokes litter is by the shore, and Scotty is there, and the three slumped and depressed members of CANARY’s detail: Pamela Smithson, the lead, with Tanya Glenn next to her, and then Brian Zahn, the young male. He appears to be weeping, and no one notices him.
I turn back and—
Wait.
Hold on.
Something just happened.
Movement over there, on the opposite bank.
A little flash of light.
Gone.
But there was definitely movement.
But what was it?
I stare, and stare, and part of my childhood comes back, seeing that old show, The Six Million Dollar Man, and like when I was a little girl, I wish I had that bionic eye that could zoom in.
I now wish for a pair of binoculars, but they’re with Scotty, and I’m not going to disturb him just as the slumped-over remains are brought in. Pamela is holding up a bright-yellow sheet, and when the out-of-view body has been placed into the Stokes litter, she lowers the sheet and gently tugs it into place.
The four of them lift up the Stokes litter and quietly—the only sound being that of the generator—the body is slowly brought into the white tent. No one commands anything, there are no orders, but every male and female agent removes his or her head covering as the body passes by.
The little procession gets into the tent. Near the opening to the tent I see Randy Anderson, and I walk to him, running through my mind how we’re going to get the remains removed from here and brought to Bethesda Naval Hospital—no way we’re going to end up at a civilian hospital—and then there’s a shout and a scream.
Automatically I grab for my SIG Sauer, as Tanya Glenn bursts out of the tent, crying and screaming, and then laughing and yelling at the top of her lungs:
“It’s not her! It’s not her! It’s not the First Lady!”
CHAPTER 38
THERE’S CONFUSION AND a lot of movement and yelling going on over there by the tent and the people, and Marsha Gray is trying to figure out what’s going on. When Grissom had moved away from the riverbank, Marsha had slipped to another viewing position—a wet patch of ground soaking her belly—and saw the Stokes litter being brought into the white tent. The folks over there lined up on each side as the body was carried in, with covers coming off their heads and salutes being made, as if the dead woman were part of the military.
Then about a minute ago the whole scene on the other side of the river just got tumbled up when a black woman ran out, and now she’s laughing, crying, and lifting her arms up to the darkening sky.
Marsha whispers, “What the hell is this?”
She slowly moves the binoculars back and forth, trying to gauge what just happened. There’s a sense of something being noticed, being released. The group over there had looked somber and tired, and Marsha sees that’s all changed. They’re relaxed, some laughing, others giving their buddies hugs and slaps on the back.
Okay then.
Two minutes ago, the First Lady’s body was being recovered. It was dark and quiet over there, a funeral procession, and now it’s different.
Smiles. Laughter. Happy people.
Grissom is now talking and gesturing with a Homeland Security guy, who’s giving it right back to her.
Conclusion?
The First Lady is still missing.
That’s not her body that was just brought in.
Damn.
She slips out her iPhone, slides the earpiece in, starts sliding the phone’s screen and working the numbers.
No answer.
Where the hell is Parker Hoyt?
The crowd over there is starting to disperse. Two Humvees have started up and left the scene.
“Well, this sucks,” she whispers.
What now?
What now is that something is going to change. Right now she’s been a bird dog, following tips and orders from Parker Hoyt. Okay, that’s the job. She’s a big girl and can do what it takes.
She sees Grissom and the Homeland Security guy still talking, looking animated, whatever. If Marsha had been on the other side of the river, she could key in on what’s being discussed, planned, where this so-called search would go next.
So Marsha knows what needs to be done, what she earlier had decided to do.
Time to slip away and get to Grissom’s home, surveil the crap out of it, leave a little listening souvenir behind, and maybe—if things go well—do the same to Grissom’s vehicle.
Still …
Let’s make one more try to get ahold of her boss.
Once more, her fingers work away on the iPhone.
Still no answer.
Where the hell is Parker Hoyt?
CHAPTER 39
ONCE I GET Tanya calmed the hell down, I say, “How do you know it’s not her?”
Tanya wipes away tears from her eyes, but she’s still smiling widely. “Her teeth! That poor woman … her face was beat up but you could see her teeth … and there’s a lot of bridgework back there! It’s not the First Lady! She’s got perfect teeth.”
I feel whipsawed, like a roller-coaster ride I’m on has suddenly jolted to a stop before the final steep descent.
“Are you sure?”
Pamela Smithson and Brian Zahn both come out of the tent, and based on the smiles on their faces, I know it’s true. The poor drowned and battered woman in that tent is not Grace Fuller Tucker.
Pamela says, “Tanya’s right … CANARY has perfect teeth. That woman in there … she’s had a lot of work done in her mouth.”
Well, what now? I turn away from everyone, grab my phone, make a call to Parker Hoyt. The phone rings and rings … and there’s no answer.