As though reading his mind, Spence said, “Wonder why she threw in that last question about Vanessa.”
“My wife’s well-being is on everybody’s mind these days. It would have been more suspicious if she hadn’t mentioned her.”
“I suppose,” Spence said.
His lack of conviction brought Merritt around, a question in his expression.
Spence shrugged. “It’s just that several weeks ago, Barrie Travis appeared out of nowhere. Now, every time we turn around, she pops up.” He swore beneath his breath. “What was Vanessa thinking when she pulled that stunt? And why is this reporter still hungry? I can understand her snooping around D.C. General before her SIDS series, but why after?”
“That bothered me, too,” Merritt admitted. “But her source was made to see the error of her ways. I think Ms. Travis will find it very hard to cultivate another source at that hospital.”
Barrie Travis might think her sources were secret, but Spence’s were more so. The President hadn’t asked in what manner or by whom Anna Chen had been confronted about leaking confidential information to the press. He’d merely been assured by Spence that the matter had been handled—and if that’s what Spence said, it was safe to etch it in stone.
Spence was good that way. If a problem arose, he took care of it. No explanation required. No rationalization. No argument. Spence was hassle-free. Unlike their friend Gray Bondurant, who had insisted on knowing the why and wherefore of every damn executive request.
When action was called for, David Merritt wanted action without having to justify it. He wanted expediency and didn’t give a damn about the integrity of the deed. Gray did. Integrity was a big thing to Gray.
“I think Barrie Travis is just an overzealous reporter. She had her fifteen minutes—and that’s stretching it—and now she’s trying to maximize her brush with fame. Unfortunately, she’s become a nuisance.” The President chuckled. “She’s a screw-up and everybody knows it. Relax. She’s not smart enough to do any serious damage.”
“I don’t know, David,” Spence said worriedly. “I think she’s smarter than she’s given credit for. If not for that one well-publicized gaffe, she could have been a media force to contend with. Her damned tenacity speaks volumes about her character.”
“Or her recklessness and blind ambition.”
“Either way, if she stays on this, it could hurt us.”
Merritt looked at his adviser. Words between them were often unnecessary. Like guerrilla fighters picking their way through an enemy-infested jungle, they could communicate without words, their eyes alone warning each other of possible hazards. This was one of those times.
“If you’d feel better about it, Spence, stay on top of it.”
“I’d feel better about it.”
* * *
Barrie stared thoughtfully at her shorthand transcript of her telephone conversation with President Merritt. She could find no fault with anything he’d said or how he’d said it. It had been a friendly little chat. He’d been firm but polite when refusing her request for an exclusive interview, but that hadn’t disappointed or even surprised her. Asking for one had only been a pretext. The purpose of the call had been to inquire about the First Lady.
Since that windy, cloudy day when she’d met Vanessa Merritt for cappuccino, Barrie had been looking for drama beneath every brick in Washington. There was none to be found. Sources had turned mute. The pager she wore twenty-four hours a day, the number of which only her sources and Daily knew, hadn’t beeped once, so she’d broken the rules and phoned them. Nobody knew a thing. She’d been ready to concede that her imagination had run away with her, and not for the first time.
Then the mysterious incident with Anna Chen had jump-started her sputtering conviction. The very next morning, Dalton Neely had called a press conference to announce that Mrs. Merritt was going into seclusion for an unspecified period of time. Following that shocking opener, he’d read a brief statement from the President:
“Senator Armbruster and I believe that Vanessa’s responsibilities as First Lady haven’t allowed her time to wholly recover from the tragic demise of our son. We’ve impressed upon her how valuable she is to us as an individual and as a patriot. She owes it to her family and to her country to be fully restored, physically and emotionally, before resuming the grueling schedule she imposes upon herself. For that purpose, she’s taking an extended rest.”
Questions from the floor had been entertained. This recuperative rest would be under Dr. George Allan’s supervision, Neely had said in response to one. He had flatly denied that any alcohol or other substance abuse was involved. Barrie herself had shouted above her colleagues to ask when the First Lady might return; she’d been told it was too soon to speculate.
Since then, Neely had given the news-starved media periodic updates on Mrs. Merritt’s condition. According to Dr. Allan, she was responding favorably to the rest and relaxation. This morning, when Barrie had spoken to the President, he had thanked her for asking after his wife and promised to pass along her regards. She was improving rapidly, doing exceptionally well. He couldn’t be more pleased by her progress.
Everything was just so peachy-fucking-keen.
“Like hell it is,” Barrie muttered. The back of her neck was itching again. Something wasn’t right. She reached for her telephone.
“D.C. General. How may I direct your call?”
“Anna Chen, please.”
“Ms. Chen no longer works here.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ms. Chen no longer works here. Can someone else help you?”