She took off her glasses and smiled back coquettishl
y. “My father, Ira Whitney, didn’t found the meatpacking industry, he just made a fortune off it. My dear husband, Bernie, may you rest in peace,” she added, looking at the ceiling and crossing herself, “now, his family made their money in whiskey and not all of it legally. And Bernie was a prosecutor before he became a federal judge. It made for some interesting family gatherings, I can tell you.”
She led him into a vast living room and motioned for him to sit down on a large sofa placed against one wall. She put the flowers in a cut crystal vase and turned to him.
“Now, speaking of whiskey, name your poison.” She went over to a small cabinet and opened it. Inside was a fairly complete bar.
“Well, Mrs. . . . uh, do you go by both names?”
“Just call me Lucky. Everybody does because lucky I’ve been, my whole life.”
“I’ll have a glass of club soda, Lucky.”
She turned and looked at him sternly. “I know how to make lots of cocktails, young man, but club soda ain’t one of them,” she said in a scolding tone.
“Oh, uh, rum and Coke, then.”
“I’ll make it Jack and Coke, honey, with the emphasis on the Jack.”
She brought him the drink and sat down next to him with her own glass. She held it up. “A Gibson. I fell in love with them after I saw Cary Grant order one on that train in North by Northwest. Cheers!”
They tapped glasses and Alex took a sip of his. He coughed. It tasted like she’d let the Jack run solo. He looked around the living room. It was about the size of his entire house and with far nicer furniture.
“So you’ve known Kate long?” he asked.
“About seven years, although she’s only lived with me for three. She’s wonderful. Smart as a whip, beautiful, a real pistol, but then, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. Plus, she makes the best buttery nipples I’ve ever tasted.”
Alex nearly choked on his drink. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t get all excited, honey, it’s a specialty drink. Baileys and butterscotch schnapps. She is a bartender, after all.”
“Oh, right.”
“So are you one of the agents who guard the president?”
“Actually, starting tomorrow, I am,” Alex said.
“I’ve known every president since Harry Truman,” she said wistfully. “I voted Republican for thirty years and then Democratic for about twenty, but now I’m old enough to know better, so I’m an Independent. But I loved Ronnie Reagan. What a charmer. He and I danced at one of the balls. But of all the presidents I’ve known I have to confess that I liked Jimmy Carter best. He was a good, decent man; a real gentleman, even if he did lust in his heart. And you can’t say that about all of them, can you?”
“No, I guess you can’t. So you know President Brennan, then?”
“We’ve met, but he wouldn’t know me from Eve. I’ve long since passed my usefulness in the political arena. Although in my prime I had some sway. Georgetown was the place to be for all that. Kate Graham, Evangeline Bruce, Pamela Harrington, Lorraine Cooper, I knew them all. The dinner parties we had. The national policy we came up with sitting around drinking and smoking, although the ladies were often separated from the gentlemen. But not always.” She lowered her voice and looked at him with raised pencil-thin eyebrows that looked painted on. “Because the sex we had, oh, my Lord. But not any orgies or anything like that, honey. I mean you’re talking about government people, public servants, and it’s hard to get up early and work those long hours after sex orgies. It takes it out of you, it really does.”
Alex suddenly realized his mouth had opened wider and wider as he listened to her. He quickly closed it. “So, uh, Kate lives in the carriage house?”
“I’ve wanted her to move in here—the place has eight bedrooms, after all—but she won’t. She likes her space, all women do. And she can come and go as she wants.” She patted his leg. “So this is your first date with her. That’s sweet. Where’re you going?”
“I’m not sure. Kate picked the place.”
She gripped his hand again and looked directly into his eyes. “Okay, honey, let me give you some advice. Even the modern woman likes the man to take charge every once in a while. So next time you pick the place. Be decisive about it. Women hate men who can’t make up their minds.”
“Okay, but how do I know when else she wants me to take charge?”
“Oh, you won’t. You’ll just screw it up like every other man does.”
Alex cleared his throat. “So does she date a lot?”
“Okay, you want the 411 on Kate, don’t you, honey? Well, Kate only brings someone around every few months. Nobody’s stuck yet but don’t let that discourage you. She usually brings home some fancy-pants lawyer, lobbyist or big-shot government type. Now, you’re the first man with a gun she’s brought here,” she added in an encouraging tone. “You are packing heat, aren’t you?” she asked hopefully.
“Would that be a good thing?”
“Honey, all civilized women throw their underwear at dangerous men. We just can’t help ourselves.”
He grinned, opened his coat and showed her his gun.
She clapped her hands together. “Oh, that is so thrilling.”
“Hey, Lucky, get away from my man.”
They both turned around and saw a smiling Kate Adams standing in the doorway leading into the next room. She had on a pleated black skirt that ended midthigh, a white blouse open at the neck and sandals. Alex realized he’d never seen her legs before; she always wore pants at the bar. She gave Lucky a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“I have been entertaining your beau while you made yourself beautiful, my dear,” Lucky said. “Not that it takes that much effort for you. Oh, it’s just not fair, Kate. Not even the best plastic surgeon in the world could give me your cheekbones.”
“Carter Gray,” Reuben muttered.
“Here to see his wife, I would assume,” Stone said quietly. “Before the crowds come tomorrow.”
Carter Gray stopped at the gravesite of his wife, Barbara, knelt on the ground and placed a small bouquet of flowers on the recessed earth. Technically, the anniversary of his wife’s death was tomorrow, but the cemetery would be filled that day, and, as Stone had deduced, the man had no desire to share his grief with a mass of strangers.
Gray rose and stared down at where his wife’s body lay, while his security detail kept a respectful distance away.
Barbara Gray had retired from the army as a brigadier general after a distinguished career in which she set many firsts for women in the military. Barbara Gray had also been one of the most vocal advocates for