The Rapids. Carla Neggers
that. They’ll rehash everything that happened in May.” Poe winced. “They’ll be calling you, too, Sarah. And your parents.”
“The marshals have sent someone to Night’s Landing in case it gets crazy. If any reporters show up here, I can handle them.” She smiled and licked her spoon. “I’ll have Bobby Lee or Abe talk to them.”
Nate could see Poe forcing himself to relax. “I never know when you’re serious—”
“Every resident of this house since 1875 swears the two of them are haunting the place. I take that seriously.” She rose, calmer now herself, and grabbed her bowl. “Are you going to eat your cobbler, Wes? Because if not, I’ll take it into the house before the flies get to it. There’s no wasting fresh peach cobbler around here.”
That elicited a real smile. “Can I take it with me?”
She beamed. A Ph.D. with academic credits up and down both arms, and she loved getting compliments for her cooking. “I’ll go wrap it up.”
When he heard the screen door shut, Wes breathed out, any hint of a smile gone. “Nate—I hope you’ll tell Rob he can call me anytime. I’ll make sure he’s put through right away.”
“He knows that, Mr. President.”
The older man nodded. “I’d like to think so. I’d like to think that now that our families’ relationship is common knowledge—” He seemed to fight for the right words. “That it won’t ruin his life.”
Nate had no idea what to say.
A secret service agent stood on the bottom step of the porch.
Time for Poe to leave.
He glanced at the screen door. “You and Sarah are good for each other. After you’re married—” He shook his head. “Well, never mind.”
Nate thought he understood what Poe was getting at. “We’ll want you to be a part of our lives, Mr. President. Both of us.”
He sighed. “Thank you.”
“Rob—”
“Rob’s a different story. He always has been.”
After Poe left with his entourage of secret service and staffers—and his peach cobbler—Nate found Sarah in the kitchen, flipping through her grandmother’s recipes. Given the array of ingredients on the table, she was looking for something that involved both cream of mushroom soup and mayonnaise. He slipped his arms around her. “I don’t think my arteries can take whatever it is you’re about to whip up.”
She shoved the cans aside. “I’m missing an ingredient, anyway.”
“Dare I ask what?”
“Water chestnuts.”
He let his hands move up her midriff toward her breasts. “Do you think Abe and Bobby Lee would object if we made love this early in the evening?”
“If I think about them watching us—”
“I don’t know, it could be fun. A foursome—”
She elbowed him in the gut, registering her disapproval, and he laughed, sweeping her up off her feet, getting her away from her cans and her kitchen. He figured he could ease her stress in other ways.
Rob rolled out of bed at six in his first-floor Brooklyn apartment, pulled on shorts and a T-shirt and headed out for his morning paper. He’d ignored all messages from reporters on his voice mail when he got home last night.
A woman in biking shorts was on his doorstep. “Deputy Dunnemore? My name’s Patty. I’d like to talk to you about the arrest of Nicholas Janssen yesterday in the Netherlands.”
No last name, no credentials. A freelancer. She looked young enough to be a journalism student. She was sweating and panting, indicating she’d pedaled a ways to get to him, which at least meant she didn’t live nearby.
Rob picked up his paper and noticed Janssen’s arrest had made the front page. No surprise.
Patty frowned when he didn’t respond. “Have you and President Poe talked about the arrest?”
Her eyes fell to where his scar was under his shirt. The whole damned world knew the details of his injury. There’d been diagrams of the path of the bullet on TV. Doctors had discussed his prognosis, his recovery, how people could live normal lives without a spleen.
“It’s a nice morning for a bike ride,” he said. “See you, Patty.”
He didn’t like shutting the door in her face, but his other options—for example, talking to her—were even less appealing. When he got back up to his apartment, he looked out his living room door and caught her giving him the finger from her bike.
A pro.
No way would he get a bike ride in himself. Or a run. Or even a swim at the Y. There’d be more reporters to deal with. He’d been shot and his family nearly destroyed because of their connection to the president. For months the media had hounded him.
Now Janssen was in Dutch custody.
Due to an anonymous tip to a diplomatic security agent three weeks on the job.
Something about it didn’t sit right with Rob. He took a shower, got dressed and headed for work, contemplating the unlikelihood of what had gone down across the Atlantic.
He managed to sneak past a throng of reporters outside the federal building where the Southeastern District Office of the U.S. Marshals Service was located. When he got to his desk, a stack of messages, all from reporters, was waiting for him.
Reporters and a day of desk work. He swore to himself and dumped all the messages in the trash.
Mike Rivera stood in his office doorway and jerked a thumb at Rob to join him. Rob doubted it was because the chief deputy wanted to put him back on the street. A heavyset man in his early fifties with bulldog features that his wife seemed to adore, Rivera was well respected but not a soft touch. He wouldn’t like having reporters crawling all over his office and harassing one of his deputies.
“Talk to me,” he said. “Who’ve you heard from?”
Rob sat in a spongy plastic chair. “A lot of reporters. I haven’t talked to any of them. There’s not much to say.”
“We can issue a statement. It probably won’t do much good while the feeding frenzy’s on, but we can try. Do you want to be available for interviews, issue a statement yourself or anything?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
“I want to do my damn job.”
Rivera’s eyes flashed. “Yeah, well, you’re going to need to lie low for a couple of days until the dust settles on this Janssen arrest.”
“I’ve been laying low since May.”
“You’ve been recovering from a goddamn bullet wound that nearly killed you—”
“It didn’t kill me.” Rob kept his voice calm. “I’m fit for duty. I don’t want anyone coddling me.”
“Who the hell’s coddling you? You don’t want to move too fast, get in over your head—”
“What, with a computer?”
“With another asshole with a gun.”
Rob didn’t respond. He hadn’t had a chance in May. He’d dragged Nate down to Central Park to see the tulips—they’d never live that one down—and gotten shot. No warning, no way to fight back. They’d walked into the park and come out on stretchers.
Rivera sat forward, his chair squeaking loudly. “Why do you look so thin?” he asked, making it sound like an accusation.
“I’m