Presidential Liaison

coincidental.

Chapter One

The end of a tunnel had never looked so inviting, Cassandra Mercer thought as she lugged her carry-on down the interminable jetway at Dulles International. Once through the double doors and into the terminal, she scanned the crowd, searching.

Cassandra, darling, here.

Cassie smiled and raised her hand in answer, quickening her pace against the current of human bodies toward the tall, elegant woman in the cream wool suit.

Mother, she whispered as arms enfolded her. Cassie dropped her carry-on and purse and squeezed just as hard, inhaling the ephemeral scent of White Diamonds.

Finally Astrid Montgomery held her away a bit. Let me look at you, darling. One fine eyebrow arched under the pure white waves of her fashionable haircut. You're thin and pale.

And you're beautiful, as usual. Cassie glanced around. Where's Daddy?

The head, Astrid replied, making Cassie laugh at her use of Navy jargon. He's taking those prostate pills, you know.

Here's my little girl. Jim Mercer's booming voice drowned out all the noise around them.

Daddy! Cassie threw herself into her father's arms and, in spite of all her best intentions to act her age, big fat, happy tears plopped down her cheeks. Astrid took out a lacy handkerchief and wiped Cassie's, then dabbed at her own.

Your father has talked of nothing but your coming home ever since you called with the news.

Ah, like you've had anything else on your mind, Jim responded. He loosened his bear-hug and gazed down into Cassie's eyes. Your mother has been planning which restaurants we're going to eat at for the next three weeks.

Restaurants? You still don't know how to cook, Astrid? Cassie said.

Jim hooted. Lost cause, love.

Then why on earth did you marry her, Daddy?

She's the best newsman I ever met. Jim put his arms around them both and winked at Cassie. Got a killer body, too.

Jim, stop it.

Ignoring his wife's pretended outrage, Jim pulled them toward the signs pointing to the baggage claim area. Let's get your luggage and get you home, sweetheart.

Before we go home, if you don't mind, Daddy, I have to go to the bureau office first. I'm supposed to see Charlie about my assignment.

It can't wait a day for you to get some rest? Astrid said.

The bureau chief in Paris was adamant I get over to the Washington office as soon as I got here. Didn't bother to say what the hurry was, though.

Astrid and Jim exchanged a glance that Cassie, with twenty years' experience in the news business, could hardly have missed.

What? Her eyes flicked from one to the other.

Nothing, Princess. Jim pulled them along.

Oh, look. Cassie Mercer. That's her. A young woman's voice carried across the corridor. Hi, Cassie.

Cassie jerked her head toward the sound of her name and waved, completely flummoxed.

No more than twenty paces further, another young woman, this one with a toddler in tow, cut in front of them and turned, walking backward ahead of them.

Ms. Mercer, would you autograph my copy?

Sure... Your copy of what?

"Modern Home. The one with the poll." The woman waved the magazine in front of Cassie's eyes.

As she read the words on the cover, Cassie's mouth dropped open.

She took the magazine and looked into her own eyes. Her standard publicity shot graced the cover. Beside her cool, professional smile were the words: Cassandra Mercer, the most trusted woman in America.

This is a gag, right? she said.

Nope. Here, Jim said, his voice crackling with amusement as he handed her a pen.

Cassie mechanically signed the cover of the magazine and muttered, Thank you.

Come on, Princess, before more of your fans swarm us.

By the time they'd reached the baggage claim area, Cassie had finally recovered from the shock of the long flight and her unexpected celebrity.

Okay, what's going on?

Well, Astrid said, pulling a copy of Modern Home from her own bag. Read it for yourself.

Cassie took the magazine and leaned against a pillar, scanning the article while her father went to collect her luggage. The yearly poll asked readers of the largest circulation women's magazine in the country to name the people who had earned their trust.

It hadn't even been close. She'd outdistanced the second place finisher, the President of the United States, by ten percent.

Your quick trip home starting to make sense? Astrid said.

Cassie closed the magazine and handed it back to Astrid. Cassandra Mercer is the most trusted woman in the America, and ATV is cashing in on the positive publicity.

The honchos at ATV have something cooking and you, my treasure, are the main ingredient.

Come on, girls, we're parked in the short-term lot. Jim led the way out the automatic doors, wheeling Cassie's two oversized suitcases. As he approached the shiny brown Lincoln parked in the first row, he popped the trunk and unlocked the doors. Over his shoulder he said, Maybe you'll get the prime-time news magazine ATV's got in the works.

That would be nice, Cassie replied. I hear there's going to be a big-time budget for some real investigative journalism. Even as she said this, she noticed her mother's satisfied smile. Slipping into the backseat, she ordered, Give, Mother.

Oh, I have my hunches, Astrid replied with a coy glance.

Jim huffed as he got into the car and twisted the key in the ignition. Don't listen to her, Princess. She doesn't have any facts to back those hunches up.

Jim, you know perfectly well...

Her parents' voices dimmed to a hum as Cassie's eyes were drawn to the grimy rear of the bus chugging along ahead of them toward the four-lane access road. She sprang forward.

Do you see that? Cassie pointed to the bus. On the big sign was her picture and the stylized clock that served as ATV's logo. And one more thing.

America trusts Cassie Mercer.

Astrid turned, her Cheshire smile even broader. They're all over--busses, billboards, newspapers. And you know, darling, the grapevine is full...

Astrid, don't spread rumors.

What rumors? Cassie said.

Astrid waved away Jim's warning. Cassandra knows how to evaluate unsubstantiated information. She turned back to Cassie. There are big changes in the making at ATV. My money is on your replacing Rebecca Winston at the White House.

Why would they want to replace her?

Personality conflict. Now, I understand the President's political views are a bit reactionary, but Winston's been so confrontational, no one at the White House will even talk to her. She has zero access over there.

Jim snorted. If I was still bureau chief, she'd'a been pounding the pavement or waiting tables by now.

"Yes, dear. If you were chief, Astrid cooed. She quirked a look at her husband before saying, I have to get him back to work. He's driving me insane."

Cassie grinned as she stretched on the luxurious leather seat. Maybe we can find a nice war zone for him to report from. Afghanistan? Iraq? Ah. She sat up and leaned on the front seat and whispered in her father's ear. The Vatican, seat of international intrigue.

My sainted mother would haunt me if I started looking for dirt on the Holy Father. Jim punched a button on the radio and smiled in the rear-view mirror at her as the local country-music station came on. Sit back and enjoy the ride, Princess. Looks like we're in for some traffic.

Thanks, Daddy, Cassie said, pecking his cheek.

Ah, she whispered as Trace Adkins' raspy baritone spiced the air.

Cassie rested and enjoyed the smooth ride, the good music, the sound of her parents' voices as they argued about the possibilities for their daughter's future.

But, right at this moment, it didn't really matter where ATV's plans had her going.

After ten years, it was just good to be home.

* * * *

Four-thirty. Way too early to be leaving the office. Way too much to do, but... Bill MacAllister shrugged off guilt along with his jacket, slinging it over his shoulder as he waited for the elevator to arrive. He smiled at the squeal of the doors as they opened.

You'd better get this thing into the shop for service, Raymond, he said to the attendant.

Raymond laughed, his dark face crinkling in good humor. I'm waitin' to trade it in on a new model. What's the chance, sir?

Not a one, man. I promised to cut spending.

You might be taking the stairs soon, then. Ol' Bessie here ain't in the best of health.

Wouldn't hurt me or any of the rest of this bunch to take the stairs once in a while. Bill leaned against the wall of the ancient elevator as it creaked toward the second floor.

Early night, sir?

Sliding his hands into his pockets, Bill nodded. I couldn't concentrate.

Raymond echoed his nod. Are you doing all right today?

Bill couldn't hide he knew exactly what Raymond was talking about. First anniversaries were the hardest, he'd been told.

I'm okay, Raymond. Thanks for asking.

I hope so, sir. The man's dark eyes reflected the concern Bill heard in his voice. This is going to be a bad night for you. If you need some company, I'll be glad to stay.

Bill's throat went tight and he couldn't respond. Raymond didn't seem to notice, though Bill knew there was little the man didn't see.

She was a fine lady. What happened was a terrible thing, Raymond said. If there's anything you need, even if it's just somebody to talk to, you call me.

That means a lot to me, Raymond.

Raymond shrugged. It ain't nothing, sir. He smiled. Besides, you got the best beer in Washington, and there ain't no other place in this town to get a decent game of cards.

The elevator shuddered to a stop and the doors opened with much protest.

Glad for the chance to lighten things up a little, Bill laughed. It's been too long, that's for sure. We'll get a game together soon. He stepped out into the hallway.

Raymond's smile broadened. Good deal, sir. Good night.

The doors closed, leaving Bill alone in the wide corridor. Allowing himself only a moment's pause, he started toward the sitting room at the end of the hall, past the room they'd shared. The room where so much of his life had ended.

You're doing all right, Bill, he told himself, thinking he'd make it past the door tonight, but he froze as a tickle taunted his nose, just the hint of lilac. The door opened at a touch, though he'd ordered it locked, and the scent of lilac flooded out. He'd hoped one of the domestic staff had spilled her perfume on the carpet, but as he entered, he saw her antique crystal bottle in its place on the dresser.

The gentle scent she'd worn for as long as he'd known her wafted around his head, evoking memories of her. Her eyes, amethyst in certain light. Her trim ankles--she had terrific legs. Her raven hair.

Her presence was so strong he thought she must be here. She wouldn't be the first spirit to roam this house.

Even as he formed the thought, Bill knew the truth was more prosaic. He just couldn't let her go.

At that moment, his eyes lit upon the lacquer box on the dresser, the box holding her ashes. Why hadn't he taken her home yet? Crossing the room, he picked it up with trembling hands.

I'm home, honey, he whispered to the ashes inside.

Afraid he'd drop it, he set the box back on the dresser and backed against the bed. Just like that morning, when he'd found her, so cold and pale, yet still so beautiful, his knees gave out and he sank to the floor. Just like that morning the tears, tears he'd thought long dried, flowed.

Resting his elbows on his knees, he gave himself over to his grief. It was all he had left of her.

Chapter Two

Cassie left her parents guarding Jim's Lincoln in front of the ATV building and dashed inside. She ducked into the ladies room on the first floor to fix her makeup and brush her hair.

Darn. She raised her hand to the few strands of white showing up too well in the honey-brown. Guess it was bound to happen.

With the sudden discovery of those traitorous graying hairs came the concern ATV would be less interested in the trust the American public had in her than in the advantages of making room for fresher--read younger--personnel.

Raising her chin, Cassie evaluated herself. For a woman of forty, she looked pretty good. Beyond the fact she wasn't a gargoyle, she knew she was regarded as the best newsman of her generation. Her position was as secure as anybody's in this business.

So, why the butterflies in her stomach? Could they be caused by the prospect of seeing Charlie Rinaldi again after all these years?

She waited for the old, sad clutching around her heart and was surprised when it did not come. For a long time, she'd been afraid she'd never get over him, but his memory was now no more than a headline. Even the mental photograph of him in their bed with another woman had faded to faint black and white.

Good, she whispered, stepping back and taking one last look before leaving the bathroom and catching the elevator to the top floor.

Cassie hadn't liked thinking she might make a fool of herself over him after all this time. If she had to be alone for the rest of her life, at least she wouldn't spend it mooning over an unfaithful lover.

That thought did bring a twinge of regret.

She shook it off. Nothing but depression and insanity down that path, Cassandra. Dwell on it and you'll end up living in a rickety house full of cats and unopened mail.

The elevator Muzak twanged with an instrumental version of Crazy.

She laughed softly. How appropriate.

The doors opened and there he was, male model smile in place, along with every single hair.

Hi, Cass.

His voice brought back a flood of memories. Most were good, but there were enough bad ones to make her smile less broad.

Charlie. She held out her hand. How are you?

Doing great. Charlie took her hand with his left. The empty sleeve pinned to his right side reminded her of too many nights spent by his hospital bedside.

Let's go into my office. Get us some coffee, will you, Gretchen? he asked his secretary as they passed her desk. Charlie perched his still-perfect rear on the edge of his desk. Have a seat. How was your flight?

Great. You know I love to fly, whatever the reason. Cassie shook her head at the cup of coffee the secretary offered and took a seat in front of Charlie's desk.

Niceties completed, Charlie got right to business. I won't beat around the bush, Cassie. You've seen the ads? ATV is projecting substantial on-camera changes by the end of the year and you are the linchpin of all the plans.

Me? How?

"Kent Bishop is getting senile, Cass. Nuttier every day. We need to replace him before he really embarrasses the network. We won't even mention our ratings. The Modern Home poll presented the perfect solution to our dilemma. You become anchor on the evening news and Kent moves to strict commentary."

Cassie caught her breath. It was what she'd waited for her whole professional life. She wasn't so green, though, she'd jump at the offer like a Doberman at a hunk of meat.

Naturally, I'll also take on managing editor duties.

Naturally, Charlie replied, so smoothly Cassie knew it had already been discussed and the answer decided upon. Kent's contract is up at the end of the year. Until January, you're being assigned to the White House as ATV's chief correspondent.

What about Rebecca Winston?

Charlie shrugged. She'll be all right. I told her to play nice or she'd be canned faster than a tuna. She's done us a lot of damage over there.

And I'll have to clean up her mess.

Yes, Charlie replied, matter-of-factly. Besides, the White House is the only place you'll be on the air every day. You'll be in Washington for six months, make some contacts, get America used to listening to you with their dinner. Charlie's perfect teeth gleamed white in his tanned face. Get us out of the ratings cellar. Then in January, you go to New York and take the anchor chair.

Cassie's practical side took over her brain. I imagine with my new responsibilities, we'll be renegotiating my contract.

Charlie smiled. Jim and Astrid sure raised you right. Your agent can arrange for the negotiations as soon as it's convenient. I've also been authorized to offer you use of ATV's furnished apartment on Connecticut Avenue, near the Zoo. He raised one well-shaped eyebrow. Upwind, of course.

Thank you, Charlie.

Great. It'll be good to have you around again. Tell you the truth, though, if it were up to me, I'd keep you at the White House. Anybody can read the news. That imbecile Kent Bishop does it every day. But not everybody can be a newsman, Cassie.

She hardly knew what to say to such a tribute.

Charlie didn't give her time to construct a response. Be here tomorrow at seven-thirty so Rebecca can get you processed for the White House, pass, security, all that stuff.

Before she could nod her understanding, he said, Cassie, how about meeting me for dinner tonight?

Cassie shook her head. Sorry, Charlie.

Charlie touched his empty sleeve. I suppose I understand...

His forlorn expression was so patently fake Cassie laughed in spite of herself.

Please, Charlie, she said, tell me you don't use that as a come-on line. I'd lose all the remaining respect I have for you. You know that had nothing to do with what happened to us.

Cassie, give me another chance.

Why? I'm not stupid, Charlie. Grabbing her purse by the strap, she stood up. Besides, I hear you've been spending a lot of time in New York with Frau Panzer.

At the mention of the young widow of the late CEO of ATV, Charlie smiled. Cassie knew she'd hit the target.

She's a great lady, but I'm not as hot for her as I was for you.

Right, Cassie snorted. Gotta go. I'm cooking dinner for my daddy tonight. She opened the door and left Charlie in his office, his bemused expression broadening into a smile.

Good to have you back, Cass, he yelled across the hallway, causing heads to turn up and down the corridor.

Good to be back, Charlie, she answered as the elevator doors shut.

An hour later, Cassie stood at the large center island in the kitchen of her parents' home, slicing flank steak into thin strips. A tiny TV hung suspended from the cabinet by the sink.

News time, she said, reaching over and turning up the volume. As a picture of the late First Lady appeared on the screen, she went still.

Kent Bishop mumbled something about a one year mark and Rebecca Winston from the White House.

Cassie studied the woman she would replace tomorrow.

One year ago today, First Lady Lainie MacAllister was found dead in her bed by her husband. Though the coroner's report indicated there was no sign of foul play...

Cassie frowned, the implication of Rebecca's words clear.

...questions continue to be asked by many, including Dr. Marcus Fraser of the National Institute of Applied and Theoretical Forensics.

Phfft. Cassie knew all about the guy.

Fraser was a well-known forensics expert who jumped on every conspiracy theory that came down the pike. The camera widened the angle to include him in his seat at the newscaster's side.

Dr. Fraser, why do you believe there may have been a cover-up in the First Lady's death?

She gasped at the baldness of the question.

Well, Rebecca, Fraser smiled, I'm not sure I'd say there's a cover-up. However, the speed of the investigation troubles me. The coroner's report was issued in less than twenty-four hours. There's also the matter of the mix of chemicals in the First Lady's blood. She was legally intoxicated, though no one can say she was a drinker. She had barbiturates in her system, though no one has produced a prescription. The most troubling evidence is the presence of narcotics in her blood.

Narcotics. Like heroin? Rebecca sat up, attentively.

Fraser grimaced, clearly not meaning anything that unsavory.

Actually, there are many legally available narcotics. Morphine is often prescribed for pain, particularly to those like Mrs. MacAllister, whom the autopsy showed was suffering from advanced brain cancer. However, the White House has never produced a prescription for morphine, nor is there any medical information that she was even being treated for her condition.

Cassie sat up and listened closer.

What are your concerns, then, Dr. Fraser?

The man clasped his hands before him on the desk. When he spoke, Cassie heard the measured delivery of his words.

"I'm concerned that the lack of information points to the possibility the First Lady's death was not an accident."

Eyes widening, Cassie couldn't believe what she'd heard.

Do you have any evidence of who might have wished to kill the First Lady? Rebecca said.

No, Dr. Fraser said. However, considering the First Lady's medical condition, the possibility exists she either committed suicide or was the victim of a mercy killing. In any case, I think the questions warrant further investigation.

In archive footage, President MacAllister appeared on the screen, face lined with sadness, his eyes red-rimmed and exhausted, delivering his statement from that terrible day.

What possible reason could there be to open this up again?

Although she was no fan of the President's politics, Cassie knew him to be a man of integrity. This made it look like he should be investigated for mercy killing at the very least. Not to mention the pathetic figure it made of the First Lady, which almost made her madder.

Rebecca's voice-over continued. With White House security in question, the Secret Service response naturally was that the First Lady's death was a tragic accident. But, Rebecca paused somewhat over-dramatically, what if foul play was involved in the matter of the death of the First Lady? What if a murderer has acted in the White House itself, right under the noses of the vaunted Secret Service? If this was not the accident it has been purported to be, will a murderer escape justice? Rebecca Winston, ATV News at the White House.

Cassie muttered in disgust and went back to slicing the steak, not really wishing a certain White House correspondent were under her knife.

It was a classic propaganda ploy. Raise a question as speculation, present an expert--some hired gun like Fraser--to validate it, then re-state it as fact, in this case, that a murderer was escaping without punishment.

What a pile of-- She grabbed her iced tea to drown her sudden case of potty-mouth. What about motive, huh, Becky, sweetie? What about that? she shouted at the TV.

White House guests sign in and out at the front door. Secret Service litters the hallways. The whole place is a security showplace. The next logical step was that the President himself was the murderer, because who else had the opportunity?

If this was Rebecca Winston's idea of objective reporting, Cassie wondered why she hadn't been fired already.

Irritation subsided as Cassie thought of the grief on the President's face, grief that hadn't completely faded, even after a year. And she admitted she was a little jealous.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Cassandra. You've got it good. But a little of the devotion Lainie MacAllister had enjoyed wouldn't be bad.

Chapter Three

Bill, are you all right?

Turning away from the voice intruding on his grief, Bill sniffed and surreptitiously tried to wipe the traces of it from his face.

Bill?

Jeez, Mac, are you trying to give me a coronary? He tried to keep his voice light, hoping to send his bloodhound-nosed brother off the track.

Mac stood in the middle of the hall. A coronary would be preferable to the press finding out you're talking to your dead wife. Just what we need the year before an election.

William Allen MacAllister, forty-sixth President of the United States of America, turned. Don't start with me. I haven't decided to run again.

You'll run. Mac snorted. "You like being President. Besides, I like being Chief of Staff and I'm too close to retirement to look for another job. He glanced sadly at the dresser, at Lainie's ashes. Why are you still beating yourself up?"

Bill ignored the question. You want a beer? He left the room without looking at Mac and went into the sitting room. The small refrigerator in the corner had been freshly stocked with his favorite long-necked bottles. He took out two and tossed one over to his brother.

Where's the chilled mug?

Drink it out of the bottle like a man. Bill twisted the top off his own and tipped