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    The Pink Socks Picture: Shannon Flynn Mysteries, #3
    The Pink Socks Picture: Shannon Flynn Mysteries, #3
    The Pink Socks Picture: Shannon Flynn Mysteries, #3
    Ebook390 pages6 hours

    The Pink Socks Picture: Shannon Flynn Mysteries, #3

    By charles fisher

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    About this ebook

    The President of the United States has disappeared from the White House, and Shannon is hired to look for him. Ann Coleman and Tyler Brooks return. Set against a backdrop of the professional wrestling business, the search culminates as Shannon discovers the reason for the disappearance......an event so awful she cannot even comprehend it.

    LanguageEnglish
    Publishercharles fisher
    Release dateJan 7, 2016
    ISBN9781524247423
    The Pink Socks Picture: Shannon Flynn Mysteries, #3

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      The Pink Socks Picture - charles fisher

      Table of Contents

      The White House | Washington, DC | December 9, 1999

      The Lincoln Bedroom | The White House | December 9, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | December 10, 1999

      The National Informant | Bridgeport, Connecticut | December 10, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | December 10, 1999

      The White House | Washington, DC | December 10, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | December 10, 1999

      Washington, DC | December 10, 1999 | The Watergate Hotel

      The White House | December 11, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | December 12, 1999

      The White House | Washington, DC | December 12, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | December 12, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | December 13, 1999

      The White House | Office of the President of the United States

      The Capitol DC Arena | Washington, DC | December 13, 1999

      Stamford, Connecticut | December 15, 1999

      The White House | December 15, 1999

      Glendale, California | December 15, 1999

      Veteran's Memorial Coliseum | New Haven, Connecticut | December 15, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | December 16, 1999

      The White House | December 16, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | December 16, 1999

      Madison Square Garden | December 16, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | December 17, 1999

      The White House | December 17, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | December 17, 1999

      December 17, 1999 | United States House of Representatives

      The Civic Center | Baltimore, Maryland | December 19, 1999

      Washington, DC | December 20, 1999

      American Airlines, Flight 207 | December 21, 1999

      Wilmington, Delaware | The American Legion Hall

      Glendale, California | December 22, 1999

      Canton, Ohio | December 23, 1999

      Los Angeles General Hospital | December 23, 1999

      Washington, DC | December 23, 1999

      Glendale, California | December 23, 1999

      Washington, DC | December 23, 1999

      Washington, DC | December 23, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | December 24, 1999

      The Rosemont Horizon Arena | Chicago, Illinois | December 24, 1999

      Washington, DC | December 24, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | December 24, 1999

      Chicago, Illinois | December 24, 1999

      Washington, DC | December 24, 1999

      The Rosemont Horizon Arena | Christmas evening, 1999

      Chicago, Illinois | December 26, 1999

      December 27, 1999 | The White House

      Chicago, Illinois | December 27, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | December 27, 1999

      Chicago, Illinois | December 27, 1999

      Chicago, Illinois | December 28, 1999

      The White House | Washington, DC | December 28, 1999

      Chicago, Illinois | East Huron Street | December 28, 1999

      Chicago, Illinois | December 28, 1999

      Chicago, Illinois | December 28, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | December 29, 1999

      Chicago, Illinois | Daly Center | December 29, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | December 30, 1999

      Greenwich, Connecticut | New Year's Eve, 1999

      The Greenwich Club | New Year's Eve, 1999

      Washington, DC | January 3, 2000 | The White House

      The White House | The Private Residence | January 3, 2000

      Georgetown University | January 3, 2000

      Washington, DC | Office of the Senate Majority Leader | January 3, 2000

      Washington, DC | Office of the Vice President | January 3, 2000

      Washington, DC | January 4, 2000

      Greenwich, Connecticut | January 7, 2000

      THE END

      The White House

      Washington, DC

      December 9, 1999

      ––––––––

      Devin Carlisle, a regal looking black man of seventy and personal valet to the President of the United States, walked slowly and purposefully down the hall leading to  the personal residence, nodding pleasantly to the Secret Service agents who were on duty. They nodded in return and went back to looking at their watches, waiting for their shift to end. It was five o'clock AM, Eastern Standard time.

      Carlisle walked up to the president's bedroom door, which was ajar the standard two inches that meant the first lady was not with him, and knocked softly.  He then went inside and saw what he always saw; the blankets  pushed to one side of the empty bed and the thin sliver of light under the bathroom door.

      Good morning, Mr. President, he called out, and went about his work. He laid out a dark blue pinstripe suit, a starched shirt that was so white it hurt his eyes to look at it, and a rep tie of red, white, and blue. He selected a pair of black wing tip shoes, black silk socks, and a white linen handkerchief to complete the ensemble. He put a copy of the president's schedule on his writing desk and left.

      In the dining area of the personal residence, the president's cook and maid were laying out china bearing the presidential seal for the chief executive's  breakfast. On this morning he would be having oatmeal with cream and fresh bananas, black coffee, and orange juice. Two pieces of white toast with margarine and blackberry jam sat on a serving tray next to the empty dishes. The maid placed silverware carefully on a linen napkin and retreated to her position some ten feet away. She watched the clock and waited.

      At five forty five, Devin Carlisle entered the dining area and placed a second copy of the president's schedule next to his napkin. Devin took a cup of coffee from the cook and waited in the kitchen. At five fifty five, Devin nodded to the cook.

      Five minutes, he said. The cook began to put the president's breakfast onto the serving cart. The maid moved closer to the president's chair so that she could pull it out for him when he arrived. Outside, the Secret Service agents began to make their shift change; some thirty five agents sighed with relief, left their posts, and walked out of the White House for the day. No one paid them any mind.

      At six oh five, Devin looked at his watch with a frown to make sure the clock in the kitchen wasn't off time. The president was usually very punctual; Devin shrugged and sat down. Maybe the old guy had taken a long shower. After all, he'd had a pretty hard week. The cook placed the serving cart by the door and waited patiently for the president to arrive. At six ten, the maid came into the  kitchen and looked curiously at Devin.

      Is he up?

      He's up, Devin said. Give him a few more minutes.

      All right, she said, and went back to her position. At six fifteen, she came back in. Are you sure he didn't go back to bed or something? He's never late for breakfast.

      He was in the bathroom when I went in to lay out his clothes, Devin said. If he doesn't arrive soon, I'll check on him. He sat down and started a second cup of coffee, his eyes furtively watching the clock. At six twenty, he stood up. I'm going in to see what he's up to, he said, and headed for the bedroom.

      Devin knocked softly and entered the bedroom. Everything was the same as he had left it; the clothing sat on the foot of the president's bed untouched, as did the schedule on the desk. The sliver of light still shone from underneath the bathroom door. Devin walked over and put his ear to the door. There was no sound of running water, or anything else.

      Mr. President? he called out. Breakfast is ready. Are you coming? There was no response. Mr. President?

      Devin Carlisle suddenly began to worry. What if the old man was having a seizure or something and couldn't answer? He had never violated the president's privacy before, and hesitated to do so now. Decorum forbade it. After all, he could be........well, everybody knew the first lady wasn't exactly centerfold material, and a man had his urges. Devin had visions of entering  the presidential bathroom only to see the chief standing over a Playboy with his best friend in his hand; now that would be a career ender. He called out again.

      Mr. President, can you hear me? Please answer. Nothing. Shit, Devin muttered, and bolted for the hall. You! he yelled at the first Secret Service agent he saw. Come with me.

      What's wrong? the man said, immediately and reflexively reaching for his pistol.  The president isn't responding, Devin said. He's in the bathroom and won't answer.

      Fuck, the man mumbled, and ran for the bedroom. At the same time he called for Ryan Wills, head of the president's security detail, on his communications device. He reached the bathroom door and shouldered it open without any hesitation. What the__.. I thought you said he was in the shitter? the agent yelled to Devin, who had waited outside.

      He was! Devin exclaimed. The light was on, and........ he walked over and peeked around the corner. The agent was standing in front of the toilet, his pistol in his hand. He was the only one in the room.

      Where the hell is he? Devin exclaimed.

      I don't know, the agent said, and called for help. Seconds later, Wills ran into the bedroom with six other agents. He flicked on all the lights and ran over to Devin.

      What the hell is going on? Where is he?

      We don't know, Mr. Wills, Devin said quickly. He explained the sequence of events as he knew them.

      Where's the first lady? Wills barked.

      New York, another agent called out.

      Shit! Wills spat, and started barking commands into his communications device. In seconds, the grounds to the White House were sealed off and all electronic monitoring devices activated. Where's his monitor? Is he wearing?

      It's over there on the night stand, Devin said.

      Christ, Wills grumbled, and turned to his agents. Well don't just fucking stand there! Go look for him! Except  you, Stanton. The agents immediately ran from the room. Wills turned back to Devin. Did you see anything out of the ordinary? And I mean anything.

      Nothing, Devin said. His routine never varies an inch. Everything went right according to schedule, except he didn't come to breakfast.

      All right, Wills said. Everybody stay calm. He has to be here someplace.

      Ten minutes later, the search of the building and the grounds was complete. Every available agent had participated; they had found nothing. Wills took the report and slumped onto the president's bed. He turned to  Stanton, his second in command.

      Go get the vice president, he said quietly. And notify the speaker of the house.

      The Lincoln Bedroom

      The White House

      December 9, 1999

      ––––––––

      Get in here! Vice President William McCauley  barked, grabbing  Speaker of the House James Kelly by the sleeve. He pulled the man into the Lincoln bedroom and slammed the door. The Speaker, visibly shaken, sat down on a chair next to  Press Secretary Gloria Myers. Wills was present, as was Devin Carlisle, the president's maid, the president's chef, and the chief of staff.

      Now will somebody kindly tell me what the hell is going on? McCauley said.

      All we know is that he's missing, Wills said. Obviously, we've looked everywhere in the building.

      This isn't some schedule fuckup, is it? McCauley said. Is he even supposed to be here?

      He is, Wills said through gritted teeth. You dumb bastard, he thought. 

      At forty seven years of age, William McCauley had distinguished himself by accomplishing absolutely nothing in his twenty year career. He was the perfect politician; he had a good smile, was amazingly handsome, wore a suit well, read prepared speeches well, and kissed Holman Fleming's ass at every opportunity.

      I don't understand, McCauley said. He isn't supposed to be able to get out of here, is he? I mean, we have all this security, and all these people working here. How could this happen?

      We don't know yet, Wills said. But we'll find out soon enough.

      Then I'm the president, right? McCauley looked at Speaker Kelly with a dumb expression. Right?

      Right, Kelly sighed. For now, you are.

      Then here's what we do, McCauley said. Lock this place down. Nobody gets in, and nobody gets out.

      We already did that, Wills said.

      Oh. Then call the first lady. Maybe she knows where he is.

      Did that, Wills said. She doesn't.

      Do not let this get out to the press, McCauley said quickly. Not until we know what's going on.

      Shit, Myers sighed. I'm dead meat.

      What do you people want from me? McCauley screamed. If you assholes could do your job, I wouldn't be in this predicament! I said, no press! Those fucking Iranians will nuke us by noon if they find out we don't have a real president!

      The Iranians don't have that capability, sir, the chief of staff said, a wry smile on his face. Not yet, anyway.

      You! McCauley yelled, pointing at Wills. This is your fault! You fix it. And do it on the sly, too. No Secret Service. If the media gets wind of this, we're cooked for the next election.

      How the hell am I supposed to find the President of the United States without using the Secret Service? Wills exclaimed. Who do you suggest I call, the fucking Boy Scouts?

      Hah, McCauley snorted. "Maybe you should call them. They could probably do a better job than you. Imagine the flak we'd get, losing the president in the personal residence. Go explain that  to Wolf Blitzer."

      Fuck Wolf Blitzer, Wills snarled. I can't do my job without my people. My allegiance is to the president, not to you.

      Right now, I am the president, McCauley said evenly. And you will  handle this exactly the way I said. Until I say otherwise, the official explanation is that the president has a bad case of the flu. Get outside help if you must, but do not use government personnel. And make damn sure whoever you use keeps their mouth shut.

      All right, McCauley, Wills snarled. But if congress wants to know what happened six months from now, this was your idea, not mine. I don't care if you're the president, the acting president, or Jesus Christ himself. I'm not taking the hit for this. You people are all witnesses, he said, and stormed out of the room.

      That went well, Myers said.

      Shut up, Myers, McCauley scowled. You cheap flack.

      Oh, bite me, McCauley. You aren't fit to be dog catcher, Myers spat. The day you get sworn in as president, I'm moving to Canada.

      I'll help you pack, McCauley sneered.

      All right, all right, the speaker said. Let's put our differences aside for now. We have to concentrate on the problem at hand. Mr. Vice President, the ball is in your court. What do you want me to tell congress? 

      Are you insane? McCauley shrieked. You can't tell those bastards anything about this! The opposition would run to the press in five seconds and ruin us. We'd look like a pack of incompetent boobs.

      Hah, Myers snorted. You mean they'd finally have confirmation.

      Shut up, Myers. If I want your opinion, I'll give it to you. Jim, I'm serious. Don't even think about telling those idiots you work with a word of this.

      But  we  have  to tell them. The law requires it, doesn't it? Everybody looked at the chief of staff, who sat there with a dumb look on his face.

      What? What are you looking at me for? he whined. Go ask the attorney general.

      She isn't around, McCauley said.

      Where is she? the speaker asked.

      I have no idea, McCauley said.

      Probably out sucking her girlfriend's pussy, Myers muttered.

      I heard that, Myers. Keep your filthy comments to yourself. This is a liberal administration, you know. We don't discriminate against people because of their sexual preferences, McCauley said haughtily.

      Yeah? Myers grinned. Then why did you move your daughter to another table during the Inaugural Ball? Were you afraid that big zombie was going to get under the table and try to chow down on her?

      McCauley ignored her and turned to the chief of staff.

      What was on the president's schedule for today?

      Nothing of any importance. A few meetings with lobbyists, an interview in the Rose Garden with CNN, and a round of golf with some guys from the Trial Lawyers Association.

      McCauley turned to Myers.

      Do you think CNN would like to interview me instead? he said smugly.

      What for? Myers laughed. Getting you for an interview instead of the president would be like ordering a five hundred dollar call girl and getting a hand job from a transvestite instead.

      You would know, McCauley said, and turned back to the Chief of staff. I can see the lobbyists. You'll have to cancel the other thing. I don't play golf.

      Maybe they'll go for a game of hopscotch, Myers snickered.

      I've had about enough of you, Myers, McCauley said. You'd better hope they find Fleming real fast, because if I'm ever president you'll be looking for a new job.

      I'm going back to my office and type up a resignation right now, Myers said. Just in case. Maybe I'll cite sexual harassment as the reason. Try explaining that  to those phonies from the religious groups you hang out with.

      Look at you, and look at me, McCauley sneered, eyeing Myers' rather dumpy form up and down. Then tell me anybody would believe you.

      I didn't say the charge would be about me, Myers said with an evil grin as she got up to leave. Or necessarily about women, either. McCauley watched her leave, a puzzled expression on his face.

      That isn't true! he blurted out as the door slammed behind Myers. You know that isn't true. She can't do that, can she? I mean, lie about me like that.

      Never mind her, the chief of staff said. Right now, we have to get out there and do our jobs like nothing is wrong. We must  keep this under wraps as long as possible.

      Somebody will talk, the speaker sighed. You know as well as I do, there is no such thing as a secret in this town. By six o'clock tonight, ABC News will be citing unconfirmed sources close to the president, and we'll be screwed.

      No one in this room will say a word, McCauley said evenly. Or else. You servants are confined to quarters until this is over. No one gets to use a phone, either. We'll call your families for you.

      What about Myers? the chief of staff said. I don't trust her.

      She won't leak this, McCauley said. It's her guy, and running to the media would make us look bad. It's her job to make us look good, whether she likes it or not.

      And Wills? What if he starts calling outsiders and they  go to the media?

      Wills has his orders, McCauley said. If he values his job, he'll follow them.

      Wills called all his agents together in a secure room and locked the door.

      Nobody is to know about this, he said curtly. We are to sit on this until we find Fleming. The official story is that the president has the flu. You are to find anyone whom you had contact with this morning and tell them we found Fleming in the first lady's quarters. Just say he fell asleep in there because he was sick.

      That's it? One agent exclaimed. Who said to do that?

      The vice president, Wills said. Asshole that he is.

      And in the meantime? the agent asked.

      Reach out to anyone you trust and see if you can find out anything, but do not  say he's missing.  Also, recheck this building. We may have missed something. Look in the catacombs, too.

      He wouldn't go down there, the agent said. We'd pick it up on our monitors.

      Do it anyway. He wasn't supposed to be able to get out of here without our knowing about it, so all bets are off. He, or somebody, figured a way.

      How long before the shit hits the fan? another agent asked.

      I don't know, Wills said. That's the vice president's problem. This was his idea, not mine.

      What are you going to do, boss?

      I'm waiting twenty four hours to see if we hear anything. Then I'm calling in some outside help. 

      Who you gonna call, Penn and Teller?

      No, Wills said. Somebody much better.

      Greenwich, Connecticut

      December 10, 1999

      Shannon Flynn woke to the soft buzzing of her new telephone. The old one was on the lawn of her palatial Greenwich estate, buried in the snow. Displeased with the awful ringing noise it made, Shannon had thrown it out the window one morning. Of course she had been drunk at the time and had forgotten to open the window, but what the hell; it was only glass.

      What the fuck, she mumbled as she struggled to a sitting position, trying to figure out what time of day it could be. She peered outside and saw the first crimson runners of dawn creeping up the lead gray winter sky over Greenwich Bay. Jesus, what the hell is that red shit? she exclaimed groggily, trying to rub the sleep out of her eyes. The phone continued  to buzz.

      All right, all right, I'm coming, for chrissakes, she growled, and began to crawl across the mountain of electric blankets, quilts, and comforters she kept on her king sized bed. Potato chip bags buried in the pile crunched softly under her weight as she made for the night stand. At the foot of the bed, her Cocker Spaniel puppy stared at her in amazement from under a pile of blankets. "What are you  looking at, Cootie Head? she said. You bite my  feet one more time while I'm asleep, and I'll cook you for supper. Once I learn to cook, that is."

      Shannon swept a dozen empty beer cans off the night stand onto the floor, pushed her platinum mane of hair out of her clear gray eyes, and grabbed the phone.

      Yeah, she muttered. This better be good.

      Hello, Shannon, It's Ryan Wills. Do you remember me? We worked at the NYPD together.

      Of course I remember you. What do you think I am, senile or something? Where do you live now, Wills? she asked sweetly. I'm going to come over to your house tonight and kill you.

      Maryland, Wills said. Why? What did I do now?

      You woke me up in the middle of the night. I've shot people for less.

      It isn't the middle of the night, you stiff! Wills laughed. It's quarter to seven in the morning.

      That's the middle of the night where I live, Shannon snorted. "I don't get up before ten unless my bedroom is on fire. Besides, it's illegal to wake somebody up in this town before the  International House of Pancakes is open. Do you realize what you made me see? The sun  is coming  up. That's disgusting, Wills. Nobody should have to see that. What the hell do you want, anyway? I don't do cop work any more."

      Neither do I, Wills said. I left the NYPD right after you did. I work for the Secret Service now.

      Congratulations, Shannon sighed. Go catch some counterfeiters and let me go back to sleep.

      "Don't you watch TV, Flynn? I'm the head of the president's personal security detail. I'm never more than five feet away from him. You must have seen me standing behind him."

      Not unless you were on the Cartoon Channel, Shannon said. "Who is the president, anyway?"

      Holman Fleming, Wills said.

      Oh, him, Shannon said. I voted for the other guy. At least I think I did, anyway. All I remember was being inside a little thing with curtains and a machine with levers. I was either voting or getting condoms in somebody's  men's room.

      Do you still drink as much as you used to? Wills laughed.

      "No, I drink more than I used to. I drove Coors' stock up ten points last year all by myself."

      The writer's life, Wills sighed. How exciting. What else do you do to amuse yourself?

      "I try to remember where I live and what clothes I can legally wear in public. Writer's life, you say? I have no life, Wills. I'll tell you how exciting it gets around here; check this out. I wear Doctor Dentons to bed; you know, the ones with the flap? Well, last week I got wasted and put them on backwards. I got up in the middle of the night to take a dump, opened the flap and sat down, and promptly shit my pants. That's  what passes for entertainment around here."

      Maybe I should have called somebody else for this, Wills said quietly.

      "For what, Wills? You still haven't told me what you want."

      It's about the president. He's missing.

      "He's missing? How the hell can the president be missing? Doesn't he have to wear a dog collar or something? You have that invisible fence shit or something so he can't leave, don't you?"

      He wears a monitor, yes. But he takes it off when he sleeps. It's still on his night stand.

      And when did this happen?

      Yesterday morning. His valet went in to lay out his clothes like always, and saw the light on in the bathroom like always. Long story short, he never showed for breakfast. They called us, and we went in to find him. He wasn't there.

      Maybe he's out getting laid, Shannon snickered. Like the last guy used to do.

      Fleming is happily married, Wills lied.

      Yeah, right. I've seen his old lady, Wills. I use a picture of her to kill rats in my cellar.

      Never mind that. This is bad, Shannon. We need some help. That's where you come in.

      Me? What can I do that you can't? You have the entire government and the Secret Service at your disposal. Why don't you call out the Army or something?

      Orders from the vice president. I wanted to wait twenty four hours on my end to see if someone would call with a ransom demand, or to see if Fleming would show up on his own. We've never had to deal with anything like this before. The vice president is worried that we'll  look stupid for losing him, and there could be international repercussions, considering the legion of assholes out there who would just love to jump on us if they thought we were vulnerable; like Red China, North  Korea,  and Iran to name a few. The stock market would probably go into the dumper, too.

      That doesn't explain why you aren't out looking for him.

      We're sitting on the story. Everybody who knows is restricted to quarters with no access to communications. If I send my guys out, somebody will notice. The vice president wants an outsider to look for Fleming. Jesus, the press corps lives in this place; you can't fart around here without CNN broadcasting it live. They're already asking questions. We told them he's got the flu.

      Oh, great, Shannon said. "Lie to the press. Don't

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