Five minutes later, Mike presented herself in the Savich kitchen, her hair in a ponytail, dressed in jeans and motorcycle boots, a short lightweight black leather jacket over a boatneck black-and-white-striped shirt. Without a word, Nicholas handed her a cup of coffee.
Savich was sitting at the kitchen table, two laptops open in front of him. She recognized magic MAX, wondered what in the world was happening.
He looked up from one of his computers. “Good morning, Mike. You slept well?”
“Yes, yes, thank you.” Was there something in his voice? Nah, she was imagining it. She had to stop it.
She took a sip of her coffee and sighed. A dollop of milk, nothing else.
“The lord and master of the coffee universe made it,” Sherlock said, and smiled. “Enjoy.”
“Five minutes,” Savich said, “and we’ll need to hit the road.” He glanced at Sherlock. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but with Gabriella down with a cold, you’re elected to take Sean to school.”
“Yeah, yeah, curses on all of you,” Sherlock said. “Good luck to you guys.” And she immediately left the kitchen when Sean’s voice came loud and clear from upstairs: “Mama, where’s my special Batman shirt?”
Mike said, “Do I need to know anything in particular?”
Savich packed up MAX. “The vice president set a plan in motion last night and has decided to bring us in.”
Mike stared at him. “So the vice president is behind the leak about Vanessa? I guess it makes sense, after all, she was in the CIA.”
Savich nodded. “Yes, a planned leak. If you’re all set, we can go.” He called out as they went out the front door, “See you later, Sherlock. Sean, have a good day.”
They piled into Sherlock’s sturdy Volvo and headed toward the Naval Observatory. Mike knew the vice president’s mansion was on the grounds, and it must be close to Savich’s home in Georgetown. She was right.
Savich drove straight up Wisconsin, turned right onto Observatory Lane. They were checked through a tall gate, then wound around the circle to park in front of an impressive white Victorian mansion. She wished she weren’t so nervous, so on edge, to fully appreciate it. The vice president’s house, and wasn’t that something, Mike from Omaha visiting the VP? She tightened her ponytail, then checked herself to make sure she was put together.
But still, meeting the vice president of the United States wearing jeans and biker boots and no makeup, it would make her mom cringe. So unlike Nicholas, curse him, who looked very cool, she felt like she should be going to a bar to drink beer and line dance.
She said to Nicholas, “Savich didn’t tell you what was going on?”
He shook his head. “I think this is a command performance. He woke me, I threw on some clothes and grabbed you.”
She saw half a dozen Secret Service agents patrolling the house, each of them focused, each of them ready for anything, and she wondered how they could keep up the edge day after day. A tall, fit gray-haired man who looked like he’d never taken crap from anyone in his life came down the steps to greet them.
“I’m Tony Scarlatti, no relation to the dude who wrote all that cool music for the harpsichord back in the day. I’m the vice president’s lead agent. Thanks for coming to us this morning. Come meet Vice President Sloane.”
They all shook hands, introduced themselves, then trailed after Tony into the house. Mike immediately wanted to whisper, it was so quiet inside. It was also more modern than she’d expected, all cool grays and creams with a few sprinkles of pale green. There wasn’t much time to admire the house; Tony herded them through the round entrance foyer toward the back of the house.