Sean said, “You had some dealings with my son and my daughter, and I’d like to talk about that. You also have my daughter’s necklace, which I’d like back.” It was ridiculous that he’d place himself in this situation over a piece of jewelry, family heirloom or not. But this was about more than the necklace.
“That’s where I know you from,” Chipotle Man said with a scoff. “You’re the dude on TV.”
“I want to talk with you about what happened with my children. I don’t need to involve the police.”
“Damn right you won’t involve the police. Not a good career move. And you don’t want that * son of yours ruining his Harvard application.”
Sean felt something primal taking over, like that night at Malik’s house. Electricity shooting from the back of his neck to his chest through his arms to his balled fists. His eyes stayed on the man’s hand, which remained tucked in the pocket.
“When’s the last time you spoke with my daughter?”
“I don’t have to answer your questions,” Chipotle Man said. He was twitchy and kept wrinkling his nose. Sean’s experience with meth-heads was limited to episodes of Breaking Bad, but the guy fit the part.
“Did you follow her? Did you threaten her?”
Chipotle Man scoffed. “You playing detective, Daddy? Sorry Holmes, but I didn’t have nothing to do with what happened to your slut daughter.” He pulled his hand from the pocket and picked at his arm.
Sean rushed him, ramming Chipotle Man against the wall. He was outside himself for a moment. Sean shoved his forearm against the man’s throat. Chipotle Man’s eyes bulged.
“What the fuck, man?” Chipotle Man’s voice had raised an octave, the bravado gone.
Sean was shaking, adrenaline overloading his system. Through gritted teeth he said, “Don’t you ever speak that way about my daughter again. Do you understand me?”
Sean felt a hard blow to the side of his head. The next thing he knew, he was on his side on the gravel. Chipotle Man’s two friends, the blond guys, looked down at him. One kicked him in the stomach.
The blonds each grabbed one of his arms and pulled Sean to his feet. He’d had the wind knocked out of him and was gasping for air.
Chipotle Man got close to his face. “I didn’t hurt that whore daughter of yours. Go ahead and call the police if you don’t believe me. All you’ll get is your little boy in juvie and everyone will know your daughter blew me to cover your son’s drug debt.”
He hit Sean hard in the jaw, and Sean tasted blood. The next blow was to the eye. Then they let go of Sean’s arms, and he slumped to the gravel.
He was on the dirty ground. Beaten and bloody. Alone. And nearly late for an appointment with the president of the United States.
CHAPTER 24
Back at home, Sean stared into the bathroom mirror, dabbing his swollen eye with a washcloth. His dress shirt had droplets of blood on the collar, so he tore it off. Now the dilemma. Did he go to the White House meeting or make an excuse? Emily’s voice played in his head.
What would your daughter want you to do?
He looked at the white undershirt. No blood had seeped through. In the bedroom, he slid the dimmer up so there was just enough light not to wake up Emily, who had gone to bed when they arrived home from Rehoboth. He found a clean shirt in the closet and slipped out of the room. Sore from the beating, he winced as he eased on the shirt.
He checked his watch. He had thirty minutes to make it the seven miles from Chevy Chase to the Hay-Adams hotel downtown. He called and confirmed that Jack was doing okay at his playdate, and that the neighbor would drop him back home before dinner. On his way out the door, Ryan called to him.
“What is it?” Sean said. “I’m running late.”
“I need to talk with you … Whoa, what happened to your eye?”
“I don’t have time to explain. What do you need?”
He held a folder in his hand. “I think I found something in Abby’s file. I think it may help—”
“You’ve helped enough, Ryan. Now I have to go.” Sean slammed the door.
CHAPTER 25
The Oval Office was as it appeared in photos. It was oval, for starters, with wood floors covered by an oval rug embroidered with the presidential seal. The Resolute desk. And the president’s personal touches: a bust of Abraham Lincoln, a Norman Rockwell painting. Sean sat upright on a beige couch and glanced at his reflection in a glass-topped coffee table. The swollen eye looked terrible. What would he say if the president asked? Hit a door? Too cliché. Bee sting? Wouldn’t explain the gash. Mugged? Too many questions. Maybe the president wouldn’t ask. That seemed unlikely, but Abani Gupta, who’d picked him up at the Hay-Adams, hadn’t asked. Nor had the president’s chief of staff.