Mark wisely says nothing, barely smiling.
Her hair person combs out the long blond strands, using a fat curling iron here and there to shape her style. Years ago, Lindsay told me all about the beauty rituals that were used for public appearances. The different makeup for studio shows. Yet another kind of makeup for large stage appearances. How weather could ruin photo opportunities.
And how Monica insisted that Lindsay present herself as a perfect vision of the sweet, American Pie senator’s daughter.
“We need to finish in here, Ms. Bosworth,” the makeup person says, leading her back to the chair.
The senator peels Paulson and me off into a small huddle.
“Look, you two. I know there was a commotion at The Grove last night, and I don’t have time for specifics. Your morning report was terse and vague,” he says to me in an accusatory voice.
“But accurate.”
I get a sour face in return. “That’ll do for now, Drew, but after this announcement and the resulting flurry dies down, I need a full, off-the-record report.” He glances around. “I want all the info you aren’t even cleared to give Lindsay’s handlers.”
I nod. “Understood.”
“And if you brought Agent Paulson in on Lindsay’s security detail, it’s clear there’s more than meets the eye. I need to be in the know.”
“And Mrs. Bosworth?”
“She’s on a need-to-know basis.” He smirks. “Monica’s job is to keep up appearances. Leave the depth to me.”
He leaves. Paulson shakes his head slowly. “Different senator, same behavior.”
“What do you mean?”
“My grandfather was the same way.”
“He ever run for president?”
“Nope. Said there was more power in the Senate. ‘The Oval Office is a costume’ was his standard phrase for politics and becoming president.”
“Harry Bosworth clearly thinks otherwise,” I reply.
“Good thing he does. Keeps you in billable hours for your security teams.”
I snort. “This is babysitting.”
“Babysitting with guns and snipers.”
“Still just babysitting.” I can’t help but glance at Lindsay, who has her eyes closed as hair and makeup people do her eyeshadow and finish her up.
High-stakes babysitting.
“Show time!” Anya announces. She’s dressed in a sedate grey suit designed to make her blend in. Monica’s wearing a tasteful cream-colored suit with a black border at the lapels, mid-heel black shoes designed for climbing stairs without accident, and her hair and face are perfect.
First Lady material.
Lindsay’s in a lovely dress with blue, red, black and cream, designed to coordinate with Harry and his red and blue tie, but not to outshine her mother. Everyone’s smiling and waving. As the senator’s arm goes up, all I can think about is a crazed gunman hitting the armpit.
Hey. It happened in 1981 with Reagan.
The potential for danger is everywhere.
Guns aren’t my biggest worry here, though.
Lindsay is.
“Stage left you’ll enter, with Mrs. Bosworth on the senator’s left, and the daughter on the right.”
Lindsay bristles at “the daughter.” She recovers fast, though.
She’s used to it.
Gentian and Paulson take their places at Stage Right and Stage Left. We’re indoors, thank God, which means my team has less to worry about. Secret Service already swept the building, and private security is checking bags and clearing visitors. We could have a rogue element here, but chances are small.
Other than Stellan, Blaine and John, that is.
I’ve got every text coming in on Lindsay’s phone echoing over to mine, so if they try that shit again, I’ll be on it instantly. All my guys know they’re working on Lindsay and Monica. Harry’s covered by the Secret Service.
As long as each person does their job, stays in their zone, and doesn’t turn into a cowboy, we’re good today.
I’ll deal with the unpredictable triad later.
I walk next to Paulson, steering clear of Lindsay, knowing my presence will just add to the massive case of nerves she clearly has. If appearances were all it took to play the part of picturesque future First Daughter, Lindsay would win the election for her dad.
Not that easy, though.
“Still no clear sense of what they’re up to with those texts?” Paulson asks out of the corner of his mouth. Earbud in, full boring suit, and more weapons under his jacket than a prepper on Halloween night, Paulson’s scanning the crowd while he talks to me.
“No. But they’ll be subtle. These guys aren’t going to shoot up a crowded theater.”
“You have a way of helping me relax, Foster.”
“Doing my job.”
“Yes, boss.”
Strange words coming from my commanding officer on my first tour in Afghanistan.
“Care to explain the picture with you in it?”
“Already did.”
“I think there’s way more to it than you’re telling.”
I don’t say a word.
We give each other dry looks and I move on, watching the scene intently.