Free The Book of Fate by Brad Meltzer Page A

invited. For a few years, it puts him in the
in
crowd, but as cockiness sets in, he doesn’t even realize he’s on the outs.
    Still, he’s always been Manning’s good luck charm. And today, hopefully mine.
    “Good day, Mr. Holloway,” the concierge calls out as I slide past him and head toward the elevators. It’s the second person who knows my name, instantly reminding me of the need to be discreet. Of course, that’s why I called Dreidel in the first place. The President would never admit it, but I know why he and the First Lady attended Dreidel’s wedding and wrote his recommendation for Columbia Law School—and asked me to pick out a gift when Dreidel’s daughter was born: rewards for years of good service. And in White House terms,
good service
means keeping your mouth shut.
    As the elevator doors open on the fourth floor, I follow the directional arrows and start counting room numbers: 405 . . . 407 . . . 409 . . . From the distance between doors, I can tell these’re all suites. Dreidel’s moving up in the world.
    The hallway dead-ends at room 415, a suite so big it’s got a doorbell on it. There’s no way I’m giving him the pleasure of ringing it.
    “Room service,” I announce, rapping my knuckles against the door.
    No one answers.
    “Dreidel, you in there?” I add.
    Still no response.
    “It’s me, Wes!” I yell, finally giving up and ringing the doorbell. “Dreidel, are you—?”
    There’s a loud thunk as the lock flicks open. Then a jingling of metal. He’s got the door chain on too.
    “Hold on,” he calls out. “I’m coming.”
    “What’re you doing? Stealing the wood hangers?”
    The door cracks open, but only a few inches. Behind it, Dreidel sticks his head out like an anxious housewife surprised by a salesman. His usually perfectly parted hair is slightly mussed, draping boyish bangs across his forehead. He pushes his circular wire-rim glasses up on his thin sculpted nose. From the little I can see, he’s not wearing a shirt.
    “No offense, but I’m not having sex with you,” I say with a laugh.
    “I said to call from downstairs,” he shoots back.
    “What’re you getting so upset about? I figured you’d like showing off your big room and—”
    “I’m serious, Wes. Why’d you come up here?” There’s a new tone in his voice. Not just annoyance. Fear. “Did anyone follow you?” he adds, opening the door a bit more to check the hallway. He’s got a towel around his waist.
    “Dreidel, is everything—?”
    “I said call from
downstairs
!” he insists.
    I step back, completely confused.
    “Honey,” a female voice calls out from within the room, “is everything—” The woman stops midsentence. Dreidel turns, and I spot her over his shoulder, just turning the corner inside the room. She’s dressed in one of the hotel’s white overfluffed bathrobes—a thin African-American woman with gorgeous braids. I have no idea who she is, but the one thing I’m sure of is, she’s not Dreidel’s wife. Or his two-year-old daughter.
    Dreidel’s face falls as he reads my reaction. This is the part where he says it’s not how it looks.
    “Wes, it’s not what you think.”
    I stare at the woman in the bathrobe. And Dreidel in his towel. “Maybe I should . . . I’ll just go downstairs,” I stutter.
    “I’ll meet you there in two minutes.”
    Stepping back, I study the woman, who’s still frozen in place. Her eyes are wide, silently apologizing.

 
    12
    W here’s he now?” O’Shea asked, pressing his palm against the window of the black sedan and feeling the warmth of the Florida sun. It was freezing in France. But somehow, even with the Palm Beach heat and the liquid-blue sky, he wasn’t any warmer.
    “He just took the elevator upstairs in the hotel,” Micah replied.
    “Elevator? You let him ride alone?”
    “Better than me jumping in with him. Relax—there’re only four floors. He’s not getting far.”
    O’Shea rolled his tongue inside his cheek.