Page 1 of Air Force One
Prologue
Tomorrow
“Hello. This is Miranda Chase. This is actually her and not a recording of her,” Miranda answered her phone in her typical quirky style, which gave Drake brief comfort.
“You need to come find us.”
“Is this like a game of Hide-and-go-seek, Drake? I haven’t played that in years, but I was intrigued by it as a child. I enjoyed the counting and developing the most methodical and efficient search patterns. Though because of my autism, I couldn’t bring myself to count out loud until I was five.”
“No, Miranda. Not the game. I’m still on Air Force One. You have to find out who killed us. Promise.”
“I promise, Drake. But if you’re dead, how are you?—”
“Thank you, Miranda. I know I can trust you. I must call Lizzy now. Take care of her for me.” He hung up, wishing he had time left for Miranda’s convoluted conversational style. For a thousand of her questions and curious diversions. But he didn’t.
There was, however, one person he was going to miss far more if he did indeed die aboard Air Force One.
He dialed his wife and listened to the most mundane sound in the world, doubting that he’d ever hear it again—a ringing phone.
1
The Prior Evening
“Is this really happening?” To Miranda, the pitch of Holly’s voice sounded atypically high—almost squeaky.
“I do not see anything fake. We are in the President’s living room of the White House Residence.” As confirmation, the Truman Balcony wrapped around outside the tall windows; the early January evening spreading a few ice crystals on the glass. For the moment, it was being used as the bridal suite, but that was also real, albeit temporary. “Well, technically, I suppose it is fake. Many early administrations were prone to selling off the old furniture and buying more modern furnishings. Then most of what remained was sold off or discarded during the Truman renovation of 1948 to 1951. Congress refused the additional funds to purchase historically correct furnishings. It wasn’t until First Lady Jackie Kennedy’s 1963 renovation that anyone attempted to recreate the proper look.”
There was certainly nothing authentic about the glass coffee table or the dark red leather of the Chesterfield couch and armchairs. The big-screen television was decidedly anachronistic for any period of the White House excepting the most recent decade. Of course, it was the President’s personal living room on temporary loan to the bride, so perhaps he enjoyed the anachronisms. She’d have to ask him.
“That’s not what I meant. I meant…this.” Holly waved Miranda’s wedding bouquet of daisies and winter jasmine about so negligently that Miranda decided it would be better if she took it herself rather than continuing to trust Holly's self-control. Roy had offered a rose bouquet from the White House collection, but she’d always felt they bragged too much. She preferred these, especially as neither flower had a scent, which she rather liked. They were just their pretty selves and didn’t need to prance about fluffing their petals at everyone.
“This?”
“Wedding. How? Why?” Holly was stuttering worse than an engine running on the wrong fuel. Miranda was rather pleased by that metaphor; it was so rare that her autism allowed her to create such a cogent one.
“Because I want to spend the rest of my life with Andi. So does Meg.” Miranda pointed down at her Glen of Imaal Terrier with the two wedding rings tied to her therapy dog harness.
“But…” Holly seemed to give it up. “I just don’t understand. Why are you two getting, you know…” She flailed about but couldn’t say the word.
For once, Miranda actually did know. Anytime the word marriage came by, Holly’s old military training displayed a great desire to kill it. Miranda liked the sound of the word, though the silent I bothered her at times. Of course, without it, the word would be marrage, and she had no wish to be marred by anything in particular. Or in general. She tried to think of how to explain it.
“You’ve been together with Mike for six years,” Miranda started out.
“Five and a half. No, wait, barely over five and a quarter. And don’t mention that.”
“And you renovated your new home together.”
“Or that.”
Miranda had never understood Holly’s refusal to admit the reality of her relationship with Mike Munroe. In Miranda’s experience, Holly Harper was a stark realist on all other topics, whether her elite warrior past with the Australian Special Air Service Regiment or her air-crash investigator present.
“It’s not as if you’re the one getting married.” First Lady Rose Cole entered the temporary bridal suite from her and Roy’s bedroom. She stopped close by Miranda but knew not to offer the friendly touch that she gave to most people around her. Miranda almost wished she didn’t so mind being touched because Rose made it seem so pleasant…but she did.
Rose normally towered five inches over Miranda’s five-four. Today she wore three-inch heels, a skill Miranda had never wanted to master, making her two inches taller than even Holly. Her evening dress was much frillier than Miranda’s own sleek silk—not fancier, just frillier. She found Rose’s dress a little unnerving as parts of it seemed to move with a mind of their own.
Miranda looked away quickly and focused on Holly. “It’s good that you aren’t getting married today?—”
“Or ever!”
