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Lindsay stands up from her makeup chair, white bib around her neck, and grins at Mark with the eyes of an evil clown forced to pretend to be normal.
“Agent Paulson. We met yesterday.” She shakes his hand.
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?”
“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.
