Clarissa’s Manolo Blahnik boots were not made for walking long distances across DC, not that she had any choice. Her feet rapidly escalated from aching to seriously annoying, almost as irritating as the Nancy Sinatra song itself.
No point hiking the mile and a half to the White House, the Secret Service still had the entire building on lockdown. Drake had promised to get her some answers about the investigation of the two dead bodies found at Joint Base Andrews, but he hadn’t called back yet.
Out of any brilliant ideas of her own, she and Rose had followed Jeremy’s desperate desire to deliver the Gulfstream’s black box recorder to the NTSB headquarters. It was little farther to walk from the George than going to the White House would be, southwest across the core of DC instead of west. P
