up a cell phone and dialed a number. It rang only once. “I’m watching the news, too,” said a voice on the other end.
“I can’t believe it,” Quincy said.
“I can. She’s got big balls. You gotta admire it.”
“There’s no other choice now but to make her irrelevant. Everything’s in place for our other plan, isn’t it?”
“Like I said it would be. I’ve been moving that little project along as though this one wasn’t going to work. Which it didn’t.”
“Stop saying I told you so,” Quincy said irritably. “Just get it done.”
He hung up. He hit the mute button on his remote to silence Debrah Drexler, but that gave him only mild satisifaction. He picked up the phone to call his office. At least he could console himself with the release of the pictures.
7:09 A . M . PST Senator Drexler’s Office, San Francisco
“Thanks for coming. Thanks!” Drexler said to the tiny squad of reporters now grumbling and exiting the conference room. Her press people were going to hear some gripes about this, but she didn’t care. She was giddy with excitement.
She practically floated back into her office and closed the door, then dialed Kelly Sharpton’s number. When he answered, she trilled, “You, sir, are hereby granted divinity. You’re a god. How did you do it?”
“It wasn’t that hard.” Kelly’s voice was flat.
“What about—are there any other copies anywhere?” she asked, some of the happiness leaving her voice. “I mean, if it’s digital . . .”
“My bug will keep tracking down any links to those pictures and wipe them all out.”
“What about hard copies?” she asked
“I doubt there are any. This was old stuff, and there was no one attached to the crime anymore. If it’s from the San Francisco archives, which it probably was, they transferred all their data to digital years ago, except for forensics, of course. Odds are the actual pic was destroyed once they had a clean scan. They’re even lucky they had this much.”
“We should get together again. For a drink,” she added quickly. “I owe you, Kell. God, do I owe you. So much.”
He heard the euphoria return to her voice. He felt proud to have saved her, he had to admit—it was some kind of ridiculous digital age version of a caveman protecting his mate. But he also knew that something was missing. It wasn’t just that he felt dirty, which he did. He had just exercised a gross abuse of power, and he’d done it with an ease and lack of conscience that horrified him. But no, it wasn’t just remorse for an ethical lapse that bothered him. It was personal. The clean sharp edge had been shaved off his longing for her, leaving a jagged scar. “You don’t owe me, Deb. And I don’t think drinks are a good idea.”
The heavy tone of his voice dragged her out of the clouds. “What?”
“You were going to do it, weren’t you? Give up your vote. Just like that.”
She stammered, “I hoped you’d...I mean you al-ways...I would have—” She stopped. This wasn’t the press or the public. This was Kelly. “Yes,” she said at last. “I was going to give in.”
He nodded. “You definitely don’t owe me, then. What I did just now, I did my job. Bye, Deb.” He hung up on her.
7:16 A . M . PST Beverly Hills
Jack never remembered his dreams. His wife told him that he often muttered in his sleep, and even jumped out of bed some times, but he never recalled what he’d said or why he’d jumped up. For him, unconsciousness passed by in a blink—the split second of darkness that separated one moment of awareness from the next.
That’s how it was for him then, as his eyes popped open. He was lying on his side on the floor of the library. The bookcase was on its side, but at least it wasn’t on top of him anymore. Books lay were they fell, scattered in ones and twos. Jack tried to move, and immediately he knew three things. First, his face had been bleeding and might still be bleeding. Second, he wasn’t alone
“I can’t believe it,” Quincy said.
“I can. She’s got big balls. You gotta admire it.”
“There’s no other choice now but to make her irrelevant. Everything’s in place for our other plan, isn’t it?”
“Like I said it would be. I’ve been moving that little project along as though this one wasn’t going to work. Which it didn’t.”
“Stop saying I told you so,” Quincy said irritably. “Just get it done.”
He hung up. He hit the mute button on his remote to silence Debrah Drexler, but that gave him only mild satisifaction. He picked up the phone to call his office. At least he could console himself with the release of the pictures.
7:09 A . M . PST Senator Drexler’s Office, San Francisco
“Thanks for coming. Thanks!” Drexler said to the tiny squad of reporters now grumbling and exiting the conference room. Her press people were going to hear some gripes about this, but she didn’t care. She was giddy with excitement.
She practically floated back into her office and closed the door, then dialed Kelly Sharpton’s number. When he answered, she trilled, “You, sir, are hereby granted divinity. You’re a god. How did you do it?”
“It wasn’t that hard.” Kelly’s voice was flat.
“What about—are there any other copies anywhere?” she asked, some of the happiness leaving her voice. “I mean, if it’s digital . . .”
“My bug will keep tracking down any links to those pictures and wipe them all out.”
“What about hard copies?” she asked
“I doubt there are any. This was old stuff, and there was no one attached to the crime anymore. If it’s from the San Francisco archives, which it probably was, they transferred all their data to digital years ago, except for forensics, of course. Odds are the actual pic was destroyed once they had a clean scan. They’re even lucky they had this much.”
“We should get together again. For a drink,” she added quickly. “I owe you, Kell. God, do I owe you. So much.”
He heard the euphoria return to her voice. He felt proud to have saved her, he had to admit—it was some kind of ridiculous digital age version of a caveman protecting his mate. But he also knew that something was missing. It wasn’t just that he felt dirty, which he did. He had just exercised a gross abuse of power, and he’d done it with an ease and lack of conscience that horrified him. But no, it wasn’t just remorse for an ethical lapse that bothered him. It was personal. The clean sharp edge had been shaved off his longing for her, leaving a jagged scar. “You don’t owe me, Deb. And I don’t think drinks are a good idea.”
The heavy tone of his voice dragged her out of the clouds. “What?”
“You were going to do it, weren’t you? Give up your vote. Just like that.”
She stammered, “I hoped you’d...I mean you al-ways...I would have—” She stopped. This wasn’t the press or the public. This was Kelly. “Yes,” she said at last. “I was going to give in.”
He nodded. “You definitely don’t owe me, then. What I did just now, I did my job. Bye, Deb.” He hung up on her.
7:16 A . M . PST Beverly Hills
Jack never remembered his dreams. His wife told him that he often muttered in his sleep, and even jumped out of bed some times, but he never recalled what he’d said or why he’d jumped up. For him, unconsciousness passed by in a blink—the split second of darkness that separated one moment of awareness from the next.
That’s how it was for him then, as his eyes popped open. He was lying on his side on the floor of the library. The bookcase was on its side, but at least it wasn’t on top of him anymore. Books lay were they fell, scattered in ones and twos. Jack tried to move, and immediately he knew three things. First, his face had been bleeding and might still be bleeding. Second, he wasn’t alone
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