same Connor Brent he’d met in the park two nights ago.
Brent had been rowing solo on the Potomac last night when he rowed straight into a naval training exercise. A Navy SEAL platoon was in the middle of a simulated attack using live rounds. Buoys labeled CAUTION had apparently been floating nearby to warn boats away. It wasn’t known why David Connor Brent had rowed past them, but he had been reduced to chum in a matter of seconds.
Strangest damn “accident” Jimmie had ever heard of.
Jimmie tried to keep his reaction in check, but it was impossible. It felt like he’d just been slugged in the wedding tackle.
“Everything okay?” Emma asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Jimmie folded the paper and slid it back to the middle of the table. He looked her straight in the eye. “Harper left yesterday’s game with a sprained ankle. Even if he stays off the DL, I’m looking at three to five games without his bat in the lineup on my fantasy team.”
Emma rolled her eyes at him. For a second there, Jimmie had thought she’d been on to him. It seemed apparent to him that if she’d had any involvement in Brent’s death, it would have shown on her face.
Hers weren’t the only eyes on him, though—there were others lingering in the room, watching his reaction. Corey Lewandowski had been foaming at the mouth as Jimmie read the article. It was possible the press secretary had rabies. Had there been any bite marks on Lester’s body? Jimmie didn’t know. All he knew was that the game had just gotten deadlier.
Twice as deadly, to be precise.
Chapter Thirty
Biebs
Dorset: You’ve had some issues with women in the past.
Trump: No one’s a greater supporter of women than me. I love women. My mother was a woman—a great woman.
Dorset: I’m thinking, specifically, of your Twitter war with Helen Mirren. You retweeted somebody calling her a “bimbo.”
Trump: I never called her that. I would never call a woman a “bimbo.” Never. Who calls women names like that? It’s juvenile.
Dorset: Okay. You have called her “crazy,” though.
Trump: Well, yeah. If she’s acting like some kind of crazy bimbo, I’m going to call her crazy.
Dorset: Did . . . you just call her a bimbo?
Trump: Don’t twist my words. Do not twist my words. I never said she was a crazy bimbo. I said she was acting like a crazy bimbo. Take your dick out of your ear and listen to what I’m saying.
J immie reached the end of the recordings. He’d spent the past five hours holed up in his office listening to Lester’s interviews . . . all for nothing.
Jimmie could see why Lester Dorset thought there were some “game-changing” admissions on the hard drive. Trump spoke candidly with Lester Dorset about buying favor in the media. He called the Mighty Mississippi a “river of slime” running through the United States. At one point, he even referred to the Second Amendment as one of the Ten Commandments. Lester, the golden boy for the country’s most liberal rag, had to have shit himself at that one!
The problem was that Lester Dorset had always been an idealist. A fool who believed in the essential goodness of the American people. Lester probably thought that if he could expose the man behind the orange mask, the people would come to their senses and storm the gates.
Unfortunately, Jimmie knew better. Trump was what those on the celebrity-gossip beat called a “Biebs.” No matter what you wrote about Justin Bieber in the dirt sheets, he still managed to top the iTunes charts. Trump was the same way. He could do wheelies on a motorbike over Ronald Reagan’s grave, and half the country would still vote for him in 2020.
While many of Trump’s admissions were indeed eye raising, none of them were “game changing.”
Still, whoever had killed Lester had thought they were. The killer also had to have known Lester was attempting to smuggle the recorder out of the White House. The motive couldn’t be clearer. They
Brent had been rowing solo on the Potomac last night when he rowed straight into a naval training exercise. A Navy SEAL platoon was in the middle of a simulated attack using live rounds. Buoys labeled CAUTION had apparently been floating nearby to warn boats away. It wasn’t known why David Connor Brent had rowed past them, but he had been reduced to chum in a matter of seconds.
Strangest damn “accident” Jimmie had ever heard of.
Jimmie tried to keep his reaction in check, but it was impossible. It felt like he’d just been slugged in the wedding tackle.
“Everything okay?” Emma asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Jimmie folded the paper and slid it back to the middle of the table. He looked her straight in the eye. “Harper left yesterday’s game with a sprained ankle. Even if he stays off the DL, I’m looking at three to five games without his bat in the lineup on my fantasy team.”
Emma rolled her eyes at him. For a second there, Jimmie had thought she’d been on to him. It seemed apparent to him that if she’d had any involvement in Brent’s death, it would have shown on her face.
Hers weren’t the only eyes on him, though—there were others lingering in the room, watching his reaction. Corey Lewandowski had been foaming at the mouth as Jimmie read the article. It was possible the press secretary had rabies. Had there been any bite marks on Lester’s body? Jimmie didn’t know. All he knew was that the game had just gotten deadlier.
Twice as deadly, to be precise.
Chapter Thirty
Biebs
Dorset: You’ve had some issues with women in the past.
Trump: No one’s a greater supporter of women than me. I love women. My mother was a woman—a great woman.
Dorset: I’m thinking, specifically, of your Twitter war with Helen Mirren. You retweeted somebody calling her a “bimbo.”
Trump: I never called her that. I would never call a woman a “bimbo.” Never. Who calls women names like that? It’s juvenile.
Dorset: Okay. You have called her “crazy,” though.
Trump: Well, yeah. If she’s acting like some kind of crazy bimbo, I’m going to call her crazy.
Dorset: Did . . . you just call her a bimbo?
Trump: Don’t twist my words. Do not twist my words. I never said she was a crazy bimbo. I said she was acting like a crazy bimbo. Take your dick out of your ear and listen to what I’m saying.
J immie reached the end of the recordings. He’d spent the past five hours holed up in his office listening to Lester’s interviews . . . all for nothing.
Jimmie could see why Lester Dorset thought there were some “game-changing” admissions on the hard drive. Trump spoke candidly with Lester Dorset about buying favor in the media. He called the Mighty Mississippi a “river of slime” running through the United States. At one point, he even referred to the Second Amendment as one of the Ten Commandments. Lester, the golden boy for the country’s most liberal rag, had to have shit himself at that one!
The problem was that Lester Dorset had always been an idealist. A fool who believed in the essential goodness of the American people. Lester probably thought that if he could expose the man behind the orange mask, the people would come to their senses and storm the gates.
Unfortunately, Jimmie knew better. Trump was what those on the celebrity-gossip beat called a “Biebs.” No matter what you wrote about Justin Bieber in the dirt sheets, he still managed to top the iTunes charts. Trump was the same way. He could do wheelies on a motorbike over Ronald Reagan’s grave, and half the country would still vote for him in 2020.
While many of Trump’s admissions were indeed eye raising, none of them were “game changing.”
Still, whoever had killed Lester had thought they were. The killer also had to have known Lester was attempting to smuggle the recorder out of the White House. The motive couldn’t be clearer. They
Similar Books
