p.m.
As soon as she was certain that the doors had closed be-
hind her, Jennifer let out an angry cry and struck her fi st
against the side of the elevator. The noise echoed up the shaft
above her like thunder presaging a heavy storm. How could
she have been so stupid? Lewis had just been fi shing and
she’d grabbed the bait at the first time of asking. She’d even
knocked the guy over. On camera. What would Green say?
Assaulting civilians was not exactly how the Bureau liked to
handle its PR. If it wasn’t so bad, it would almost have been
funny.
Less funny was how Lewis had known she would be there.
Had someone leaked her schedule? Unlikely, given she had
only arranged to see Hammon after leaving Razi earlier that
morning.
Maybe it was just an unfortunate coincidence. After all,
years swimming through the lurid waters of pop ular scandal
had given Lewis and his kind a nose for a story somewhat
akin to a shark’s for a wounded seal. He would have smelled
the blood in the water from the other side of the city.
The doors whirred open. A camera flash exploded, mo-
mentarily burning an image on to the back of her retina. A
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
8 3
corpse sprawled on the floor in front of the reception desk.
Two bullet wounds in her back suggesting she’d been gunned
down as she tried to run away. A dark shadow of blood be-
neath her, matting her long blonde hair with dark streaks.
“Who the fuck let you up here?” A man stepped into her
field of vision. He had a mottled complexion, a deep scar
across the bridge of his nose and a lazy right eye.
“Special Agent Jennifer Browne, FBI.”
The man glanced at her ID and then looked up again, his
chin jutting out defiantly. Judging from his graying brown
hair, she guessed he was maybe forty, forty-five years old.
Behind him, she saw two people from the coroner’s offi ce
flip the girl over before lifting her into a body bag and zip-
ping it shut.
“You’re kidding, right? The bodies are still warm and al-
ready you’re trying to crowd us out?”
“I had an appointment with Mr. Hammon.” She nodded at
the large nameplate on the wall behind the reception desk. “I
only just found out about the shooting.”
“Hey, Sutton,” the man called out without looking around.
“You got anything in the book today with a Julia Browne?”
The body bag was lifted on to a stretcher and wheeled into
the open lift behind her.
“Jennifer,” she corrected him sharply.
“Whatever.” He shrugged.
A woman standing on the other side of the desk leaned
over the terminal, her finger leaving a greasy mark as she slid
it across the surface of the on- screen diary.
“Sure,” she called out. “Three-thirty. Special Agent Jen-
nifer Browne.” She looked up and gave Jennifer a fl eeting
nod that she took as sisterly encouragement not to let herself
be pushed around. There was no danger of that.
Grudgingly, the man reached out to shake her hand.
“Jim Mitchell, Homicide. I’m afraid Hammon’s going to
miss your three-thirty.”
“No kidding?”
“You a client?”
“I was hoping to talk to him about a case I’m investi-
gating.”
8 4 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
“Yeah, well, talking’s the one thing he won’t be doing
again,” Mitchell said with a smirk.
“What do you mean?”
“See for yourself.”
He threw open the large mahogany double doors behind
him and waved her through. Hammon’s office was located in
the corner of the building, its two glass walls framing the
graceful sweep of the Brooklyn Bridge as it unfurled against
the East River. At that moment a chopper took off from the
nearby heliport, its red- tipped rotors carving a steep circle in
the thin air.
Beyond the view and the extravagance of a large fi sh tank
set into the facing wall, however, the room was a triumph of
minimalist design. The only furniture consisted of two Bar-
celona chairs neatly arranged around a square glass table
As soon as she was certain that the doors had closed be-
hind her, Jennifer let out an angry cry and struck her fi st
against the side of the elevator. The noise echoed up the shaft
above her like thunder presaging a heavy storm. How could
she have been so stupid? Lewis had just been fi shing and
she’d grabbed the bait at the first time of asking. She’d even
knocked the guy over. On camera. What would Green say?
Assaulting civilians was not exactly how the Bureau liked to
handle its PR. If it wasn’t so bad, it would almost have been
funny.
Less funny was how Lewis had known she would be there.
Had someone leaked her schedule? Unlikely, given she had
only arranged to see Hammon after leaving Razi earlier that
morning.
Maybe it was just an unfortunate coincidence. After all,
years swimming through the lurid waters of pop ular scandal
had given Lewis and his kind a nose for a story somewhat
akin to a shark’s for a wounded seal. He would have smelled
the blood in the water from the other side of the city.
The doors whirred open. A camera flash exploded, mo-
mentarily burning an image on to the back of her retina. A
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
8 3
corpse sprawled on the floor in front of the reception desk.
Two bullet wounds in her back suggesting she’d been gunned
down as she tried to run away. A dark shadow of blood be-
neath her, matting her long blonde hair with dark streaks.
“Who the fuck let you up here?” A man stepped into her
field of vision. He had a mottled complexion, a deep scar
across the bridge of his nose and a lazy right eye.
“Special Agent Jennifer Browne, FBI.”
The man glanced at her ID and then looked up again, his
chin jutting out defiantly. Judging from his graying brown
hair, she guessed he was maybe forty, forty-five years old.
Behind him, she saw two people from the coroner’s offi ce
flip the girl over before lifting her into a body bag and zip-
ping it shut.
“You’re kidding, right? The bodies are still warm and al-
ready you’re trying to crowd us out?”
“I had an appointment with Mr. Hammon.” She nodded at
the large nameplate on the wall behind the reception desk. “I
only just found out about the shooting.”
“Hey, Sutton,” the man called out without looking around.
“You got anything in the book today with a Julia Browne?”
The body bag was lifted on to a stretcher and wheeled into
the open lift behind her.
“Jennifer,” she corrected him sharply.
“Whatever.” He shrugged.
A woman standing on the other side of the desk leaned
over the terminal, her finger leaving a greasy mark as she slid
it across the surface of the on- screen diary.
“Sure,” she called out. “Three-thirty. Special Agent Jen-
nifer Browne.” She looked up and gave Jennifer a fl eeting
nod that she took as sisterly encouragement not to let herself
be pushed around. There was no danger of that.
Grudgingly, the man reached out to shake her hand.
“Jim Mitchell, Homicide. I’m afraid Hammon’s going to
miss your three-thirty.”
“No kidding?”
“You a client?”
“I was hoping to talk to him about a case I’m investi-
gating.”
8 4 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
“Yeah, well, talking’s the one thing he won’t be doing
again,” Mitchell said with a smirk.
“What do you mean?”
“See for yourself.”
He threw open the large mahogany double doors behind
him and waved her through. Hammon’s office was located in
the corner of the building, its two glass walls framing the
graceful sweep of the Brooklyn Bridge as it unfurled against
the East River. At that moment a chopper took off from the
nearby heliport, its red- tipped rotors carving a steep circle in
the thin air.
Beyond the view and the extravagance of a large fi sh tank
set into the facing wall, however, the room was a triumph of
minimalist design. The only furniture consisted of two Bar-
celona chairs neatly arranged around a square glass table
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