The President's Henchman by Joseph Flynn

Doctor. Try to be patient a little longer.”
    Todd wasn’t sure Cheveyo should have used his professional title. Felt like the spook was giving away his secrets. But hearing it also reminded him who he was, calmed him down.
    Didn’t make him any less hungry, though. He was always hungry these days. Holding off on the sandwich until later was pure torture. Thing was, he’d gotten to the point of liking the pain. He said, “You don’t mind me asking, are you Native American?”
    Cheveyo looked at him. “Half. My dad’s Hopi; my mom’s Anglo.”
    “Your family name, does it have any special meaning?”
    The CIA man nodded. “Cheveyo means spirit warrior.”
    Todd liked that. “You bring any special talents to your job?”
    “I’m just a nose-to-the-grindstone guy … but I speak Navajo.”
    A Wind Talker?
    Would Cheveyo have shared that with him if things weren’t looking up? Or if the CIA hadn’t already decided to kill him. Hard to say which it was.
    If they gave him a chance, though, they’d invite him to join up.
     
    The landlord was a lawyer named Putnam Shady. He owned a two-story brick town house on Florida Avenue and said it was worth $950,000. There was no mortgage; he owned it outright. He wanted $850 per month for the one-and-a-half-room-plus-bath apartment in his basement. He’d set the rent at the amount necessary to pay for one-half of his monthly business lunches. As long as restaurant prices held stable, he said, the rent would be, too.
    He was trying to be funny, but Sweetie didn’t laugh. She went into the bathroom, found it small — shower stall, no tub — but clean. The appliances in the kitchenette were also small but new and a good brand. The main room was reasonably big, maybe fifteen-by-fifteen, and the closet was more than adequate to hold all the clothes she owned. The whole place was painted white, the floor was polished hardwood, a decent amount of light came in through the front windows, and there was no smell of water seepage or sewer gas.
    For a woman who’d felt comfortable in a cubbyhole at a convent, it was great.
    “Any problem if I put a floor safe in the closet?” Sweetie asked.
    “For ma’amselle’s jewelry?”
    Sweetie pulled back her sport coat and revealed her gun.
    Some people saw a lethal weapon and got scared. Others were immediately fascinated. Putnam Shady was the first guy Sweetie ever saw who got hot. He’d given her the eye as soon as he’d seen her and had been taking discreet peeks ever since, but seeing the hip-holstered Beretta put his inhibitions down for the count. Now he stared and didn’t care if she noticed.
    “Problem about the gun?” Sweetie asked.
    “You’re a police officer?” he inquired in return.
    The notion seemed to excite him further.
    “Used to be. I retired. I work private investigations now.”
    Sweetie’s age and occupation were entered into whatever fantasy matrix the lawyer was constructing. He was about ten years younger than she was, Sweetie figured, and not a bad-looking guy, but if he got too flaky, she’d look elsewhere.
    As it was, she looked at her watch. She had to get to the airport. The McGill kids needed her. She didn’t have any more time to —
    Putnam Shady interpreted her gesture and expression correctly. He put his eyes back in his head and cleared his throat.
    “A safe is actually a very good idea. For your, um, weapon and any other valuables you might have. I’ll have it put in at my expense so the work will be up to my standards. Think I’ll get one for myself while I’m at it. A safe, that is.”
    He straightened his lapels and extended his hand to Sweetie. The perfect gentleman now.
    “The place is yours if you want it.”
    Sweetie’s doubts lingered, but she had a plane to catch, and she didn’t like having to say her rosary every night in a room where the TV and the paintings were bolted down. She took Shady’s hand. Being a lawyer, he thought to add, “You do have references, of