be
reading it on the back of a business card.”
“Ain’t that the truth? Every
day, it’s the same thing. Gun control, raise taxes, lower taxes, abortion, fix
this, balance that—you know what the sad part of it is? There is no single right answer, and we can’t stop fighting long enough to realize it.” He closed the
paper, folded it, and then handed it to the suit-and-tie businessman sitting at
the adjacent table. “Here you go,” he said. “Your turn to be depressed for a
while.”
The man took it, thanked him,
and went back to scrolling through Facebook on his iPad.
“Are you on Facebook, Chuck?”
“Not in my line of work. I
got too many femme Nikitas that’re still behind the Iron Curtain who’d
love to find out where I am. Even if I did, I’m not that interested in reading
about what people ate for lunch. Anyway, time to go to work.” He leaned over
the table and lowered his voice. “You give much thought to what we talked
about last night?”
“I barely slept, but for the
life of me, I can’t see an angle. I’ve been a P.I. for years and I’ve never
had a case where I was so absolutely clueless about where to start.”
“Understandable, since you’ve
never had a case involving the First Lady.”
“That’s just it, Chuck. I’m
in way over my head here. I made up my mind about ten times last night to hop
in the car and drive home.”
“Glad you decided to stick
around, because you’re no help to me or Randall if you’re a couple hundred
miles away.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what kept
me here. I decided I’d be even more useless at home. So, what’ve you got?
Where do we start?” The sun coming through the window warmed Mary’s arm and
the side of her face as she waited for Chuck to sip his tea.
“Up front,” he said, “we’re
not getting within a mile of Jessica Walters. That’s a given. Even in my
wildest imagination, if I could somehow get Llewellyn—he’s the Deputy Director
of the CIA—to finagle some sort of meeting, say, based on the pretense of
national security, she’s a dead end. He wouldn’t go for it regardless. If
she’s involved, or if she’s not and knows the tiniest of details, there’s no
way she’d talk. She wouldn’t risk the political fallout and she wouldn’t voluntarily
give anybody the chance to put her dad under the microscope.”
“Can we talk directly to the
dad? Maybe we go in as reporters looking for a story?”
“Normally, that might be a
good idea, but a couple of things put the kibosh on it before we pick up the
phone. If he wanted to talk, Richmond Steel has an earnings report
coming out next week and he’d probably be under a gag order due to SEC
regulations. They don’t want him affecting the market price of the stock.”
“Not if it was something like
a personal interest story, right? We could say we’re looking at doing a piece
on how the one-percent spends their time away from the office.”
“Maybe, but the man hasn’t
granted a public interview in over fifteen years. He’s a recluse that only
comes out when their board needs him to make a public appearance. Hates the
spotlight. We’d never get past his secretary.” Chuck pushed his scone across
the table. “Here, eat some of this.”
“What kind?”
“Cranberry and orange.”
“ Ugh , no thanks. I’d
rather starve.” Her stomach growled at the thought of food, so she picked it
up and took a bite anyway, chewing, thinking, and then swallowing with a
grimace. “The two highest profile people are out, which is probably good
because they’re the least likely to talk and have the most to lose. Not to
mention the fact that if we go in there snooping around, trying to get
information on a super-secret murder contest, they could make one phone call
and have us on the wrong side of the ground somewhere out in the National
Forest.”
Chuck nodded. “Absolutely.”
“What else do we
reading it on the back of a business card.”
“Ain’t that the truth? Every
day, it’s the same thing. Gun control, raise taxes, lower taxes, abortion, fix
this, balance that—you know what the sad part of it is? There is no single right answer, and we can’t stop fighting long enough to realize it.” He closed the
paper, folded it, and then handed it to the suit-and-tie businessman sitting at
the adjacent table. “Here you go,” he said. “Your turn to be depressed for a
while.”
The man took it, thanked him,
and went back to scrolling through Facebook on his iPad.
“Are you on Facebook, Chuck?”
“Not in my line of work. I
got too many femme Nikitas that’re still behind the Iron Curtain who’d
love to find out where I am. Even if I did, I’m not that interested in reading
about what people ate for lunch. Anyway, time to go to work.” He leaned over
the table and lowered his voice. “You give much thought to what we talked
about last night?”
“I barely slept, but for the
life of me, I can’t see an angle. I’ve been a P.I. for years and I’ve never
had a case where I was so absolutely clueless about where to start.”
“Understandable, since you’ve
never had a case involving the First Lady.”
“That’s just it, Chuck. I’m
in way over my head here. I made up my mind about ten times last night to hop
in the car and drive home.”
“Glad you decided to stick
around, because you’re no help to me or Randall if you’re a couple hundred
miles away.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what kept
me here. I decided I’d be even more useless at home. So, what’ve you got?
Where do we start?” The sun coming through the window warmed Mary’s arm and
the side of her face as she waited for Chuck to sip his tea.
“Up front,” he said, “we’re
not getting within a mile of Jessica Walters. That’s a given. Even in my
wildest imagination, if I could somehow get Llewellyn—he’s the Deputy Director
of the CIA—to finagle some sort of meeting, say, based on the pretense of
national security, she’s a dead end. He wouldn’t go for it regardless. If
she’s involved, or if she’s not and knows the tiniest of details, there’s no
way she’d talk. She wouldn’t risk the political fallout and she wouldn’t voluntarily
give anybody the chance to put her dad under the microscope.”
“Can we talk directly to the
dad? Maybe we go in as reporters looking for a story?”
“Normally, that might be a
good idea, but a couple of things put the kibosh on it before we pick up the
phone. If he wanted to talk, Richmond Steel has an earnings report
coming out next week and he’d probably be under a gag order due to SEC
regulations. They don’t want him affecting the market price of the stock.”
“Not if it was something like
a personal interest story, right? We could say we’re looking at doing a piece
on how the one-percent spends their time away from the office.”
“Maybe, but the man hasn’t
granted a public interview in over fifteen years. He’s a recluse that only
comes out when their board needs him to make a public appearance. Hates the
spotlight. We’d never get past his secretary.” Chuck pushed his scone across
the table. “Here, eat some of this.”
“What kind?”
“Cranberry and orange.”
“ Ugh , no thanks. I’d
rather starve.” Her stomach growled at the thought of food, so she picked it
up and took a bite anyway, chewing, thinking, and then swallowing with a
grimace. “The two highest profile people are out, which is probably good
because they’re the least likely to talk and have the most to lose. Not to
mention the fact that if we go in there snooping around, trying to get
information on a super-secret murder contest, they could make one phone call
and have us on the wrong side of the ground somewhere out in the National
Forest.”
Chuck nodded. “Absolutely.”
“What else do we
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