Petula aligned the folders on my desk with a sharp tap. “These are priority. You have drinks at 7:00 p.m. at the Wellesley Club with two of the vice presidents from Democracy Strategies. And that investigator will probably be here shortly. I informed her you were absolutely not available this afternoon, but she was rudely insistent.”
While she talked, I walked to the wall of glass and stared out over Washington, wondering what Sloane would think of this place and what I’d accomplished.
I’d become someone. Forged an empire. And I’d gotten strong enough, rich enough, powerful enough that no single threat could take what I’d built. I’d vanquished the ghosts of the past.
“Thank you, Petula. That will be all,” I said, suddenly anxious to bury myself in work.
She looked down her nose at me. “I know that will be all, because that’s all I had for you. I’ll let you know when that investigator arrives. And I’ll send Holly back with your coffee when it arrives.”
“Don’t—”
But she was already smugly sweeping out the door, dismissing me.
It took three excruciating minutes of small talk about the weather and her son’s sudden interest in watching other kids play video games on YouTube for me to pry the coffee out of Holly’s hands.
I was only on my second priority folder, a background check on a gubernatorial candidate in Pennsylvania, when “that investigator” riffed a two-fisted knock on my glass door. I gestured her inside.
Nallana Jones was a private investigator whose deep pockets were lined by clients like me who could afford to pay a premium for dirty work. Today, she was dressed like a middle-aged suburban mom out for a power walk in dumpy sweats and a bulky belt bag. She was wearing a short, brown wig under a car dealer baseball cap. Her pink sweatshirt said I Love Maine Coon Cats.
“You look ridiculous,” I said.
“That’s the idea. Nobody gives Middle-Aged Maude a second look when she hits the treadmill at their mistress’s gym.”
“I take it this is for someone else’s job?”
“Yep.” She produced a flash drive from her belt bag and set it on my desk. “This came in from my girl in Atlanta yesterday. The backups are already in the cloud. I also added a little juicy footage from your guy’s arrival in town this morning. Right place, right time. Whatever you plan to do with this info, it’s solid. There’s no way he can wiggle out of it.”
“Impressive as always, Nallana.”
“Yeah, well. That’s why you pay me the big bucks,” she said, slapping her knees. “Anyway, I gotta jet. There’s a certain twenty-two-year-old who’s about to meet her fifty-eight-year-old, married sugar daddy for a personal training session. I can’t be late.”
“I’ll call you when I need you again.”
She tossed me a two-finger salute and sauntered out the door.
I inserted the drive into my secure laptop and scrolled through the files. There were over two dozen pictures and a handful of video files as well. Each one was enough to destroy a man’s career. I printed two of the better stills, copied the files to a new, secure folder in my own backup, then wiped the drive.
I picked up the phone and dialed Lina’s extension.
“What’s up, boss?” she asked with a hint of sarcasm so subtle I wasn’t sure it was actually there.
“I might have a job for you,” I said.
“A real one or another gopher task?”
“Just get in here.”
Seconds later, she appeared at my door. I waved her in and gestured for her to take a seat.
Her long legs ate up the space between the door and my desk. She sank into the chair and crossed one neatly over the other. “How do you not get fingerprints all over all that glass?” she asked, staring at the pristine surface of my desk.
“I refrain from getting sloppy. Which is what I’ll need you to do.” I slid the two photos across the desk to her. “Do you know who this man is?”
She studied the pictures. “The guy who looks like he was born in an ascot is Trip Armistead, our client and current member of the House of Representatives. I have no idea who the topless dancer is, but I’ll shave my head if she’s eighteen.”
I glanced at my watch. “You have twenty-three minutes to take these photos and the information in the secure folder to build a compelling anonymous tip to be sent to the reputable news organizations of your choice.”
“Are we actually pressing Send, or are we using it to scare the shit out of our old buddy Trip?”