The Raven's Assignment
Автор
Kasey Michaels
Прочтений
15,5K
Глав
8
Chapter One
POTUS is on the move.
“Copy that.”
“Copy what, Sean? It’s a little late for activity from the residence, isn’t it?” Jesse Colton asked, looking up from the page he’d been reading as he walked through the West Wing toward the doors and what was left of his evening.
“Nothing, Jesse,” Sean said, no longer talking into his shirt collar. “POTUS is on the move. It’s nearly midnight, so he’s on the way to the main kitchen, probably. FLOTUS keeps stashing the residence fridge with apples and pears. POTUS wants coconut-cream pie.”
“I wonder what the American Heart Association would have to say about President’s sweet tooth,” Jesse said, perching on a corner of Sean’s desk just inside the main vestibule. As jobs went, Sean’s was pretty cushy—but guarding the West Wing was also pretty boring. “And the loyal opposition would probably start demanding monthly cholesterol checks.”
“Yes, but with us all sworn to fall on our swords rather than play tattletale, I guess POTUS is safe, both from the AHA and FLOTUS.”
Jesse looked at the small, boxy screen on Sean’s desk, a constantly updated listing showing the location of the first family. Sure enough, POTUS, better known as President Jackson Coates, now showed in the main kitchen, with FLOTUS still in the second-floor residence, probably sound asleep. “POTUS. President of the United States. FLOTUS, first lady of the etcetera, etcetera. The acronyms ought to sound more presidential, don’t you think?”
“I’ll mention it at tomorrow’s meeting of the Proper Presidential Acronym Committee—that would be P-PAC, of course,” Sean said, shaking his head. Sean was the perfect Secret Service agent; his hair was neatly clipped, his suit neatly pressed, and his smile neatly neutral. “What do you have there, Jesse?”
Jesse looked down at the now-closed manila folder. “This? Personal stuff. Don’t worry, I’m not planning to remove state secrets on your watch, and sell them to the tabloids. I mean, how much could they pay for a headline like POTUS Caught in Coconut-Cream Orgy.”
“That’s a relief. So, what do you have there?”
Jesse grinned. “That’s it, Sean, trust nobody.”
“No, seriously. You were frowning. Frowning over personal stuff is never a good thing.”
Jesse opened the folder and looked at the single sheet inside. “My family seems to have inherited a house in Georgetown.”
“And this is bad news? Georgetown? Cushy address. Oh, wait a minute. Does it come with fifty years of back taxes they all want you to pay because you’re getting rich here at the White House, feeding from the public trough?”
“Not quite, no,” Jesse said, knowing that if Sean knew the whole truth, he’d probably fall off his chair. “The place has been rented out for about sixty years now. I’m just trying to figure out a way to explain to the Senate Ethics Committee how I, a lowly public servant, came to be part owner of the Chekagovian embassy.”
“You’re kidding,” Sean said, grabbing for the folder, which Jesse quickly raised beyond his reach. “Is that legal? I mean, for a member of the president’s staff to own part of a foreign consulate?”
“I probably own a third of the garage, Sean. There’s a bunch of us who each own a small chunk of the place. The whole Colton tribe, as we call ourselves when we’re being facetious, inherited it. But I’ll admit, it is dicey. I mean, if we have a slow news week, who knows what could happen if this gets out. So I guess I have to tell…somebody.”
“Chief of staff?”
Jesse blew out a quick breath. “Might as well start at the top.” He slid the folder back into his briefcase and stood up. “Luckily, he went home at a decent hour, so it will have to wait. Besides, I need to do a little more digging into the deed, all that legal stuff, to be sure of my facts. See you tomorrow, Sean.”
“See you, Mr. Moneybags, Mr. I-Own-Part-of-Georgetown,” Sean called after him, then said, “Hey, wait! I forgot something.”
“You never forget anything, Sean,” Jesse said, slowly walking back to the desk. “You just want to pump me for more information.”
“Not me. The more you know the less you want to know, that’s my byword. No, seriously,” he said, rooting through some messages on his desk. “This came in late, after your secretary left. Now where in hell—ah, got it.”
He handed Jesse a “while you were out” memo.
Jesse frowned at the unfamiliar name as he read the memo. “Urgent? You did see that part of the message, right, Sean? The urgent part?”
“Hey, everything’s urgent around here. The message arrived via the main switchboard, after being routed to the OEOB first, and then a couple of other places, which is probably how I ended up with it.”
“The Old Executive Office Building? I haven’t worked there in months.”
“Well, guess not everyone knows you’ve been bumped up to a big-deal office in the West Wing. You should have taken an ad. Most do.”
“Funny, Sean,” Jesse said, heading out once more, this time frowning over the pink memo. “Samantha Cosgrove. Urgent. Now, who the hell is Samantha Cosgrove?”
Samantha Cosgrove, all the long blond hair and petitely formed five feet four inches of her, sat behind her desk, staring daggers at her telephone.
She hadn’t gone on her coffee break with Bettyann. She had turned down lunch with Rita.
She hadn’t left her desk all day. She was starving, and her stomach had begun to growl, she was nervous, and she was beginning to get angry.
Okay, so she’d been angry at one o’clock. It was now quarter to five. Now she was incensed.
Bettyann, the staff secretary, stuck her head inside the small office. “I’m heading out now, Samantha. Dinner at the golden arches? My treat.”
“No thanks, Bettyann,” Samantha said, pretending an interest in a pile of campaign literature that was about as exciting as the Weather Channel on a calm, clear day across America.
That’s what the latest slogan was all about: a calm, clear-minded, new day across America. Vote for Senator Mark Phillips for President. Bor-ring. Surely somebody, somewhere, could come up with something better than that?
“You sure, Sam? You haven’t eaten anything all day, except for that cupcake you stole from Rita. Her only satisfaction is that it had been sitting on her desk for two days, and had to be very, very stale.”
“It was,” Samantha said, sighing. “Okay, I’m going home. The world will keep on turning without me if I go home. But no thanks to the golden arches, Bettyann. I can hear leftover stuffed peppers calling my name.”
“Right. See you here tomorrow.”
“See me here, will she?” Samantha grumbled about a half hour later, grimacing as she shoved work into her briefcase. “Why not. Where else would I be?”
She grabbed her light, full-length burgundy raincoat and followed a few other stragglers into the elevator once she’d looked through the outgoing mail, first checking to be sure nobody saw her.
Once outside, Samantha turned right and headed toward the White House on foot.
She had seen photographs of Jesse Colton, so she knew what he looked like: about six feet tall, short black hair, dark eyes. Sort of mysterious-looking, even primal.
“Okay, so he’s a hunk,” Samantha muttered to herself as she pulled up her hood, because it had begun to drizzle. Even in the rain, she loved living in Washington, D.C.
She’d been back in town for two years, because it took at least two years for a presidential candidate like Senator Mark Phillips to float test balloons to see if anyone would vote for him, pretend for months that he wasn’t interested in running, announce the setting up of an informal Phillips for President Committee, talk to the money people, promise everybody everything, and then finally announce his formal candidacy.
Now, with the primaries beginning soon in New Hampshire, the Committee to Elect Mark Phillips had gone into full swing, had gone public, and Samantha was working hard.
She just needed to know if she was working hard for the right man.
Jesse Colton might work in the West Wing now, as she’d been informed, but she already knew he still had to walk to his old parking space, in a parking garage some distance away. It was easier to get into the West Wing than it was to get a better parking place near the White House.
He drove a black sedan, nondescript, yet somehow classy. He arrived at the parking garage by seven o’clock in the morning, six days a week, and could leave again anywhere between five o’clock and midnight.
She knew, because she’d watched him for five long, worrisome days before making the call yesterday. The call that hadn’t been returned today.
“Not stalking, Samantha, watching,” she assured herself tightly as she quickly joined some other people as if she belonged with them, and then stepped into the parking garage, out of the drizzle that was rapidly turning into a downpour. “There’s a difference.”
The difference, she decided two hours later, was that stalkers probably planned better. Maybe even brought a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a thermos of piping-hot coffee with them.
She’d finally given in and jogged to a small local restaurant to grab a take-out hot dog and a soda, along with a bag of potato chips, then jogged all the way back to breathe a sigh of relief when she saw the black sedan still in its assigned parking spot.
It was nine o’clock and she had begun fantasizing about peanut butter and jelly sandwiches again, when she finally saw him.
She thought it was him. She could be delirious from lack of food, but she was ninety-nine percent sure the man walking toward her was Jesse Colton.
When he clicked something on his key chain and the black sedan’s lights went on, she was sure.
Stepping out from behind her second home—the concrete pillar—she said, “Jesse Colton? If I could have a minute of your time, please?”
He kept walking. “Call my office.”
“I did.”
“Did you leave a message?”
“I did. For you to call me. You didn’t.”
“Now there’s a clue,” he said, opening the rear door of the sedan and throwing his briefcase inside. “It’s late. If you want an interview, go through the press secretary’s office.”
“I don’t want an interview,” she said, walking toward him. “I’m not a reporter.”
“Darn. And I’ll bet you’re not this generation’s Deep Throat, either, ready to tell me deep dark secrets, or Mr. White, who was going to let me know that Mr. Green did it, in the library, with the rope. I don’t get any luck.”
He had opened his car door and slid inside, but before he could close the door again, Samantha was there, her body between the door and the car.
“Are you always an ass?” she asked him, shaking her head so that her hood slipped off. She reached beneath her collar and freed her long blond hair, let some of the thick curls spill onto her shoulders.
She wasn’t dumb. She was blond, fairly pretty, and had fabulous legs. She had yet to meet a single man in D.C. who had found her unattractive.
“Am I being propositioned?” Jesse asked, and his smile was a little too amused for Samantha’s comfort.
“No!” she said, backing up a pace. Which was a bad move, but she realized that too late.
“Pity,” he said, then reached out and closed the door. But then he rolled down the window. “You’re Samantha Cosgrove, right?”
She bent down, looked in the window. “You knew that?”
“Oh yeah, I knew that. Blond, pretty and tenacious as a bulldog. I had you checked out.”
“Why?”
“Because you want to talk to me. Do you have any idea how many people want to talk to me, Samantha Cosgrove, now that I’m in the West Wing?”
“Oh, aren’t we popular. I’m so impressed.”
“I’ll bet you are. I know I am,” he said, flashing her that whiter-than-white smile again.
She wanted to bang him over the head with her briefcase. Instead, she turned her back and began walking away.
“Hungry?” he asked, backing up the sedan so that he was beside her once more.
“Only if I could find a way to make your entrails appetizing,” she said, and kept walking.
He kept backing up. “Ah, don’t go away mad, Samantha. I was going to call you.”
“When? Christmas?”
“No, I go home to Oklahoma for Christmas. Tomorrow. I was going to call you tomorrow. First I had to check you out.”
“Did I pass?” she asked, interested, but she kept walking. The man set her teeth on edge.
“Well, let’s see what I’ve got. Daughter of megarich parents residing in Connecticut after living here for decades. One brother, younger, still in college. Freshman, I believe. One sister, older, a literary agent. Juliet, right? Mommy does charity work and belongs to all the right social groups. Daddy’s a lawyer, and personal friends with and a large contributor to the presidential primary campaign for Senator Mark Phillips, who is personally endorsed by my boss, the current president. Graduated with honors, double major, in both journalism and political science. Very nice, Samantha. Cum laude. Even nicer. Senior staffer on Phillips’s committee. Hardworking, clean-living, good cook, lousy dancer—”
“I am not a lousy dancer! I’m a very good dancer,” Samantha protested hotly, stopping so that she could turn, glare at him.
“And here I thought you weren’t listening. Okay, good dancer, although that wasn’t in my report. So, you want to go get something to eat, and then prove to me that you’re really a good dancer?”
“I wouldn’t dance with you for all the tea in—”
“You did say urgent,” he interrupted.
“Are you always this arrogant?”
“No, it comes with the White House credentials. Honest. You can look at the job description. It’s right there—once cleared to work in the West Wing and given a blue badge, arrogance is mandatory. Red badge? Orange badge? I spit on red and orange badges.”
“You’re insane,” Samantha said, but then she laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “Really. Insane.”
“But I’m buying. How about a New York strip, since you look ready to bite something. Baked potato dripping in sour cream. A good bottle of white zinfandel? You look like a white-zinfandel drinker to me.”
“I like merlot.”
“So much for my source. I’ll have to order her head chopped off in the morning. So, are you getting in, or are you just going to take the Metro home and eat those leftover filled peppers?”
“How did you—oh my God. It’s true. You people know everything. You had someone in my house? Going through my refrigerator?”
“Nothing that illegal. But Brenda—she’s my secretary—did happen to stop in at Senator Phillips’s election headquarters late this afternoon. She told me someone named Bettyann would have given out your shoe size if anyone asked. Brenda also told me that you’re blond and a looker. She was right. Now, come on. Get in.”
Samantha threw up her hands. “Why not. I deserve a free steak after you invaded my privacy that way. You are buying, you know.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said once she was in the passenger seat, her briefcase on the floor.
“Neither would I,” she said, arranging her oversize raincoat across her legs. He didn’t deserve to see her legs. “And then we’ll talk?”
“And then we’ll talk. Promise,” he said, slipping the car into Drive and heading out of the parking deck. “But first we eat. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
“I can relate,” Samantha said, hoping her stomach wouldn’t growl before she could feed it.
Finding an empty table in any half-decent restaurant close to the White House was darn near impossible, anytime day or night, but as they approached one of the best ones, Samantha told him to pull up out front at the valet service area.
“Much as I’d like to tell you I’m even smarter than my personnel file says I am, I didn’t know you were going to be lying in wait for me in the parking lot, or that you’d agree to come to dinner with me. That said, I don’t have reservations.”
“That’s all right. Just pull over.”
He did, and the valet opened the passenger-side door. Samantha accepted the hand she was offered, and said, “Good evening, Anthony. It’s good to see you again.”
“And it’s wonderful to see you again, Ms. Cosgrove,” Anthony the valet said, guiding her under the canopy and out of the rain.
“I guess I’m just supposed to schlep it on my own,” Jesse grumbled to himself as Anthony and his large black golf umbrella didn’t move from the canopy again.
He got out, tossed his keys to Anthony, and found himself following Samantha inside the dimly lit foyer of the restaurant known for its old boys’ club decor and aged steaks.
She was already standing in front of the podium, with an Anthony look-alike holding her raincoat over his arm, and speaking fluent Italian with the maître d’.
A few more Italian phrases, some sharp snapping of the fingers by the maître d’, and they were being escorted past the line of diners waiting to be seated and to a prime table. Jesse was pretty sure he recognized a representative from Pennsylvania in the line, as well as a second assistant undersecretary of state.
“How’d you do that?” he asked once they were seated.
“So much for your thorough research. I was raised in the District, remember, before Dad decided to relocate in Connecticut. I’ve known Anthony and his family for years, since my father and mother first began coming here,” she told him as she spread her napkin in her lap.
Then she leaned forward and said with an unholy grin on her lovely, patrician face, “You see, Mr. Colton? Badges? I don’t need no steenkin’ badges.”
If he were less a man of the world, Jesse would have believed he fell in love with Samantha Cosgrove the moment the words were out of her mouth.
Instead, he threw back his head and laughed, and banished any other thoughts as unprofessional. And definitely personally dangerous.
They were handed oversize menus, leather-clad, and Jesse watched as Samantha frowned over hers.
She was so blond. So sleek. So High Society.
And he was the part Comanche nobody from Black Arrow, Oklahoma.
Man. Who would have thunk it.
“I think I want two of everything,” she said at last, smiling at him overtop the menu. “Is that all right?”
“That depends. How good are you at washing dishes?”
“Ah, the woefully underpaid public servant,” Samantha said, closing the menu and placing it beside her cutlery so that she could fold her hands on the tabletop. “Do you like it?”
“Being a public servant, or being underpaid?” he asked, closing his own menu.
“No, seriously, do you like it? I mean, I get chills, just thinking about the West Wing. The Oval Office. All that power, all in one place.”
“And the doughnuts ain’t bad,” Jesse said, grinning.
She sat back. “All right, so I’m not immune to the idea that you work in the West Wing. It’s heady. How did you get there, anyway?”
“Hard work, determination, knowing the right people—all that good stuff.”
“Will you please be serious. I mean, I know you started in the Secret Service.”
“Not much of a secret, is it?” he commented, trying to look upset. “And then I moved on to the NSA—National Security Agency.”
“Yes, and from there to the West Wing. One of the president’s trusted advisers. I don’t remember reading that you stopped a bullet for him, or anything like that.”
“No, nothing that dramatic. Let’s just say I’m ambitious, and that, yes, I did know the right people, and that I was in the right place at the right time. When the president’s second term is over, and your guy’s in the Oval Office, I’ll head back to the NSA. I’m only on loan, you know. That was the deal.”
“You won’t want to be part of Phillips’s staff?”
“I won’t be asked. Same party, Samantha, but each man comes in with his own people. And, frankly, I think I’ll be glad. The NSA is where I really want to be. I’m not all that political. I’d rather think I’m serving my country, not just the current administration. Since the president agreed, and really wants more of an outsider’s opinion on national security, we’re fine. This was, hell, this was an ego thing as much as anything else. But enough about me. Why do you want to be part of Phillips’s staff?”
The waiter approached, and they both gave their orders, then were silent as the wine—compliments of the owner—was opened and poured.
“Nice touch, even if I am going to have to pay for it. We’re not allowed to accept gifts, you know. Still, I could get used to this,” Jesse said, sipping the wine. “So, Samantha, are you going to tell me? Why do you want to be part of Phillips’s staff?”
“Because he’s right for America,” Samantha said, and then she grimaced. “Okay, okay, the truth. Not that he isn’t right for America. He’s a wonderful man. But to get the chance to walk into the West Wing? Stand inside the Oval Office? Be even a small piece of the power behind the man in that office? You’ve admitted it, so I can say it. Who wouldn’t want that?”
“True, true. Fifteen-hour days, constant emergencies, news leaks, congressmen who need their hands held. It’s great.”
“You’re just saying that. I don’t think you’d ever be anywhere you didn’t want to be.”
Jesse didn’t answer her. He just lifted his glass in salute and took another sip of wine as the waiter placed large bowls of salad in front of them.
Oh, he liked this woman. He really, really liked her. And she was correct. He was right where he wanted to be. Across the table from a very interesting woman.
By the time they’d finished their steaks, Jesse was feeling pretty mellow.
Mellow enough to ask a question he probably shouldn’t have asked.
“Have you ever been to the Chekagovian embassy?” he asked, because it seemed as if she’d been everywhere else in the District, and most parts of Virginia. She knew everybody, probably through her parents or Senator Phillips, and had been invited to all the right parties.
Samantha sat back and rolled her eyes. “Oh, the Chekagovian embassy! Isn’t it beautiful?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen it.” That much was true. He’d only gotten the fax from the local law firm yesterday, and was still trying to grasp the idea that he and his relatives owned the pricey mansion…and the rest of it.
“You’ve never seen it? Oh, you have to see it. I mean, I’ve never been inside, but from the outside? The grounds are magnificent, just for starters. I was there for a photo op with the senator’s wife, but we didn’t get to go inside. Gorgeous gardens, with flowers all over—”
“I’ve heard that. Gardens, with flowers in them. Very unique.”
“Don’t be funny,” she said, then waited until their plates were cleared from the table. “And it’s not just the gardens. The mansion is truly extraordinary. Federal style. Wonderful old redbrick. A million windows. Exterior wood all painted creamy white, and definitely handcrafted by experts. It’s…it’s a slice of American history. Really.”
“And it serves as the Chekagovian embassy.”
She nodded. “That’s what happened to so many of the best old houses. It’s the price we pay for being the center of the political world. Of course, if we weren’t, who knows what would have happened to those lovely old mansions.”
“They’d never have been built.”
“Good point. I hadn’t thought of that. Anyway, I’d love to get inside that place, just for a look around. Why did you mention it?”
Jesse drew back, knowing he’d probably already said too much. “Oh, no real reason. I’d just heard it was a…a nice place.”
Her gorgeous blue eyes narrowed. “Liar.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said as the waiter poured coffee for them. “I never lie.”
“Oh, the new millennium’s George Washington. You cannot tell a lie. This city hasn’t seen another one like him, until you, of course. I’m so impressed. Really.”
“All right, all right,” Jesse said, holding out his hands. “But only because you dragged it out of me at fork-point.”
“I did not,” she told him. “That was next.”
Jesse laughed. He didn’t know if the good food had made him feel so comfortable, or the good wine…or the great company. What he did know was that if he didn’t soon tell someone what he’d learned in that fax, he was probably going to burst. Just like a little kid with good news.
“First I have to swear you to secrecy,” he told her.
“Certainly,” she said, then held up her right hand. “I, Samantha Cosgrove, do solemnly swear that I won’t breathe a word of what Jesse Colton is about to tell me, so help me spit. There. Is that good enough?”
“Pretty good. Although I’ll still have to kill you once you know everything.”
“That seems only fair. You were Secret Service. Does that mean you could kill me with a rubber band or pencil sharpener?”
“We don’t do those anymore. Now we use Post-it notes. I’m hell with a Post-it note.”
“I’ll bet you are. Now, come on, tell me. What do I want to know about the Chekagovian embassy?”
“That I own it?” he said, raising his eyebrows.
“That you…that you…oh, you fibber you. You own it? Well, that makes us even. I own the Washington Monument. Oh, and we rent out the Lincoln Memorial. Tax reasons, you know.”
He smiled, shook his head. “I know, it’s hard to believe, but I own it. Really. Well, I own some of it.”
“Some of it,” she repeated, spooning three sugars into her coffee.
“Hey, easy on the sugar.”
“Never mind me. You’d better take yours black, because I think you’ve had too much wine, and you’ll need to sober up before you drive home.”
“You think I’m handing you a line?” he asked, tipping his head to one side as he looked at her. God, she had a wise mouth. He loved to hear her talk. He’d love more to shut her up…with his own mouth.
“If you are, I have to admit I’ve never heard this particular one before tonight. So, if I promise to be good, and not laugh too hard, why don’t you tell me why you own part of the mansion?”
“That would take until tomorrow morning,” Jesse said, wincing. “So we’ll leave that for another time, if that’s all right with you.”
“There’s going to be another time?”
“If you want, yes. But it’s getting late, and I’ve got a six-thirty meeting at the White House. So…”
“So I should tell you my reason for contacting you in the first place? For…for stalking you?”
“What a good idea,” he said, grinning. “You can tell me part of it, the way I told you part of mine, and then we’ll go on from there. If you want to.”
“I shouldn’t. You’re much, much too sure of yourself, Jesse Colton.”
“It’s a failing, I agree. So? Do we have a deal?”
She nodded. “We have a deal. But not here, there are too many ears. Pay the check, and I’ll tell you once you drive me home. At the curb, Colton—I’m not inviting you into my house. Agreed?”
He eased his wallet from his slacks pocket and pulled out a credit card. “Agreed. Spoilsport.”
They left the restaurant after Samantha was kissed on both cheeks by the maître d’, two interchangeable Anthonys and a plump woman who came out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron as she called out, “Bella! Sweet Bella!”
“Are you this popular in all the District restaurants? If so, I think ours could be a beautiful relationship, at least until my credit card maxes out.”
“I’ll bet everyone in every gym in town knows you,” she said as he tried to open the car door for her, only to be beaten out by Anthony Number One.
When he slid in behind the wheel, he said, “Actually, they know me at most of the museums. I’m big on museums.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed that,” she said as he pulled away from the curb. “Head toward Dupont Circle, and I’ll give you directions from there.”
Fifteen minutes later he pulled the sedan over to the curb in front of an old redbrick town house. “Apartment?” he asked, looking at the well-kept building.
“Mom and Dad’s place, for when they come to the city. We never sold it. Juliet doesn’t stay here, not that she’s ever in town, but I’m the younger daughter, and part of my permission to come here to work hinged on my agreeing to stay at the old homestead. Mom’s a worrywart,” she told him, fishing in her purse for her key and not finding it. “Now, remember that sworn-to-secrecy stuff?”
“Hope to spit,” he said, turning off the ignition, knowing the windows would fog up within minutes. But if he didn’t turn off the ignition, the chances were lower that he’d be invited in for a nightcap. Hope to spit, yes. And hope springs eternal—that was Jesse’s motto, or at least it was since meeting Samantha Cosgrove.
She took a deep breath, then stared through the rapidly steaming-up windshield, her fingers nervously opening and closing the snap on her purse. “I have fairly varied duties at campaign headquarters. I handle press releases sometimes, organize fund-raisers, help write some of the lesser important speeches. Even lick stamps if we’re shorthanded. I do everything.”
“All right,” Jesse said, and that’s all he said, because he could tell that Samantha was nervous and still might change her mind about talking to him.
“In the course of my…duties,” she went on after a moment, her cheeks pale in the light of a strong street-lamp across the way, “I learned a few names. More than a few names. I learned yours, for instance.”
“But not my whereabouts, because you tried to reach me through the OEOB.”
“I used an old directory,” she said with a wave of her hand. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you have a reputation, Jesse.”
“Whatever it is, I didn’t do it,” he said, then winced. “Sorry. It was getting a little tense in here. I thought I’d try to lighten the mood.”
“That’s all right. I’m not saying this very well. This is embarrassing, because I’m usually very good with words. But you do have a reputation, Jesse. For honesty. For being a straight shooter. For being intensely loyal and definitely trustworthy.”
“Now I’m embarrassed.”
She shifted on the seat, turning to face him. “Last week,” she began, then closed her eyes for a moment before looking at him again. “Oh, this is so hard.”
“Just say it fast, Samantha,” he advised her, taking her hand in his. Her fingers were icy cold, nearly bloodless. He didn’t know what was wrong, but whatever it was, she wasn’t only worried, she was scared.
“All right. Last week, Thursday, I think, I…I was licking stamps. I mean, not really licking stamps, but I was there late, and there was mail to go out, and since I was there and had no plans, I stayed to do it.”
Jesse’s radar switched on. Mail. Mail leaving a senator’s campaign office. The possibilities were endless. “Go on,” he urged when she stopped speaking.
“I can’t. I can’t do this. Senator Phillips has been so good to me. And my father? He adores the man. They were in the army together. I mean, I used to call him Uncle Mark. I still do, in private.”
“Samantha, sorry, but you can’t stop here. What was in the mail?”
“Outgoing mail,” she clarified, then sighed. “It had to be a mistake. I mean, he wouldn’t do anything wrong, I know he wouldn’t.”
“What was in the mail?” Jesse repeated, squeezing her fingers.
“Something…something that shouldn’t even have been in there, in the campaign office,” she said quietly, pulling her hand free. “You know he chairs the Senate Ways and Means Committee, and they deal with some very sensitive material…”
“Money, Samantha. They deal with a lot of money. In Washington, money equals power, and power equals money. Now, one more time, Samantha. What was in the mail?”
“Tomorrow,” she said quickly, one hand on the door handle. “Come to the office tomorrow evening. Around seven. Everybody else should be gone. I…I’ll show you then.”
“You didn’t send it out?”
She shook her head. “No. I couldn’t. I’m sure that information should never have been released. I shouldn’t even have seen it.”
“Did you also save the envelope?” Jesse asked, thinking ahead.
“Yes. That’s how I got to see the contents. The envelope wasn’t sealed correctly and the glue was all gone. I wanted to tape it shut but couldn’t find any tape—sometimes our office is a real mess—so I slipped everything out of the envelope to put it into a new one and I saw…I saw…” Her voice was so quiet he had to lean over to hear her above the sound of rain pelting the roof of the sedan. “I’ll…I’ll show you everything.”
She opened the car door, then turned back, grabbed his arm. “But you can’t tell anybody. Not until we know exactly what’s going on. I mean, it was the senator’s mail, but that doesn’t mean that he—”
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow, Samantha,” Jesse said, putting his hand over hers. “It’s probably nothing.”
“That’s what I think. It’s nothing. Just a…a mistake. Good night.”
And then she was gone, running through the rain to the steps of the town house. She knocked, and a few moments later a uniformed maid opened the door, spilling mellow yellow light out onto the brick sidewalk.
“Nice work if you can get it,” Jesse muttered, putting the car in gear to head home to a sleepless night.
