Mistress

The guy in the dark suit closes the rear door and gets in the front passenger seat. A moment later, the interior light evaporates and the car is dark again.

“Should I follow the car?” Sean asks.

I let out a breath, my chest burning. “No,” I say.

The car drives off briskly. I release the shrubs.

And my brain releases a flurry of thoughts.

Operation Delano…worse than a sex tape of the president…Delano…

Shit. Of course. I’ve been so stupid.

“Ben, did you see inside that car? Is that who I think-”

“Yes,” I say, falling down to my haunches. “That’s who you think it is.”

Chapter 98

Sean Patrick Riley and I sit in his rental car outside my fleabag hotel. It’s been three hours since we left Anne Brennan’s house. Three hours for me to process what I saw in the back of that sedan.

And three hours to figure out what to do next.

“You’re sure about this plan?” Sean asks me.

I sigh. “No, but I can’t think of any other. I have to do something.”

“No, you don’t,” Sean says. “Who put you in charge of saving the world? If I were you, I’d get as much money as I could out of that Russian billionaire, cut whatever deal you need to cut with the feds, and move to some island. But that’s just me.”

The guy makes a good point.

“And this whole plan of yours depends on the video,” Sean says.

“Right. Now that I know what’s on it, I can make this plan work.”

He grunts with disapproval. “You mean now that you think you know what’s on the video, you think you can make this plan work.”

That’s a bit more accurate, yes.

“I mean, you’re just making an educated guess, Ben. And if you’re wrong, you’re basically fucked.”

“Just worry about your phone call,” I say, changing the subject. “You’re sure you have the phone number?”

He groans. “I do. I’ve already read it back to you.”

He’s not used to someone giving him directions. That’s probably one of the reasons he stopped being a cop and became his own boss as a private eye.

“And you’ll use an untraceable phone,” I say.

He waves me off. “Yes. Yes, already. Don’t worry, Ben. I’m capable of making one damn phone call.”

I nod. We are quiet for a moment. At least Sean seems to be enjoying the excitement. Me, I have acid burning a hole in my stomach.

“If your plan doesn’t work,” Sean informs me, “you’re done. They’ll arrest you and bury you in a hole. You can make all kinds of wild accusations, but you won’t be able to prove them.”

All that is true, of course.

“And that assumes you survive, the odds of which are fifty-fifty at best, in my opinion.”

Never tell me the odds, Han Solo said in Star Wars as he navigated around the oncoming asteroids.

“Then my plan better work,” I say.

Chapter 99

I stretch my arms to release some nervous tension. I’m in my boxers, staring at a stained wall in my dingy hotel room, holding in my hand a cell phone that Sean Patrick Riley gave me last night, about to make a phone call that could change everything.

The calm before the storm. Rocky, looking into the mirror before he entered the ring against Apollo Creed. Tom Cruise, before he cross-examined Jack Nicholson at the court-martial. Mikey in Swingers, before he summoned the courage to call that girl from the bar, Nikki, which ended in Mikey leaving her seven or eight voice mails in a row, each one more disastrous than the previous one, before she picked up and told him to drop dead.

Okay, maybe that last one is less inspirational. But notice there are no presidents in there. Not since Detective Liz Larkin said that I learned all that presidential trivia as a way of bonding with Father. That isn’t true. I just thought it was interesting information. I wasn’t bonding with Father. Screw him. I don’t need him. I’ve done just fine without him. I’m never going to recite another piece of presidential trivia as long as I live. No more poems they liked or shoes they wore or dogs they owned.

Never again. Write it down. The only president I’m going to worry about is the one occupying the White House right now, who has breached his oath of office and is fucking with my world.

I haven’t slept, in case you hadn’t noticed. I gave up trying last night about four in the morning, and, unable to leave this hotel-with police all over the capital hunting me-I have done nothing but pace the floor in this tiny, dirty room for hours on end. It’s probably a good rehearsal for federal prison, which, if this call doesn’t go well, is probably the best outcome I can expect. The worst is a coffin.

Game on, Ben. Don’t fuck this up.

I pick up the prepaid phone. I dial the number and place the phone to my ear.

One ring. Two. My empty stomach churns on adrenaline. My hand can hardly hold the phone.

Don’t screw this up…don’t be like Mikey-

“Hello.” The word is delivered in an icy, flat tone, dripping, of course, with the thick accent.

I take one deep breath. “Mr. Kutuzov, it’s Ben Casper.”