“Do you know who this is? Did you look at these pictures?”
“I’m guessing he’s her husband.”
“Jesus Christ, you live under a rock. Did you look at the— Hang on.” The toilet flushed and a moment later, Sloan opened the door.
Razorback winced. “Wash your damn hands.”
Sloan sighed but went back to do it, then opened the album. “There. That guy. That’s Douglas McGrath, the senator.”
Razorback shrugged. He didn’t give a shit about politics or the smarmy bastards jockeying for control of the government. “Okay.”
“You’re hopeless.”
“The news is bullshit. I watch football. Man TV.”
“Which means Jackie isJacquelineMcGrath.”
Razorback raised his eyebrows. “Is that supposed to sound familiar?”
Sloan closed his eyes and shook his head. “Unbelievable. Don’t you remember the senator’s wife who drove her Mercedes off a cliff into the ocean a few years back? They never found the body? It was all over the tabloids for weeks.”
That one rang a bell, though Razorback hadn’t paid much attention to the story. He was too busy fighting insurgents and saving lives. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying Jackie Desjardins is the wife of this Senator McGrath guy, and everyone thinks she’s dead.”
“Holy shit.”
Sloan nodded. “But wait, it gets better.” He held up the photo of the bride and groom, his finger covering Jackie. “Now that Waller’s had a stroke and the world knows Mason likes to wear girls’ underpants, this guy’s the prime candidate to be the Democrat nominee for the president of the United States. Down to him and one other dude. We won’t even know who they choose until the convention, because they’re both virtually unknown and so close in the polls.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me. And his wife is hanging out in Mexico, playing dead. What the fuck?”
“I don’t know, but it was her death—or her presumed death, I should say—that got McGrath reelected as governor of California in a landslide. Pity vote. The guy should’ve been out on his ass.”
He plucked the picture out of Sloan’s hand. “I never heard of him.”
“You and two hundred million other people.”
Razorback frowned. “When’s the national convention?”
Sloan counted on his fingers. “Six days.”
“She’s been MIA for how long?”
Sloan shrugged. “Gotta be six, seven years, at least.”
“And how long has Doug McGrath been a contender for the presidential nomination?”
“Like, a week.”
“And now she has a target on her back. That can’t be a coincidence.”
“Maybe he tried to kill her. Dateline did a thing on the accident. There were two sets of tire tracks on the shoulder of the road. Paint transfer on her car. Dents, though the experts didn’t agree on whether they were from the impact with the water or a collision with a car.”
“No. When someone tries to kill you, you go to the police, not Mexico.” Razorback shook his head. “We’re missing too many pieces, but her attack has to be related to her husband somehow.”
“Maybe she knows something that could ruin his chances.”
“Maybe. Get Mac on the line. He needs to know about this, pronto.”
