“Of course, she is.” He handed over the two-fingered glass of expensive whiskey.
“Thanks.”
He took a sip from his own glass and swallowed. “Who’s she with?”
“No one.”
“No one?” The answer wasn’t what he’d expected to hear. “She’s freelance, then?”
“For several months, now.” His so-called friend nodded. “Before that, she was working for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. Apparently she left them to work some story on city and state corruption that got picked up by a bunch of news platforms across the country.”
“Missouri girl does good, eh?”
His friend smiled with a chuckled, “Something like that.”
But he wasn’t smiling. Not even a hint of a smirk dared to grace his lips. Reporters . . . journalists . . . whatever you wanted to call them. They were all the same. Vultures that lived and breathed to cause chaos. To interfere with the workings of a government he’d spent a lifetime trying to protect.
“Family?”
“None that we found. Grew up in the foster system. Single. No kids, siblings, or known relatives on record.”
“Interesting,” he mused. “Just like our other friend who didn’t know when to leave well-enough alone.”
“The same thought crossed my mind, as well.”
“What is it with these people?” He blew out an angry breath. “It’s bad enough, they’re journalist, but why do they both have to be the same, do-gooder type?” Another sip graced his lips as he did his best to calm his rising temper. And yet, he couldn’t keep from blurting out an additional, “And what the hell is a freelancer from Missouri doing here, in D.C.?”
“According to my source at the Post, she’s being wooed by David Ellis for their Investigative Unit. Which would explain why she was there the other day when I saw her talking to the Amy We?—.”
“Shh!” He scowled, waving a hand back and forth between them. “You can’t so much as whisper that name inside this building, do you understand?”
All he got in return was an insincere, “Sorry.”
“You will be,” he warned. “This thing comes out, and we will both be very, very sorry. Now why do you thinkshewas talking to an investigative journalist outside her own circles?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
Frustration threatened to boil over, and it was all he could do to control his temper. “You seem to forget I pay you a lot of money so I don’thaveto randomly guess. Now, call me crazy, but I don’t think an investigative journalist just happened to be standing outside the Washington Post, talking to a woman with the power to destroy this entire administration.”
Starting with me.
“You said your guy took care of her, yes?” He continued when the other man nodded, “And there’s no way she can be traced back to us?”
“My guy’s always clean.”
“For your sake, I hope to hell that’s true.” There was a pause and then, “What about the file?”
“It wasn’t on her.”
An instant and powerful wave of anger crashed into him. “What the hell do you mean, it wasn’t on her? If she didn’t have it, and it wasn’t in her apartment, then?—”
“We’ll find it, don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry?” He took a broad step toward the other man. “That file gets out, our careers won’t be the only thing ruined. You do understand that, right?”
“Yeah, I get it.”
“Do you?” he reaffirmed the concern through a set of clenched teeth. “Because this is way beyond getting fired. We’ll be in prison. Death Row, to be more precise. Because that’s where people go when they’re convicted of treason.”
