“Hypothetically, I could, but the moment I file the warrant, the high places would be alerted, depending on how high the places are.”
“So—“
“Professionally,” she interrupts me, “I’d advise always using the official route. Personally, I am aware of men of the named caliber, and there is only one way to catch those men, and that is money. Meaning, without access to the money trail, it is almost impossible to get anywhere.”
“So your advice is to get the bank statement,” I say and add quickly, “Solely hypothetically, of course.”
“Yes and no,” she says and stops. “What you are looking for isn’t generally transacted via a common bank.”
“What if the hypothetical person is the bank?” I ask.
“Who are we talking about?”
“It’s just a hypothetical?—“
“Jane,” she says. “I deal with liars on a daily basis, and you are one of the worst I have ever met.”
“Amelie tells me the very same every time,” I say.
“You’re asking for her, aren’t you?”
“I—no,“ I begin, stop, “Yes.”
Reid looks at me for a moment. She is weighing something.
Then, she leans in.
“Richard Whitney-Morgan has been on our radar for years. He is untouchable because he is best friends with the President himself. My advice? Let it go. I hate to say it, but whatever it is, let it go.”
With that, she taps me softly on the shoulder and leaves.
I watch her leave.
I take my phone from my pocket.
My fingers hover on Amelie’s name for one second.
But we made a deal.
And I keep my end of the deal.
“I tried,” I say when Amelie answers, and we hang up.
That night, I am alone in my apartment for a very long time.
Her phone lies next to mine on the couch table.
I stare at the ceiling, knowing what I did, questioning all my morals.
I am helping a woman, my woman, kill a man.
My chest feels heavy.
I hear the lock.
I run to the door.
Amelie leans against the door, a hollow look on her face.
