True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(4)
“I wish I could say that I did it doing something heroic, like grabbing a suicidal woman just as she leaped off a freeway overpass and holding on to her until the fire department showed up,” Ian said. “But the truth is that I fell off my bike. That’s what I get for removing the training wheels.”
He could tell from the expression on the woman’s face that she wasn’t amused. In fact, she seemed disappointed in him.
“You really aren’t Clint Straker,” she said.
“Nobody is.”
Margo looked up at his remark and she seemed to like it. That pleased him until he realized how pathetic it was that he wanted her attention or her approval. He figured it only proved that no matter how successful he was—and he was, by just about any measure—he would always be just another insecure writer.
Ian signed books for the eight customers and left the bookstore with Margo five minutes later. Ordinarily, he would have stayed to autograph every book, on the off chance someone might buy a copy later. But he was right-handed and it wasn’t easy signing with his arm in a cast, and the manager didn’t ask him to, which wasn’t very encouraging.
Margo drove Ian back to his downtown hotel in a rented Impala that felt ridiculously huge for only the two of them. It also seemed like the wrong car for her. She struck him as a VW Beetle kind of woman. Or maybe a Mini Cooper if she had some money, which she obviously didn’t or the publisher would have reimbursed her gas and miles to drive him around Seattle rather than step up for a rental car. Maybe she didn’t even own a car.
“That was disappointing,” Ian said. “I usually draw a bigger crowd.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Margo said. “Union Bay is more of a literary bookstore.”
“My books aren’t literary?”
“They’re spy novels,” she said.
“That doesn’t mean they aren’t literary fiction. Somerset Maugham, Joseph Conrad, John le Carré, and Graham Greene all wrote spy novels.”
“In your last book, Clint Straker seduced a female enemy agent and gave her an orgasm so intense that she fell into a coma for three days.”
“He felt it was a more humane way of sidelining her than assassination,” Ian said. “I think that shows his literary depth of character.”
“It certainly does,” she said.
He wasn’t sure how to take that but he was pleased that she’d read the book and remembered the sex scene. And then he felt foolish that he felt that way. Something about her had turned him into an awkward teenager. It was probably because he hadn’t been laid in ages and being around any woman made him stupidly eager to create a positive impression.
Margo pulled up to the entrance of the Sheraton Hotel at the corner of Sixth Avenue and Pike Street and parked the car outside the door.
“I’ll meet you here at ten a.m. tomorrow for your signing at the Crime of Your Life bookstore,” she said. “Do you want to keep the car for the rest of the day?”
“No, no, you take it. I think I’ll stay in and write, maybe enjoy the room service—unless you’d like to join me.”
Margo gave him a hard look. “I’m not that kind of escort.”
Ian felt his face flush with embarrassment. “I wasn’t suggesting—I mean, I wasn’t implying that we’d be in my room. What I meant was that I’d eat with you somewhere that’s not in my room if you wanted to eat, too.”
She smiled, amused by his discomfort. “I was joking. I appreciate the invite but I’ve got dogs to walk and they’re probably ready to burst.”
“We wouldn’t want that,” Ian said, reaching across himself with his left hand to open his door. “Thanks for taking me around today. See you tomorrow.”
He slid out of the seat, closed the door with his hip, and watched her drive off. Was it really an innocent misunderstanding or was he suggesting she come up to his room? He wasn’t entirely sure. Maybe his desperation was coming through. With that in mind, he walked into the lobby and headed straight for the bar to see if there were any women around who’d jump at the chance to sleep with a New York Times bestselling author. But as he neared the bar, he could feel tension in the air like an electrical charge. Dozens of people were standing and staring at the wall-mounted TVs, all of which were tuned to CNN. The screens were filled with apocalyptic images of destruction in Waikiki and scores of injured people on the beach. Ian stopped just outside the bar and caught a portion of anchorman Wolf Blitzer’s report.
BLITZER: Thousands are hurt, hundreds are feared dead. Nobody knows at this point if the crash of TransAmerican 976 was the result of mechanical failure, human error, or an intentional act. But the parallels to 9/11 are impossible to ignore and deeply disturbing.
Ian shook his head and backed away from the bar, gripped by the crazy fear that someone might whirl around, recognize him, and shriek at the top of their lungs:
“You’re responsible for this!”
CHAPTER THREE
Capitol Hill, Washington, DC. July 17. 6:00 p.m. Eastern Standard Time.
The hearing in the Senate chamber wasn’t on any official schedule and began while TransAmerican 976 was boarding. There were no observers or reporters present. There wasn’t even a stenographer. There were only the seven senators of the Intelligence Committee at the rostrum and the one man sitting at the witness table in front of them. The man’s name was Wilton Cross. His bushy mustache, round cheeks, and double chin made him look lovable, like he’d be more comfortable as a department store Santa, or reading Dr. Seuss to his adorable grandchildren, than sitting in a bespoke $6,000 Italian suit, briefing politicians.