Visions (Cainsville #2)(57)

“Someone advised them to have it done. Planted the idea.”

“Likely a family member who has watched too much television. The wave of interest in forensic and crime scene analysis has been the bane of prosecutors for years now.”

“And a boon for defense attorneys.”

A faint smile. He opened the driver’s door and climbed in. I followed.

As the car backed up, I said, “I didn’t get a look at the file.”

“Hmm?” He checked his mirrors.

“I know you went to the restroom so Fuentes would leave and I’d read the file. I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

A twitch of his lips. “Now who’s been watching too many crime shows? The risk of being caught is too great, and you wouldn’t have had time to read the file. You need a permanent copy.” As he talked, he flipped through his phone. Then he passed it over. “Like this.”

I enlarged the photo on his phone to see a page from the file.

“How the hell—?” I stopped. “That’s what you were doing in the restroom? You’d scooped the pages and were taking pictures of them? Shit. I didn’t see a thing.”

“That would be the point. I’ll print those, and we’ll have a look at them later.”





SPECIAL INTEREST GROUP


James Morgan checked his cell phone as he walked through the underground parking lot. Looking for something from Olivia. A call, a text, an e-mail . . . It was past seven and Saturday. She’d said she was free today. Yet she hadn’t rung him back.

He’d just finished drinks with Neil, his father’s former campaign manager. Neil was still harping about the damned photo in the Post.

“Reconcile or dump her,” Neil said. “I can massage it either way, but this waffling makes you look indecisive.”

He could solve the problem by telling Neil that Olivia had dumped him. But she’d done that before, and he wasn’t yet ready to accept it as her final word on the matter. He’d been fielding calls from his real estate broker, asking what he wanted to do with the house he’d bought. A house, damn it. For them. The best goddamned house he could find, and she’d loved it. She’d loved him. Now she just walked away? There must be more to it. And he had a good idea where that blame could be laid: on the shoulders of one Gabriel Walsh.

“Mr. Morgan?”

He glanced up sharply. When he saw the young man approaching him—midtwenties, suit and tie, reedy and pale—James had to smooth the annoyance from his reaction. One problem with working in technology was that not everyone in the field had baseline social skills. To them, staking out James Morgan’s car was a perfectly fine way to apply for a job.

A few months ago, he’d have brushed the kid off, politely but firmly, warning him this was not the way to make friends in the world that existed outside his basement. Now, though, even if he didn’t plan to run for senator for years, he had to start paying more attention to how he reacted to strangers. Especially strangers who probably had a blog, Twitter, Facebook, and serious hacker skills.

“Yes,” James said, plastering on a smile. “How can I help you?”

“The question is, how can I help you?” The young man held out a card. “Tristan Crouch. The Belarus Group.” He paused. “Have you heard of us?”

A salesman? God, that was even worse.

“No,” James said, struggling to keep the curt edge from his voice. “I’m sorry, but I was just about to head home—”

“I heard you’re scheduled to attend a dinner party with the POTUS in a few months. You could ask him about us. I’m sure he recalls us fondly. We were instrumental in his own senatorial campaign.”

James stopped.

Tristan smiled. “Yes, I know, I’m too young to have done more than man the phones for that, but I’m using ‘we’ in the imperial sense. The group has sent me to make the first contact and to relay a few suggestions. They’re interested in what they see. They just have . . . concerns.”

James should politely excuse himself now. Tell Tristan that he appreciated his group’s interest and he’d love to have drinks next week, giving him time to do his research on them. But there was something in the young man’s tone and in his gaze that brushed aside James’s doubts, and as Tristan spoke, James began to recall hearing of this Belarus Group. He should listen.

“The most immediate concern is your change of marital status.” Tristan smiled. “Or should I say the lack of a change.”

James tried not to wince. Damn Olivia. Why did she have to make everything so complicated?

“We like Ms. Taylor-Jones,” Tristan said. “We believe she complements you perfectly. Attractive, but not unduly so. Ambitious, but again not unduly so. She’s bright and witty and charming. From a solid local family. And now she comes with a very intriguing backstory, and we are impressed that you appear to see past that. Most men in your position would not.”

“There’s no question of that. I love her.”

Tristan’s smile held a touch of condescension, unsettling in one so young. “That always helps. We feel that your choice to support her through this tragic revelation will further endear you to voters. However, it would be better if you were more actively supporting her. We saw the photo in the Post.”