“Followed?” She squinted at him, as if this was all just a bit much.
This was tricky. Only Ryan, not Sean, had seen the man following him, the man with a mole on his face. Emily had been firm that they keep Ryan out of this. “There was a guy on a motorcycle I saw a couple times, but I didn’t get a good look at him. I would normally chalk it up to paranoia, but when Emily and I went back to search for the rebar someone chased us.”
Cecilia frowned, but stayed quiet, lost in thought, as they veered off the path and onto Twelfth Street. The Old Post Office Pavilion clock tower ahead read eleven a.m. There was a low rumble of thunder in the sky. “I’m not a criminal lawyer, you know that,” she said.
“I know, but I won’t go to anyone else.”
“I suppose it won’t matter. If no one got a good look at you, hopefully that should be the end of it.”
Sean grimaced. “Actually, the police came by the house and talked to Emily.”
Cecilia snorted. “You might have started the discussion with that little gem. So someone did see you? What did the cops want?”
“The police found Ryan’s bike at the school,” Sean said. “His bike was stolen some time back. When the police processed the area around the campus, they found it. They came by to see if Ryan had been there and seen anything.”
“How’d they know it was Ryan’s bike?” Cecilia asked, her tone skeptical.
“His name’s engraved on the frame.”
“So, you’re telling me that Ryan’s bike just happened to be at the school. Happened to be there that night?”
Their eyes met.
“And you’re going to tell the police you were at Bethesda Sport and Health that night working out at the gym?”
“I’m not sure. That’s what Em told them. She also misspoke and said Ryan was with me.”
Cecilia shook her head. She was getting annoyed with the Ryan-wasn’t-there game. “When I go to the gym,” she said finally, “they check me in at the front door with a scanner.” Cecilia pulled keys from her handbag and showed him a key fob with a bar code on it. “Does your gym do that?”
Sean nodded.
“So won’t there be a record of you not going inside?”
Sean looked at the ground.
“We’re not going to say you were at the gym,” Cecilia said.
“No? Where was I?” Raindrops started falling, but Cecilia didn’t move.
“You were with me, at my house for a visit. Both you and Ryan were there.”
Sean looked at his old friend and shook his head. “You can’t, I can’t ask you to—”
“When Helen died,” Cecilia interrupted, “my parents didn’t understand why I was catatonic with grief. They were in denial, thought she and I were just roommates. Helen’s family didn’t invite me to the funeral, and I had no say in her medical decisions.” Cecilia swallowed. “I wouldn’t have gotten through it if it wasn’t for you and Emily. You were there for me. And you were at my house the night Billy Brice was killed. We ate pasta. End of story.”
CHAPTER 46
Sean sat behind his desk at Harrington & Caine reading judicial opinions and briefs a partner in the tax group had sent him. Routine, Em had insisted. As if it wasn’t hard enough to concentrate on work, he’d been asked to help on an appeal involving an excruciatingly boring corporate tax issue. The office phone rang and he examined the caller ID: “202” and no other number. The same camouflage as when he worked at the Justice Department. He hesitated, then picked up.
“Mr. Serrat?” the voice said. He recognized the Indian accent. Abani Gupta, the lead member of the team vetting Supreme Court justices for the White House.
“Hello, Abani, how are you?” Sean put both elbows on his desk and leaned forward, phone pressed to his right ear.
“I’m well, thank you,” Gupta said, brushing aside the pleasantries. “Look, I know you probably heard the news already that the president decided to nominate Mason James, but he asked me to reach out to you personally.”
“Thanks for the courtesy, but it was unnecessary.”
“Off the record, this was incredibly close. But Senator James had been in the works for months, and the president decided that the country needed to know the nominee sooner rather than later.”
Sean hated that tired D.C. phrase, sooner rather than later. “I understand,” he said. “You really don’t need to explain.”
“No, but the president wanted me to convey it. And he wanted me to tell you, and I’m quoting him here, ‘I meant what I said about next time.’”
Sean made no reply.
“You should know,” Gupta added, “I haven’t been asked to convey that or any similar message to anyone else the president met with about the high court nomination.”
Sean’s other line rang. “Again, I appreciate the call. Best of luck with—”
“There’s one more thing, Mr. Serrat,” Gupta said quickly, sensing he was about to hang up.
“Yes?”