He got none.
“Henry avoids white-tie events like the plague,” Asher elaborated. “His mom gets invited to these things all the time—her family is, shall we say, well off, with a lot of international holdings. But no one would expect her to put in an appearance this soon after Theo’s death.” Asher finally paused for a breath. “My spidey senses tell me that Henry’s mom was not overcome by a sudden desire to honor the queen of Denmark.”
“You don’t have spidey senses,” I told Asher automatically.
“I do have a Henry sense,” Asher said firmly. “And I’m telling you, he was acting super shady when I talked to him. I think he actually convinced his mother to go tonight. That means he’s willingly donning a tailcoat and bow tie and venturing into a bedazzled crowd of people, all of whom will tell him how sorry they are for his loss.”
I thought bedazzled was probably overstating things a bit, but focused on the rest of what Asher was saying. “You really think going to this thing with his mom was Henry’s idea?”
“I do,” Asher pronounced. “I just can’t figure out why.”
Unfortunately, I could. “Who attends state dinners?” I asked with a sinking feeling.
“Three hundred of the president’s closest colleagues and friends.” Asher paused, thinking. “Members of the cabinet and staff, the vice president and his family, assorted governors, donors, lobby firm executives, Hollywood celebrities, professional athletes, philanthropists, congressmen, and a half-dozen partridges in a governmental pear tree.”
I paused for a second. “What’s Henry’s phone number?”
After he gave it to me, I hung up, glared at my phone, then made the call.
“Hello.” Henry answered the phone with trademark calm.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” I asked him, without bothering to identify myself. He must have recognized my voice, because he didn’t ask who it was.
“Currently, I’m reading The Economist.”
“You’re going to a state dinner?” I gritted out.
“I take it Asher called you?”
“What’s your endgame here, Henry? Why are you going?”
“My mother needed an escort.” Henry was a good liar. But not good enough.
You aren’t the enemy. That doesn’t mean our goals are aligned. Henry had a goal. He had an agenda. He had a reason for going tonight that had nothing to do with his mother.
“You have a plan,” I said. “And given that it’s a plan that involves rubbing elbows with several hundred of the city’s most politically powerful people, I’m not feeling very comforted at the moment.”
“Rest assured, Tess. I can take care of myself.”
Until he told me that he could take care of himself, it hadn’t occurred to me that whatever he had planned for tonight might be dangerous.
“What are you going to do?” I asked softly.
“I’m just going to show up. See people. Be seen.”
Be seen. Why would Henry want to be seen?
“Henry, either you tell me exactly what you’re doing, or I’ll tell my sister you’re up to something.”
The silence on the other end of the phone line grew decidedly chillier. “Fine,” he said stiffly, glaring at me through the phone. “I’m simply interested to see if Carson Dweck has gone back to his source in the West Wing for information on my grandfather’s murder, and if that source is at all curious about how Carson got his information.”
It took me a few seconds to process that statement. Henry had told the reporter everything we knew. I’d taken him at his word when he’d said that he’d done it so that Ivy wouldn’t be the only one looking into this.
But if the reporter went back to his source, if his source was in any way involved in the conspiracy . . . My mind raced.
“You’re trying to draw the third player out,” I realized.
I wanted to believe that Dweck wouldn’t reveal Henry as the source of his information about the justice’s assassination. I wanted to believe that hadn’t been Henry’s plan all along.
“So that’s it?” I said. “You start making noise, then parade around at a state dinner and see who takes the bait?”
“I assure you, I have no intention of parading.”
“I assure you,” I replied, “that this isn’t going to work. Even if our missing conspirator has heard that you’re asking questions, even if he or she thinks you know too much, they’re not going to make a move in front of three hundred of the president’s closest friends.”
I could practically hear Henry’s subtle, pointed smile in response to those words. “Then you don’t need to worry about me,” he said. “Do you?”