I wasn’t the knight. I was the dragon.
“Then she’s either criminally misinformed or delusional,” I muttered as I entered my space. It was designed to intimidate and impress. There was nothing homey or cozy about the glass desk, the stark white couch, the dark wood. It was formal, cold. It suited me.
“It’s not the worst thing in the world to have employees who aren’t blatantly terrified of you,” Petula said, busying herself by hitting remotes to open blinds, switching on my desk monitors, and organizing paperwork by priority while I hung my coat on the rack inside the door.
“Between Nolan and Holly, you’re going soft,” I complained.
“I insist you take back that insult, or I’ll tell everyone you cry during SPCA commercials.”
The wall of windows revealed an impressive view of DC’s business district. Most of it was still blanketed in a pristine coat of white thick enough to cover the stains and sins that happened behind closed doors in the nation’s capital.
“I prefer people to be terrified. Then they don’t try to talk to me about whatever the hell bubble braids are. And why are you so nice to her? You’re mean to everyone.”
Petula huffed. “I’m not mean. I’m efficient. Niceties are a waste of time and energy.”
“I wholeheartedly agree.”
“What do you want me to do with this?” she asked, holding up the container of homemade fish chowder.
“Throw it out the window.”
She stared me down and waited.
“Fine. Put it in my refrigerator.” I’d throw it out when I was sure I wouldn’t get caught.
“Don’t throw out the container. She’ll need it back,” Petula ordered.
Damn it.
“Anything else?” I asked with irritation.
Petula aligned the folders on my desk with a sharp tap. “These are priority. You have drinks at 7:00 p.m. at the Wellesley Club with two of the vice presidents from Democracy Strategies. And that investigator will probably be here shortly. I informed her you were absolutely not available this afternoon, but she was rudely insistent.”
While she talked, I walked to the wall of glass and stared out over Washington, wondering what Sloane would think of this place and what I’d accomplished.
I’d become someone. Forged an empire. And I’d gotten strong enough, rich enough, powerful enough that no single threat could take what I’d built. I’d vanquished the ghosts of the past.
“Thank you, Petula. That will be all,” I said, suddenly anxious to bury myself in work.
She looked down her nose at me. “I know that will be all, because that’s all I had for you. I’ll let you know when that investigator arrives. And I’ll send Holly back with your coffee when it arrives.”
“Don’t—”
But she was already smugly sweeping out the door, dismissing me.
It took three excruciating minutes of small talk about the weather and her son’s sudden interest in watching other kids play video games on YouTube for me to pry the coffee out of Holly’s hands.
I was only on my second priority folder, a background check on a gubernatorial candidate in Pennsylvania, when “that investigator” riffed a two-fisted knock on my glass door. I gestured her inside.
Nallana Jones was a private investigator whose deep pockets were lined by clients like me who could afford to pay a premium for dirty work. Today, she was dressed like a middle-aged suburban mom out for a power walk in dumpy sweats and a bulky belt bag. She was wearing a short, brown wig under a car dealer baseball cap. Her pink sweatshirt said I Love Maine Coon Cats.
“You look ridiculous,” I said.
“That’s the idea. Nobody gives Middle-Aged Maude a second look when she hits the treadmill at their mistress’s gym.”
“I take it this is for someone else’s job?”
“Yep.” She produced a flash drive from her belt bag and set it on my desk. “This came in from my girl in Atlanta yesterday. The backups are already in the cloud. I also added a little juicy footage from your guy’s arrival in town this morning. Right place, right time. Whatever you plan to do with this info, it’s solid. There’s no way he can wiggle out of it.”
“Impressive as always, Nallana.”
“Yeah, well. That’s why you pay me the big bucks,” she said, slapping her knees. “Anyway, I gotta jet. There’s a certain twenty-two-year-old who’s about to meet her fifty-eight-year-old, married sugar daddy for a personal training session. I can’t be late.”
“I’ll call you when I need you again.”
She tossed me a two-finger salute and sauntered out the door.
I inserted the drive into my secure laptop and scrolled through the files. There were over two dozen pictures and a handful of video files as well. Each one was enough to destroy a man’s career. I printed two of the better stills, copied the files to a new, secure folder in my own backup, then wiped the drive.
I picked up the phone and dialed Lina’s extension.
“What’s up, boss?” she asked with a hint of sarcasm so subtle I wasn’t sure it was actually there.
“I might have a job for you,” I said.
“A real one or another gopher task?”
“Just get in here.”
Seconds later, she appeared at my door. I waved her in and gestured for her to take a seat.
Her long legs ate up the space between the door and my desk. She sank into the chair and crossed one neatly over the other. “How do you not get fingerprints all over all that glass?” she asked, staring at the pristine surface of my desk.
“I refrain from getting sloppy. Which is what I’ll need you to do.” I slid the two photos across the desk to her. “Do you know who this man is?”
She studied the pictures. “The guy who looks like he was born in an ascot is Trip Armistead, our client and current member of the House of Representatives. I have no idea who the topless dancer is, but I’ll shave my head if she’s eighteen.”
I glanced at my watch. “You have twenty-three minutes to take these photos and the information in the secure folder to build a compelling anonymous tip to be sent to the reputable news organizations of your choice.”
“Are we actually pressing Send, or are we using it to scare the shit out of our old buddy Trip?”
“The latter.”
The man had the backbone of a crustacean. One quick snap was all it would take.
“Fun. I’m in,” she said, rising from her seat.
“Why haven’t you accepted the job?” I asked.
She paused, then lowered herself back into the chair. “Does it matter?” she asked cagily.
“I won’t know until you tell me. Is it the compensation? Does Nash have an issue with you working for me?”
“The compensation is fair. The work seems like it’s interesting from the glimpses you allow. Nash is thrilled that I get to be home every day.”
“Then what is it?”
“Sloane.”
My grip tightened on the pen in my hand. “You don’t seem like the type of woman to let other people call the shots in your life,” I said evenly.
Lina scoffed. “Sloane didn’t tell me not to take the job. My hesitation lies in the fact that you’re an asshole to one of my only friends for vague reasons that you both refuse to explain.”
I said nothing and Lina continued.
“Maybe you’re carrying some multi-decade grudge about something that happened when you were practically children, which would be pathetic. Or maybe you had a secret torrid affair that went south and now you can’t stand her, which would be immature. Maybe she ran over your pet tarantula when she was learning to drive. I honestly don’t care about the why. The bottom line is I don’t want to dedicate my working life to a man who treats my friend badly. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a politician to blackmail.”
Trip Armistead was a blond-haired, blue-eyed southerner who prided himself on his charm and pedigree.
He was also an asshole who had officially outlived his usefulness.