That made Nikki wonder why he had agreed to meet. She turned to see if she had been set up for something. They had the room to themselves…and rough stuff at The Greenwich? Not likely.
“Here is how I will enlighten you. When you dare to walk the global stage as I do—And yes, I began as a dot-com billionaire, what can I do?—You build it, they come, they pay. Oh, mama, do they pay. Anyhow, when you have a profile like mine you are a constant target for unrelenting bottom-feeders out to suck up a chunk of your hard-won fortune. It comes in many ways, and it is nonstop. Patent trolls, intellectual-rights theft, class action lawsuits, and yes, spurious claims about wrongful injury and death caused by one of my myriad products. Key word here: spurious. So what do I do? I write a lot of checks. My lawyers call it go-away money, to make the bottom-feeders do what? Go away.
“But some claims are so egregious that I need to take extra steps to protect myself, and I do that in a number of ways, one of which is to engage the services of what is called a fixer. You might say ‘an operative.’ You might say ‘private detective.’ I say, prudent. So let us leave it there with the understanding that I am not going to yield to you—and certainly not to the litigation trolls—and apologize for taking prudent action against bogus attacks by employing an interventionist.”
“Are you saying that’s what you did? That you”—Heat made her own air quotes—“‘intervened’ to shut down inquiries into your faulty software system?”
“That’s a lie. My system is not faulty.”
“It sounds like you’re admitting you set your fixer loose to fix the problem. Was Fred Lobbrecht a problem? Lon King?”
“You are not hearing me.”
“Wilton Backhouse?”
Swift cast an obvious glance to someone behind her. This time, when Nikki turned, someone was moving toward her. But it wasn’t muscle. At least not in the physical sense. The man with the silver hair gripping his cane so firmly that his knuckles whitened with every labored step was United States Congressman Kent Duer.
Wary, but unable to fight her instincts, Heat stood out of respect as the septuagenarian representative joined them and, without more than a crisp nod to her, let himself drop with a heavy exhalation into the red leather chair beside Tangier Swift. “Too pretty to be a cop,” said Duer as an aside to his host. The sly wink made it feel like anything but a compliment.
Heat had grown up in New York seeing the congressman in newspapers, on the TV news, and lately, on the Sunday talking-heads shows from inside the Beltway whenever the subject was military budgets and the powerful head of the House Defense Subcommittee was the Big Get. Congressman Duer looked her in the eye for the first time and said, “I came a long way for what’s going to be a very short meeting. Fine with me, as long as you get the message loud and clear. This ends now.” In the red leather chair beside him, Tangier Swift’s face was etched by a smile. Suddenly finding herself outgunned, rather than cave, Heat did what she would have done in a street fight: buy time to assess the situation for optimal tactics.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, sir.”
“I believe you know exactly what I mean. Need I spell it out for you?”
Tangier Swift rested a hand on Duer’s knee. The easy familiarity wasn’t lost on Nikki. “Kent, you don’t have to.”
“No, it’s all right. I want to make sure the lady understands.” The representative cleared his throat and continued in a quiet but determined way. “Not only are you misguided in following the road you are on but—for reasons you cannot know—you are also creating a potential threat to national security.” He let that rest, then added, “That light up the marquee for you?”
“So I should just drop it.”
He chuckled and turned to Swift. “Smart, too.”