Mistress

Her apartment is at the end of the hallway. There is yellow police tape across the door, so that removes any question about whether I’m supposed to go in there.

But I do it anyway. I walk in, and my breath is whisked away, memories cascading through me in waves. Diana. What were you doing, Diana, that brought all this down on you?

Focus, Ben. It won’t take two minutes to get those tapes and leave.

I look up at the smoke detector in her kitchen, the pinhole camera inside it. I grab the stepladder Diana always tucked next to her refrigerator and find the Phillips screwdriver she kept in a tray in her pantry and get to work. I’m unscrewing the second of two screws when I hear a noise from the other end of the apartment, a bottle falling over and rolling on glass.

Panic spreads across my chest. I climb down from the ladder as Cinnamon, Diana’s Abyssinian, comes jogging toward me.

“Hey, girl!” I cry out, surprised at how happy I am to see the cat. Maybe because I’m happy to see anyone these days who isn’t pointing a firearm at me. Or maybe it’s because Cinnamon is now the last vestige of Diana.

The poor thing is a nervous wreck. Has anyone been feeding her? I really don’t know. So I find some cat food in the pantry and give her a bowl. She forgets all about me and goes to town on the food.

I get the last screw out of the smoke detector and pop the bottom lid and-and there isn’t any camera or microphone. The surveillance equipment has been removed.

I jump down off the ladder and head into Diana’s bedroom and see that the motion-activated video recorder, disguised as an AC adapter plug, is also missing. I look behind Diana’s desk and check every outlet, but no, it’s gone.

Both of the surveillance devices I installed are gone.

And with them the identity of Diana’s killer.

I have no leads and nowhere to go.

Chapter 26

After parking my Triumph, I walk the streets of the capital, stopping often to double back and watch for anyone paying close attention to me. I find a coffee shop in Georgetown and sit with my back to the wall, watching everyone who walks into the place. A muscle-bound Asian guy. Two cute college girls. An elderly woman and two grandchildren. A slick suit talking into his earpiece.

I don’t know whom to suspect. Anyone could be watching me anywhere.

At 10:00 a.m., I get a text message from the White House. The president is back from a week on Martha’s Vineyard and is holding a press conference at 2:30 this afternoon. It’s my week to cover the briefing room, and I consider asking my partner, Ashley Brook Clark, to cover it for me. But today it’s a welcome diversion.

Inside the Brady Room, the major network reporters are dolled up in their makeup, coiffed hair, and neatly pressed clothes, doing stand-ups, predicting to the audiences at home that the president will comment on the next secretary of agriculture, the unrest in Libya, and the resumed fighting in Chechnya. Me, I have an online newspaper, so I don’t need to care much about my appearance-but even for me, I’m looking worse for wear today. I’ve only slept a handful of hours over the last forty-eight, and, not being able to return home, I was forced to buy clothes at Brooks Brothers. My shirt is still creased from the package, and the sport coat is too big in the shoulders. I look like a disheveled kid.

The press secretary, Rob Courtney, is prepping us with some details of the president’s schedule over the next week and some background on the appointment he’s announcing today. I don’t need it. I’ve known who was going to be the next secretary of agriculture for two weeks now. It pays to know people on the inside. And when I say it pays, I mean that literally. Usually it’s Redskins or Nationals tickets. Several years ago, I flew a source in the State Department and his girlfriend to Manhattan and back for the evening in my Cessna. She had a wonderful birthday dinner at Moomba and I had a nice headline story about how the ambassador to Australia was planning to resign to run for governor of Ohio.

“Blue shirt, red tie,” predicts the reporter next to me, Wilma Grace. A running joke with us, and a running bet. Being the gentleman that I am, I always let her pick first.

“White shirt, blue tie,” I counter.

I look around the briefing room and slowly calm. I’m safe, if nothing else, within the confines of the West Wing, and seeing familiar faces is comforting.

“The president of the United States,” says Rob Courtney.

President Blake Francis strides in with the fluid ease that accompanies power, with a fresh tan from vacation, and with a blue shirt and red tie.

“You saw him today already,” I whisper to Wilma.

“Never said I didn’t.”

“That’s cold, Gracie. That’s cold.”

“You might want to take the price tag off your sport coat,” Wilma suggests. Yeah, I’m feeling better. I’m glad I came.

“Afternoon, everyone,” says the president. “It’s nice to be back. I can’t tell you how much I missed all of you.”