Two assassins. One little problem...
Finding dirt on politicians is usually easy, but Congressman Clements is more careful than most. Never one to back away from a challenge, devious Diamond enlists her old friend Snow in a scheme to catch their tar...
"I thought you were going to yoga this afternoon?" Dan asked. Five p.m., and I was sitting in the visitors' chair opposite her desk, flicking my favourite knife open and closed. Snick. Click. Snick. Click. Snick. Click.
"Change of plan."
"Another job?"
No, I just didn't feel like being outdone by Celina in the perkiness stakes.
"A new lead."
"What kind of lead? I'm juggling thirty cases, and Rhonda's called me six times already today. Okay, so one of those calls was asking my opinion on that new wine bar by Main Street Station, but the rest were all demanding updates on our progress. Or rather, the lack of it."
"Just keep her calm."
"Do you really have something concrete? Because I've got zilch apart from a strong suspicion that Paul Clements is actually a slug in a skin onesie."
"Keep the faith, sister."
Even if I struggled with that myself. Why the hell hadn't my husband called yet?
Speak of the devil, my phone buzzed. Well, he was more like the Grim Reaper, since he'd taught me most of what I knew about the art of death. I hurried out of Dan's office and into my own, then pressed the phone against my ear.
"Tell me you've got something."
"I've got something."
"Well? What is it?"
"A chocolate gateau from Claude's. Mrs. Fairfax is making coq au vin, and I thought we could have dinner together."
"What about the case?"
"We'll talk over dinner."
Damn, he was good at this game. Since he had two things I wanted—information and cake—he knew I couldn't make an excuse and avoid him. Well played, Mr. Black. Well played. In our world, information was currency, and if you spent it wisely, you could buy power.
"I'll be home in twenty minutes."
"You're in the office, and that's half an hour away."
"Have you been tracking my phone again?"
"We've been married for eleven years and you still have to ask that?"
"Asshole. Twenty minutes, and you'd better have a glass of wine waiting."
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The engine of my Dodge Viper roared as I pushed it into the bends. A surprise birthday gift, the car had allowed me to shave almost two minutes off my best time to the office with its 8.3-litre engine and nice fat tyres, so I skidded into the driveway at home in only nineteen minutes with no traffic citations and just a hint of burning rubber.
My chocolate cake was waiting for me in the dining room of the larger of our two Virginia houses, as was my husband, and I took a swallow from my glass of white and a seat at one end of the table, in that order. I rarely drank, but if any night called for alcohol, it was this one. I glanced at the label on the bottle. Montes Blackwood vineyard, Portugal. Blackwood Hills. Did we own that? I was pretty sure we owned that.
