Death's Last Run (38 page)

Martha was silent. She'd elicited the confession. The
FBI
could take it from there.

But Ted kept going. “You're just so clueless. You're nothing like my mother. You don't deserve to be president.”

“Was it my constituents' money? I don't think you have any of your own. I'll need to know so I can repay it on your behalf.”

Ted actually spat at Martha. It shocked her — again, she'd seen it in movies, but it had never happened to her in real life. The spit landed on her shoes. “Of course it was their money. It was your constituents I was protecting. You're not even grateful at all, are you?”

Martha's eyes felt like they popped out of her head. It was only because she could still see that she knew they were still in their sockets.

“Sacha was trying to take you down,” Ted continued. “She was in Whistler filming an exposé of your hypocritical drug war. It's only because I was on your side, because I got rid of the obstacles that were standing in the way of the White House, that you're probably going to get there. You know you're in first, now? That kid you're trying to save — the addict in Detroit? Michigan loves you for that.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, wow is right. Didn't know your daughter was a traitor, huh? Whereas I was true to the end. Too bad you made the wrong choice.”

“No, I was thinking wow, it's a good thing your mother's dead. It would be horrible for her to see who her son grew up to become.” Martha snatched a tissue from the box on the desk and bent to wipe the gob of saliva from her Louboutins.

CLARE

The phone rang and Clare jumped. She hoped it wasn't Roberta, calling to say her dad had died.

“Hello?” Clare heard her voice come out small and tentative.

“What's wrong with you?” It was Bert. “Pick it up, Vengel.”

“Sorry.” Clare was relieved. “Did everything go okay with the arrest?”

“Yup. Even got a confession.”

Clare felt a grin spread across her face. She'd maybe gotten two hours of sleep, but it was worth it.

“Meet me at the Coffee Shop in twenty,” Bert said.

“Is it bad?” Clare knew she'd fucked up with that acid hit. They'd left her in place for the assignment, but she could still lose her job over a bad decision.

“Just be there. And don't dress like a slob.”

If she were losing her job, Clare wanted to wear ripped sweatpants and a sleeveless heavy metal band T-shirt. But maybe this wasn't going to be that. She chose some jeans that were fairly clean from the pile of clothes on her hardwood floor, and she rode the rickety elevator down to street level.

She walked six blocks north to Union Square and sat in a window booth to wait. The Coffee Shop was way too trendy for its own good, but Clare ignored the sullen service and ordered a black coffee. She itched for a cigarette but had managed without one so far — even when pulling the all-nighter.

In less than five minutes, she spotted Bert lumbering along the street in his trench coat. At over six feet tall, with a build that was somehow thick and lean at the same time, he looked like a Russian mobster's bodyguard. He was with a shorter man — maybe five-eight or five-ten — who looked quiet and smart, like a professor.

The two men entered the diner.

“This is Alistair Patko,” Bert said.

Clare reached a hand across the table, where Patko had slid into the booth. His grip was good — firm, but not bone-crushing.

Bert slid in beside Clare. “Alistair works with the
CIA
. He's been following your career with some interest.”

“He has?” Clare's career was short and spotty — this didn't make a lot of sense.

“You're not conventional,” Patko said. “Which works well for the team I'm trying to assemble.”

“I'm already on a team like that.” Clare glanced at Bert. “A team I like.”

“I'm looking for undercover operatives to do pretty much what Bert here has been doing with his team internally. Except my domain is international. So you'd be going to different countries on assignment. Sometimes for months on end.”

Clare wasn't sure if this was an offer or just a discussion. She tried to keep her hopes down as she continued to listen.

“Assignments would be riskier. You would need to spend time learning new languages, being trained with different weapons, different martial arts. There are a lot of academics, which I'm not sure is your strong suit.”

Clare swallowed.

“The pay would be good. Double your current base salary plus a hefty stipend when you're in the field.”

Clare didn't care about salary, but she knew enough not to say so in a job negotiation.

Bert poked Clare in the ribs. “You going to say something, Vengel?”

“Why me?”

Bert snorted. “That's a damn good question.”

Patko smiled. “I know that several of your superiors have questioned your decision-making skills. Including Amanda Payne on this assignment — she wrote a scathing report, actually. But then she added a paragraph, an addendum highlighting your intelligence and adaptability. And you did some nice work at the end, getting evidence on the Westlake murder. That combination happens to be what I'm looking for. I don't like working with people who take authority too seriously. Their minds tend to be creatively closed.”

“Don't tell her that,” Bert said.

“I want resistance, not defiance. She'll learn the difference.”

Clare met Patko's eye with a small grin.

“Have you ever had formal undercover training?”

“For, like, three days in the police academy.” Clare mentally kicked herself for sounding like a valley girl.

“So you've been fighting uphill. Are you interested in learning more about the craft?”

“Of course. Like what, specifically?”

“Like clear decision-making skills. So you won't be playing guessing games about whether you should drop
LSD
with suspects — you'll know with more clarity that you most definitely should
not
.”

Clare groaned, and Bert chuckled.

“You would learn how to palm that tab of acid and act the whole trip. Do you have shooting experience?”

“I was trained as a cop. I was the second-best shot in my class.”

“Well, if you're the second-best on our team, my hat will go off to you. I'd be happy with second worst.”

“Is everyone on your team some kind of superstar?”

“That's the idea. But superstars aren't born — they're created through years of hard work. I see that potential in you, too, or I wouldn't be making you this offer.”

Clare gulped. “So this is an offer? I can accept it, then I'd have this new job?”

Patko slid out of the booth and stood up. “I'll leave Bert to go over particulars. I'll need an answer by Friday, if that works for you.”

“Sure,” Clare said. “I'll think it over.”

MARTHA

Martha sat back in her chair across the desk from Bill Maher. It wasn't even a pose — she felt relaxed and comfortable. Cameras were rolling. Polite introductory lines were out of the way.

“How do you run a campaign while grieving for your daughter?” Maher asked.

“With help,” Martha said. “My team has worked their asses off — you can swear on this network, yes?”

The crowd tittered, and Martha remembered how great it felt to have a live audience laughing for her. It was a smaller crowd than usual, since they were taping on an off day. The rest of the show — the political panel — would be taped on Friday.

“Yes,” Maher said. “You can fucking swear on this network. We're not Fox. Sorry if Fox is your best supporter — I know they love their Republicans.”

“They like Republicans like Geoffrey Kearnes. You know, the kind who like to fly private on their constituents' dime.”

“I like to fly private,” Maher said. “Why do you think I invite all these celebrities on my show? I want invites on their planes, man. But I'm interrupting you — your staff have been working their motherfucking asses off . . .”

Martha smirked. “Yes — they've even taught me to be savvy with social media. I'm lucky with the team I have working for me. Except, of course . . .” Martha let the sentence trail, temporarily, then grabbed back her strength and said, “Ted Mitchell aside.”

Maher's eyebrows lifted. “How do you feel about Ted Mitchell now?”

“Sad,” Martha said. “He was smart. So much potential. But his mental illness has taken him over.”

“Do you know what that illness was?”

“The best guess is Narcissistic Personality Disorder.”

“Is there a high success rate, curing narcissism? If there is, we should send the cure to Hollywood.”

Martha smiled along with the laughter from the audience. “No, there's very little success curing
NPD
,” Martha said. “But talk therapy occasionally works. Which is maybe why people in Hollywood talk so much.” Martha was pleased when the audience roared even harder. It was off the cuff — none of her assistants had written that line and she felt like she was in her element.

“Are you angry with yourself for trusting Ted? You two worked closely together — there must be signs you see, in retrospect. Are there any that are eating at you now?”

“Dozens,” Martha said. “But evil isn't something that most of us can see. We shut that part of our brain off because it's too scary, or we don't want to indulge our own evil. Ha — can you tell I went to my first therapy session today?”

Maher laughed, maybe too politely. Maybe Martha should leave the therapy part out of her transparency platform.

“So you're staying in this race?”

“I'm in it more than ever.”

“Good. Because if you win the ticket, I'm voting Republican for the first time in I can't even remember how long.”

Martha felt a tear form in her right eye — her first in the eighteen days since Sacha had died. She brushed it away, but not before Maher saw her.

“Sorry. Does my vote make you sad?”

“This was Sacha's favorite
TV
show. Your vote would make me happier than you know.”

CLARE

Clare looked at Noah. She moved a pawn forward on the chessboard. “I should grab my toothbrush before I go.”

“You don't have to leave.” Noah moved his rook to leave his queen unprotected.

“Are you playing stupidly on purpose?”

“Shit. Didn't see that. No, just dumb today I guess.”

Clare took the queen.

“I thought things were going well,” Noah said. “You wanted me to go with you to see your family.”

Clare was tempted to reach for one of Noah's cigarettes, but didn't. “I thought so, too. I changed my mind.”

“Why? Because you bail whenever things get tricky? That's fine when you're a teenager. But if you keep running, you'll end up alone with no one to love you back.”

“If I'm still single when I'm thirty, I'll get a cat.”

“You hate cats.”

“So I'll get a dog.”

“Dogs need love. You'll think it's being needy when it wants to curl up and cuddle.” Noah studied the board before moving his bishop.

Clare moved her knight so it put his king and rook in double jeopardy. “Check.”

Noah wrinkled his mouth and moved his king.

“I'm not quitting work,” Clare said. “So I guess that means I'm still a whore, still unworthy of your full-time affection.”

“You're not unworthy. You're amazing.”

“Noah,
fuck off.
” Clare couldn't take his nice guy act — the one that lured her back every single time, because it wasn't so much an act as it was the best side of himself.

Noah leaned back on the couch
.
“I can't believe you got a job offer from the
CIA
. You haven't even been back in town twenty-four hours.”

“I haven't said yes yet.”

“But you will. And you'll get sent off on really cool assignments. To Barcelona, or Hong Kong.”

“I'm looking forward to my first Latin lover.” Clare took the rook with her knight. It maybe wasn't the kindest thing to say, so Clare tossed Noah a small grin to let him know she was joking.

“Okay,” Noah said finally. “I can live with it. With who you are. With what you do.”

Clare looked up at him again and held his gaze longer.

“I made a playlist for later,” Noah said. “One hundred percent Depeche Mode and Leonard Cohen.”

“So make a move. I can checkmate you on the next turn and I'm hungry for dinner.” Clare still wished he would say he was in love with her, but this was close.

“Glad your game is back, at least.” Noah pushed a pawn forward, though it was futile. “Where do you want to eat?”

“La Palapa. I have to start practicing foreign languages.”

“Going home with a Latin waiter doesn't count as research,” Noah said, “in case you thought our relationship was that loose.”

“What — so now you want to be exclusive?” Clare moved her queen to seal the win. She met his eyes and held them. She liked what she got back.

Noah nodded, keeping her gaze. “Yeah. Assignments excluded. Think you can handle that?”

“I can.” Clare chewed her lower lip. “But let's talk about the Latin waiter.”