Chapter Seven
Ian
Ipaused my playlistand my run through Rock Creek Park to take an incoming call.
“Ian Greene.” I kept each syllable crisp.
“Mr. Greene, this is Warren Holt at Senator Rink’s office.”
A wave of satisfaction rippled over me. This was the final layer to pull back and figure out what Brooke was hiding.
“Mr. Holt, thanks for returning my call.” I’d called the senator’s office for a reference check on Brooke, expecting to hear back from one of the senator’s underlings, not his chief of staff. This was an interesting development. “We’re very impressed with Brooke Spencer but we’d love to hear about your experience with her.”
There was a long pause. “I’m surprised she listed her employment here on her resume.”
I would have to play the next part carefully. “It’s a prestigious job, so it makes sense to me, but it sounds like you may have concerns about her time there?”
Another pause. “She’s without doubt a capable person. But sometimes, it takes more than that to be a good fit.”
“Her work wasn’t to your standard?”
“I’m sure you know that federal guidelines prevent me from doing more than confirming her dates of employment and position.”
“Not if she listed you as a personal reference.”
“I am certain she did not.” His tone was cool to the point of icy.
“You’re right. So you’re saying you wouldn’t rehire her.”
“I would not rehire her.”
I considered how to get more information. He clearly wanted to talk, or he would have delegated this call. “If Miss Spencer were to be hired for a position dealing with sensitive materials, and I were speaking to someone who thought she shouldn’t be, but that person isn’t at liberty to disclose more, how would you advise that I proceed?”
Warren Holt cleared his throat. “I couldn’t say. Who knows where the truth might turn up? Even the gossip blogs get it right now and again.”
“I understand. Thank you for your call, Mr. Holt. It’s appreciated.”
I hung up and smiled. Warren Holt had given me the next key, and I would use it immediately. I dialed a number I used when I needed to dig deep on someone.
It rang twice before a mellow voice answered. “This is Brandon.”
“It’s Ian Greene. How’s my favorite bartender?”
“Hungry,” Brandon answered.
“Then let me take you out for the juiciest steak in town.”
“Today?”
“Yeah, lunch.”
“Meet you there at noon.”
I jogged the rest of my route, mind racing. Warren Holt clearly wanted me to know there was a problem with Brooke. And his implication was that it was something I’d find in the capital gossip machine, not Brooke’s employment records.
Gossip meant...an affair, probably. That’s what it always seemed to mean with attractive young women.
