Page 2 of Winterveil

“Hiding my face in shame, kid. Where do you think?”

“I didn’t hire you to stick your head in the sand. Get down here. Now.”

Cafferty laughed his three-packs-a-day laugh. “Not a chance. I can’t even believe you’re still there. Well, they’re going to get a hell of a perp walk out of you.”

Julian’s stomach hollowed. “The impeachment vote—”

“—isn’t going to save you. This isn’t the student council; this is real shit, grown-up shit. They aren’t going to let you walk away with just a slap on the wrist.”

“Everyone does it.” Julian’s hand tightened around the receiver. “Everyone who’s sat in this chair before me.”

“Of course,” Cafferty replied. “But everyone who’s sat in that chair before you has been some geriatric former head of the school board or city council president or labor union rep. Someone with credentials and party support, who moved through the system the way they were supposed to. Not an upstart from Back Bay who just got his braces off.”

“Careful,” Julian bit out. “You’re still on my payroll.”

“I’m on your father’s payroll, kid. And I’m guessing he’s your call waiting.” Cafferty let out a breath. “I am sorry it had to end this way. But they want to make an example out of you. They don’t want people to think that you can win a major election by flirting with the host of The Tonight Show. They want everyone to know that you have to follow the rules. Kiss the appropriate rings.”

“Then maybe you should’ve told me that,” Julian said. He hated how his voice cracked. “You were supposed to advise me. To—to help me.”

There was a pause. Julian heard some muted shuffling. Then:

“Don’t worry. Your father will get you the best lawyer money can buy. Suarez only got ten months for taking bribes, and that’ll probably get thrown out on appeal.”

Julian opened his mouth, but before he could reply, the line went dead.

It was only after he’d slammed the receiver back down that he came up with several stinging rejoinders. My father should have hired a real political consultant instead of a washed-up yes-man on his fourth wife and third heart attack. My father will—

“The parking bill needs your signature.”

Quinn stood in the doorway again, holding a manila folder embossed with the city seal. Julian waved him in.

He placed the folder on the desk and Julian flipped it open, scrawling his name carelessly on the black line. As he shoved it back, he smudged the III with his thumb. Quinn took the folder with far too much deftness, the corner of his upper lip curling.

Julian resisted the urge to launch himself across the desk and wipe off that smirk. He needed Quinn gone.

“Get me an espresso,” he ordered. The machine in the lounge was broken. It would take Quinn at least twenty minutes.

“Of course,” Quinn said, with that same almost-grin. As he vanished, Julian wondered if he could convincingly name Quinn as an accomplice in his police confession. But Quinn’s closest brush with true criminal activity had been scrubbing up the Bombay Sapphire that Julian had spilled in his office on inauguration night.

Not his office. Not for much longer.

Julian reached for the phone. His hand was shaking so violently that it took two tries to dial the number he knew by heart. The phone rang four times. Five.

There was no hello to tell him that the call had connected, but he recognized the sound of his father’s breathing. It crackled in the dead air between them.

“Dad?”

Another moment passed in silence, broken only by his father’s sharp inhale.

Julian’s mind swam. He tried to think of something—anything—eloquent to say, something that might defuse his father’s anger, or armor himself against it. But all he could manage was, “I’m sorry. I—”

“I don’t want to hear apologies or excuses. You fix it. Now.”

“I—I can’t.” He could not keep his voice from trembling. “Dad, please. I need your help.”

His father was quiet for nearly a full minute. Julian counted.

“Do you think this is cute?” his father replied at last. “Posing for magazine spreads and getting drunk at galas? Did you ever consider anything but your vanity and ego?”