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“No way. I don’t want Amanda knowing a thing about that until and unless it becomes necessary.”
“I didn’t think so. But Fenton’s not stupid.”
“No, he’s not. Neither is Amanda. But you’re coming at this from the wrong angle, Mr. Strategist. Remember, we’re hunting down Justin’s father. And he and Fenton were business associates.”
Abruptly, comprehension lit Ryan’s eyes. “I’m with you now. Smart move. If you come at it from that angle, Fenton will think we’re interviewing him strictly to learn what we can about Paul—not the blackmailed Paul, but the colleague Paul. He’ll think we’re hoping to gain any insights that might lead us in the right direction. Naturally, he’ll think he’s controlling the conversation. The truth is, he won’t even be controlling the reason behind it—that we’re actually checking into him.”
“Bingo. Our real goal will be to figure out why Fenton’s continually holding out on the dredging contract for the new hotel—and if he has any connection to the payoffs that Paul made, and John Morano is still making.”
“That should be fun to accomplish.”
A hint of a smile curved Casey’s lips. “Have faith. I can read anyone, and Marc can get information out of people they didn’t even realize they had, much less spilled. You’ve got a double-dose of the best. How can we possibly fail?”
“You really should work on your self-esteem, Casey,” Ryan parroted her words. “It sucks that you think so little of yourself. Marc, too, for that matter.”
“Yeah.” Casey grinned. “It’s a team problem. Maybe it’s contagious.”
“Well, you know where the buck stops,” Ryan clarified cheerfully.
“With the person who puts those bucks in your pocket.” Casey arched a brow.
“Ouch.” Ryan pretended to wince. “Okay, you win. You’re the boss. And the boss is always right.”
Casey considered that. “Well, not always. Just most of the time.”
* * *
Patrick was not in a good mood.
After all his years with the Bureau, working cases that took aeons before—and if—they were solved, he still hated investing his time and coming up empty. And that’s exactly what had happened this morning.
He’d gone to that damned diner at 6:30 a.m., just in case the guy the waitress had tentatively identified as Paul Everett came in earlier than his customary seven-thirty.
Not only didn’t he come in early, he didn’t come in at all.
Great. With Patrick’s luck, the guy had scheduled his annual physical checkup for this morning.
Dragging breakfast out as long as possible, Patrick had ordered poached eggs—which took a while to make—and toast, along with three cups of coffee, lingering over each bite and each damned sip, until he was flying on caffeine. Still nothing. Finally, he’d given the waitress his name and cell phone number, plus a fifty-dollar tip, and asked her to call him ASAP if the guy in question dropped in—and not to mention to the guy that Patrick was looking for him. The unspoken message was that, should she be successful, there was more where that came from. She’d quickly agreed, dollar signs gleaming in her eyes.
From there, Patrick had shown Paul Everett’s picture around to the morning commuters. Zilch. At that point, he’d had enough time only to work off his breakfast at the hotel gym, shower and get ready for lunch. Most people would relish this kind of workday. Lots of eating. Not lots of demanding tasks. Patrick didn’t. If something didn’t materialize at lunch, he was going to punch someone.
* * *
He strode under the green-canopied entrance of the Monocle Restaurant on Capitol Hill at twelve-twenty. The restaurant was pure class, but it wasn’t huge. So he could easily scan the dining room from the waiting area. No sign of the congressman or Fenton. Which meant he’d beaten them there. Good. He wanted to be settled and inconspicuous by the time his quarry arrived.
He didn’t have long to wait.
He’d just opened his iPad in front of him and was presumably hard at work on something when Mercer walked in, closely followed by Fenton. The two men shook hands vigorously in greeting.
Patrick recognized them from the photos Ryan had given him, although he would have recognized them anyway. Mercer had been interviewed on several news shows, and Fenton’s picture had appeared in the business section of a couple of New York newspapers.
Neither man was imposing in stature, yet each of them had his individual type of commanding presence. Mercer was much younger, probably in his mid-forties, and he was an avid sportsman. So he was muscular and fit. Although Fenton looked pretty damned good for a man in his sixties. Hours of golf would do that for you. He was just stockier than Mercer, with a little more flesh on him. Still, he had a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, and a tan that looked year-round. Yup. Money and power definitely agreed with him. And Mercer probably couldn’t allow himself the luxury of a December tan. His constituents might think he was slacking off, spending time at the tanning salon.
Patrick cut his evaluation short as the waiter handed him his menu and filled up his water glass. Simultaneously, the maître d’ was showing Mercer and Fenton to their table. Patrick kept his head down, his eyes on the screen of his iPad. He murmured a “thanks” to the waiter and shifted his attention to the menu, scanning it and waiting until the two men had passed by. He almost had to laugh aloud when he saw where they were being seated—at the table diagonally to the right of his. Ryan was a friggin’ magician.
Well, it was time for Patrick to call on an enviable skill of his own. He had a rare ability to totally shut out all surrounding noise and activity, and focus just on the one thing that interested him—whether it was a conversation, an interesting article on the internet or a football game. When he was singularly—and intentionally—focused like that, there could be an earthquake around him and he wouldn’t notice.
He called this ability a gift. His wife called it something else—especially when she’d asked him the same question five times and he still hadn’t answered her.
