Mistress(25)

After the presidential briefing, the pain returns to my stomach. Out of the sanctuary of the White House, I’m once again exposed and vulnerable to whoever is out to get me. I’m confused and scared and out of ideas.

Good ideas, at least.

The building on Connecticut Avenue is five minutes north of the White House. It is ten stories of gray stone with a green awning over the entrance. I park my Triumph and go in. The lobby security asks me if I have an appointment and I lie and say yes. I sign my name in a register and pass through a metal detector. I get off at the tenth floor and turn right and go through a thick glass door. The reception area is ornate, intended to impress. The visitors’ sitting area has sleek black-and-purple furniture and a nice floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Connecticut Avenue. The reception desk is a half-moon; the woman sitting behind it could grace a magazine cover. The name of the company is stenciled in a fancy font—the same one Porsche uses, I think—on the wall behind her.

“May I help you, sir?” she asks. She’s wearing a headset with a receiver that curls around to her mouth.

“Ben Casper of Capital Beat for Jonathan Liu,” I say, showing my press credentials.

Admittedly, this is a less-than-subtle tactic. Ideally, I would investigate this guy under the radar, gather what information I could, and confront him when it was strategically optimal. But I can’t think of another move I can make right now.

“Is he expecting you?” the bombshell asks me.

“He should be.” That’s pretty close to the truth.

She pauses. “Can I tell him what this is in regard to?”

Behind the woman is a glass wall and a door. An earnest, well-dressed man pushes through it and passes me on his way out of the office. The door clicks shut behind him.

I say, “I’m doing a story about how lobbyists are underpaid and why we need more money in politics, not less.”

The receptionist thinks about that for a second.

“It’s a story about how lobbyists are making the world safe for bloodsucking Fortune Five Hundred companies that rip off the little guy and then get bailed out by the government. It’s high time corporate America had a voice in politics.”

She’s still thinking.

“Just kidding,” I say. “I’m holding a garage sale this weekend to help raise money for Mr. Liu. A million dollars a month hardly pays the groceries these days. I’m worried about him.”

The woman mumbles something into her mouthpiece.

“Okay; I’ll be straight with you.” I lean forward so I’m sure she can hear me. “The story I’m writing is about how Jonathan Liu murdered a senior Capitol Hill staffer. A staffer he was having an affair with. The story’s going to press in an hour. I’m wondering if he’d like to hear me out first.”

I walk over to the window by the sitting area and wait. It’s near the end of the business day and people are hustling about. People always seem to move more quickly when they’re exiting work than when they’re arriving.

After a few moments, a well-dressed man opens the glass door and holds it open.

“Mr. Casper?” he says. “Right this way, sir.”





Chapter 28



I’m escorted by two serious Chinese men, each approximately the size of a small house, down a spacious corridor filled with expensive artwork and canned lighting and purple carpeting. The Liu Group is doing okay these days, at least from appearances. I’m not a big fan of purple, but I will admit that Prince’s Purple Rain is one of the best albums of my generation. You could argue that 1999 was superior, but Purple showed more emotion.

The two guys escorting me, on the other hand, show none. If they weren’t moving, I’d swear they were statues. They walk me past a series of offices, each one bigger and fancier than the previous one. We turn a corner and then we’re going down another hallway. We stop at an elevator.

“Where are we going?” I ask Frick and Frack. “I’m supposed to be meeting with Jonathan Liu.”

“You’re mistaken,” says the bigger of the two.

The elevator opens and they push me inside.

“I should warn you,” I say. “I know karate, jujitsu, and a lot of other Asian words.”

Nothing. Not even a smile. When the elevator opens again, we’re in an underground garage. A black limousine pulls up and a side door opens.

“Get in,” says one of the men.

Well, I asked for this. This could be the biggest mistake of my life.

I step inside the limo and the door closes behind me. It automatically locks. I’m alone inside the passenger area, staring at a black screen that obscures the driver.