Mistress(48)

“The very one.”

“Why do you want to talk to Fast Eddie?”

One of the plainclothes detectives pops his head out and calls to Larkin. She hangs up her phone and rushes up the stairs and disappears into my house.

It looks like they found something good. Good for them, I mean. Not so good for me.

“Because I think it’s time I finally got a lawyer,” I say.





Chapter 54



The Hart Senate Office Building is the third building that was constructed to hold United States Senate offices. The building is northeast of the Capitol, adjacent to the Dirksen Senate Office Building along Constitution Avenue, with a view of the Supreme Court Building.

The reception area in the third-floor office is all earth tones. I’m seated in a chair that I’d best describe as sunrise orange—I just made that up, but I like it—while a middle-aged woman busies herself answering the phone and shooting glances at me over her bifocals.

Her intercom buzzes, she picks up a phone, and then she gives me the go-ahead.

Inside the main office, the colors are patriotic. Even the Iowa state flag, standing alongside the Stars and Stripes, fits in with the color scheme, though truth be told the Iowa state flag resembles the French flag more than it does the American flag. Kind of ironic, given that then-congressman Craig Carney was one of the politicians leading the charge to change the phrase french fries to freedom fries when the French were less than enthusiastic about our invasion of Iraq.

I’m not sure why I’m meeting with the number two man at the CIA in a senator’s office. Carney used to be a congressman from Iowa, and he’s close with the Iowa senator who occupies this office, but why didn’t he just invite me to CIA headquarters?

Carney is handsome, with a square jaw, steel blue eyes, and a full head of dark hair just touched with gray. Some of these politicians, when you get them off camera, let their hair down. I’ve never seen Craig Carney’s hair down. I don’t know if he’s capable of letting it down. He looks as polished as ever today in his crisp white shirt, navy blue tie with tiny red stars, and cuff links bearing the Stars and Stripes.

Craig Carney is largely credited with helping Blake Francis win the Iowa caucus, which catapulted him from the middle of the pack into front-runner status for the GOP nomination. Carney was even on a short list of candidates for vice president. The president and Carney are very tight, to understate the point.

Deputy Director Carney swivels in his leather chair and invites me to take the seat across from his walnut desk, which doesn’t look nearly as comfortable as his own seat. He makes a show of looking at his watch. “My schedule is full today,” he informs me.

But he made time for me, I notice. I only called this morning. Usually it takes a week, minimum, to schedule some time like this.

“So you wanted to talk about Operation Sunshine,” he says. That’s the operation the United States embarked on to give humanitarian relief to the people of Bolivia following a devastating earthquake. That was the excuse I gave for this interview.

He smiles, and so do I.

“I think we both know that’s not why I’m here,” I say. He wouldn’t have dropped everything, and wouldn’t have scheduled the meeting away from his office, if the subject were Operation Sunshine.

He reveals nothing but his pearly white teeth. “If there’s something else,” he says.

“Diana Hotchkiss, Mr. Deputy Director.”

Carney nods soberly, turning on the furrowed-brow concerned look that DC politicians learn during their first-week orientation. “She’ll be missed.”

I almost laugh. He threaded that one just about right.

“Have you spoken with her recently?” I ask.

I just want to see how he reacts. If Craig Carney is capable of sincerity, I’ve yet to see it. I could see this guy being president one day, and I don’t mean that as a compliment.

He cups some almonds out of a dish on the desk and weighs them in his hand while he looks me over. I wonder if the senator who occupies this office knows that Carney is eating his almonds.

“Tell me something, Ben. It’s Ben, isn’t it?”

That’s the kind of thing I hate about this town. Those little put-downs, delivered politely but intended to degrade the other person. This asshole knows very well who I am. If he didn’t, I wouldn’t be sitting here on such short notice.

“Yes, it’s Ben,” I say.

“Ben, why would you ask me a provocative question like that?”

“To provoke you.”

“Yes, well—I guess that’s what reporters do. They shake trees.”

That’s the same phrase Ellis Burk used.