Mistress

by James Patterson

  Cue the theme to Mission: Impossible.

  I park the Triumph a couple blocks away and walk along the C&O Canal’s path, keeping company with joggers getting in their exercise before the workday begins. Then I head to the back of Diana’s building and take the rickety steps of the fire escape up to her floor.

  Wouldn’t it be cool if you could play theme music when you were walking around doing things? Especially during dramatic moments. I think it would inspire people.

  I still have the key that opens the fire-escape entrance and her door. What I don’t have is any idea who might be watching this building right now, or whether I’m committing a crime just by entering. But I’m out of choices at this point.

  I feel a wave of nausea as I take the wobbly steps, but compared to my other challenges the last couple of days, this is a walk in the park. I reach the top and enter the building, my heartbeat fluttering ever so slightly.

  Her apartment is at the end of the hallway. There is yellow police tape across the door, so that removes any question about whether I’m supposed to go in there.

  But I do it anyway. I walk in, and my breath is whisked away, memories cascading through me in waves. Diana. What were you doing, Diana, that brought all this down on you?

  Focus, Ben. It won’t take two minutes to get those tapes and leave.

  I look up at the smoke detector in her kitchen, the pinhole camera inside it. I grab the stepladder Diana always tucked next to her refrigerator and find the Phillips screwdriver she kept in a tray in her pantry and get to work. I’m unscrewing the second of two screws when I hear a noise from the other end of the apartment, a bottle falling over and rolling on glass.

  Panic spreads across my chest. I climb down from the ladder as Cinnamon, Diana’s Abyssinian, comes jogging toward me.

  “Hey, girl!” I cry out, surprised at how happy I am to see the cat. Maybe because I’m happy to see anyone these days who isn’t pointing a firearm at me. Or maybe it’s because Cinnamon is now the last vestige of Diana.

  The poor thing is a nervous wreck. Has anyone been feeding her? I really don’t know. So I find some cat food in the pantry and give her a bowl. She forgets all about me and goes to town on the food.

  I get the last screw out of the smoke detector and pop the bottom lid and—and there isn’t any camera or microphone. The surveillance equipment has been removed.

  I jump down off the ladder and head into Diana’s bedroom and see that the motion-activated video recorder, disguised as an AC adapter plug, is also missing. I look behind Diana’s desk and check every outlet, but no, it’s gone.

  Both of the surveillance devices I installed are gone.

  And with them the identity of Diana’s killer.

  I have no leads and nowhere to go.

  Chapter 26

  After parking my Triumph, I walk the streets of the capital, stopping often to double back and watch for anyone paying close attention to me. I find a coffee shop in Georgetown and sit with my back to the wall, watching everyone who walks into the place. A muscle-bound Asian guy. Two cute college girls. An elderly woman and two grandchildren. A slick suit talking into his earpiece.

  I don’t know whom to suspect. Anyone could be watching me anywhere.

  At 10:00 a.m., I get a text message from the White House. The president is back from a week on Martha’s Vineyard and is holding a press conference at 2:30 this afternoon. It’s my week to cover the briefing room, and I consider asking my partner, Ashley Brook Clark, to cover it for me. But today it’s a welcome diversion.

  Inside the Brady Room, the major network reporters are dolled up in their makeup, coiffed hair, and neatly pressed clothes, doing stand-ups, predicting to the audiences at home that the president will comment on the next secretary of agriculture, the unrest in Libya, and the resumed fighting in Chechnya. Me, I have an online newspaper, so I don’t need to care much about my appearance—but even for me, I’m looking worse for wear today. I’ve only slept a handful of hours over the last forty-eight, and, not being able to return home, I was forced to buy clothes at Brooks Brothers. My shirt is still creased from the package, and the sport coat is too big in the shoulders. I look like a disheveled kid.

  The press secretary, Rob Courtney, is prepping us with some details of the president’s schedule over the next week and some background on the appointment he’s announcing today. I don’t need it. I’ve known who was going to be the next secretary of agriculture for two weeks now. It pays to know people on the inside. And when I say it pays, I mean that literally. Usually it’s Redskins or Nationals tickets. Several years ago, I flew a source in the State Department and his girlfriend to Manhattan and back for the evening in my Cessna. She had a wonderful birthday dinner at Moomba and I had a nice headline story about how the ambassador to Australia was planning to resign to run for governor of Ohio.

  “Blue shirt, red tie,” predicts the reporter next to me, Wilma Grace. A running joke with us, and a running bet. Being the gentleman that I am, I always let her pick first.

  “White shirt, blue tie,” I counter.

  I look around the briefing room and slowly calm. I’m safe, if nothing else, within the confines of the West Wing, and seeing familiar faces is comforting.

  “The president of the United States,” says Rob Courtney.

  President Blake Francis strides in with the fluid ease that accompanies power, with a fresh tan from vacation, and with a blue shirt and red tie.

  “You saw him today already,” I whisper to Wilma.

  “Never said I didn’t.”

  “That’s cold, Gracie. That’s cold.”

  “You might want to take the price tag off your sport coat,” Wilma suggests. Yeah, I’m feeling better. I’m glad I came.

  “Afternoon, everyone,” says the president. “It’s nice to be back. I can’t tell you how much I missed all of you.”

  Polite laughter from those of us in the peanut gallery. The aides flanking him laugh like he’s just told the funniest joke ever uttered.

  “Before I discuss the appointment I’m here to announce, I’d like to make one comment. Many of you were as saddened as I was to learn of the recent death of Diana Hotchkiss, who worked for several years on Congressman Carney’s staff and then as a liaison for the CIA.”

  I blink. Did he—did I hear him correctly?

  “And I understand that her family has suffered a second tragedy recently with the death of her brother,” he continues. “I’d just like to say that Libby and I send the Hotchkiss family our very best.” President Francis gives a presumptive nod. “Okay. Now, as you know, I promised that before I appointed the next secretary of agriculture, I would search high and low…”

  I look at Wilma, who returns my glance but doesn’t seem to be registering any undue surprise. She shrugs her shoulders. “Some staffer on the Hill, I guess?” she whispers.

  I nod back. Wilma obviously didn’t know Diana. She meant a great deal to me, but to most people Diana was one of thousands of faceless, ambitious staffers toiling behind the scenes of power.

  So how did she warrant a mention in a nationally televised news conference with the president of the United States?

  Chapter 27

  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 des
k 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.

  We pull out onto Connecticut Avenue and then cross over Dupont Circle to Massachusetts Avenue. It occurs to me that they could be driving me to some deserted location so they can put me out of my misery.

  But then we take a roundabout and turn right onto Q Street. That’s when I figure out where we’re going. They’re not taking me to an undisclosed location.

  They’re taking me to the Chinese embassy.

  Chapter 29

  A couple of years ago I attended a ceremony in the Grand Hall of the Chinese embassy, an immaculate limestone building in the northwest section of the capital. The room I’m escorted to now, though, is anything but grand. The walls are gray and red. The room is cramped and poorly lit and cold. The two men who take me from the limo underground are about the same size as the other goons, but not sparkling conversationalists like Frick and Frack. They don’t put their hands on me until we’re in the room, at which time they each take one of my shoulders and force me into the lone chair in the center of the room.

  A door that I didn’t even know was a door opens, and two Chinese men enter. They are in suits and ties. One has a tight haircut and the other is bald. The bald guy looks like he’s spent some time in a gym. The one with the tight haircut looks softer, like a diplomat.

  “Mr. Casper,” says Bald Guy.

  “That’s me.”

  “What is this you are saying about Jonathan Liu? You told the receptionist that he is responsible for the death of a government worker?”

  I look from one of them to the other. “It was a conversation I intended to have with Jonathan Liu.”

  “Mr. Liu is not here.” There is a trace of his native accent but his English is perfect.

  “And you are…?” I ask.

  “I am…the one asking you questions.”

  “I meant, what’s your name?”

  “I know what you meant. Tell me of these accusations you make against Jonathan Liu.”

  I don’t know if this guy is on my side or against me. I could take a wild guess. “I’ve written an article that explains how Jonathan Liu murdered the White House liaison for CIA deputy director Craig Carney.”

  Bald Guy is impassive. “And your proof is?”

  “Read the article.” There is no article. Not yet. I’m nowhere in the vicinity of proving what I believe. The truth is, I’m fishing.

  “There is no article,” says Bald Guy.

  What is this guy, a mind reader? “Have it your way,” I say. It reminds me of those Burger King commercials from the ’70s. Great, now that stupid Hold-the-pickles-hold-the-lettuce song is in my head. But it beats the hell out of their later commercials, the ones with that freaky king character. That guy could haunt my dreams.

  “Relations between our country and the United States are rather…tenuous, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Casper?”

  “If you’re a fan of human rights, then yes, I’d agree.”

  “Human rights.” He allows himself a small chuckle. “Mr. Liu does not represent the People’s Republic. Yet we are aware that he is a man of considerable influence. What is accused of Mr. Liu will be accused of the People’s Republic. Bombastic, ridiculous accusations will not do.”

  I lean forward and one of the goons behind me takes my shoulder. “I’m an American journalist in the United States. I will print what I want. In America, we have something called a free press. You should look it up.”

  Hold the pickles, hold the lettuce, freedom of the press upsets us…

  Bald Guy moves closer toward me. “You may be an American journalist,” he says, “but you’re not in America. Not at the moment.”

  “Because you kidnapped me.”

  “We did nothing of the kind. We have you signed in at the front entrance. You asked to speak with me and I’m granting you that audience.”

  I let out a nervous sigh. I’m trying to play cool but I’m feeling anything but. “Listen, Reverend Moon—”

  “Ah, a slur. That’s to be expected of an American. All us slant-eyed Asians are the same, yes? That’s fine, Mr. Casper. Keep thinking of yourself as morally superior while our country runs circles around yours economically. The People’s Re
public is flourishing while the United States of America is sinking deeper and deeper into a hole.”

  Bald Guy walks within a foot of me and leans forward, staring at me eye-to-eye. “Now, sir, before I become impatient. Tell me what you know of Jonathan Liu.”

  “Diana Hotchkiss,” I say.

  He nods slowly. “A tragedy.”

  “He had her killed.”

  “And why did he do that?”

  “Read the article.”

  A smile crosses his face. “There is no article. What is it going to say? That you, Mr. Casper, had a relationship with Ms. Hotchkiss? That you, Benjamin Casper, were at her condominium the night of her death?”

  I do a slow burn.

  “A person of interest in the death of Ms. Hotchkiss—a spurned lover who had, as you Americans say, motive and opportunity—is writing a story about her death? Would this not be considered something of a conflict of interest?”

  These guys are all over this. What stone have I turned over?

  Bald Guy puts his nose within a hairbreadth of mine. “There is no article,” he says.

  He stands straight again and paces the room. “And if there is, it will get, shall we say, ugly for you, Benjamin Casper. Perhaps everyone will learn the interesting background of your own life. Including your childhood.”

  Ben, you remember me, right? Detective Amy LaTaglia.

  My dad says I’m not supposed to talk to you.

  I know, Ben. So don’t. I’ll talk to you. I just wanted to let you know that we got back the fingerprint analysis. Did you know that we found fingerprints on the gun that was in your mother’s hand?

  “Those records are sealed,” I hiss.

  Bald Guy waves a hand. “Then perhaps it gives you a window into the resources at our disposal that we were able to access that sealed information.”