“Or else what?”

“Use your imagination.”

Nicky Garner was loitering beside her desk when Mia came into work the next morning. “Got time for a few words?” he asked.

“For you, always, Nicky.”

“In my office, now.” He looked grim and unhappy. Nicky led as they made their way through the cluttered maze to the small room in the back corner. As section chief, Nicky was the only one to even have an office, a questionable privilege, if it could even be called that; a closet would’ve been more comfortable.

Nicky tried to set a good example in neatness, but it was hopeless. Files and legal manuals were strewn everywhere. Stacks of paper were piled against the wall, in corners, anywhere he could find room. Enough Post-it notes were plastered to his desk and walls to make the room look like it was painted yellow.

Nicky quietly shoved the door closed, stepped over a few piles, and walked to his desk. He leaned his hip against it and asked, “What the hell were you doing at the Capitol Group yesterday?”

“How did you learn I was there?”

“I was called up to the IG’s office last night, after you left. Hanrady, an assistant to the IG, said you raised hell at CG, ruffled a few feathers, and he got a call. He asked me what’s up.”

“What did you tell him?”

“The truth, as embarrassing as it is. I have no damned idea. Wanta tell me about it?”

“Relax, Nicky. Nothing to tell, really. Just following up on some complaints passed to me by some friends in contracting. You know about CG’s polymer?”

“Sure, I know. They say that stuff’s better than Miracle Glue.”

“It may be, but the application operation in Iraq is a horrible mess. Remember all the complaints about CG’s uparmoring program? Guess what? They’re up to the same tricks.”

“That kinda thing gets worked out between contracting officials,” Nicky said, now looking suspicious.

“I know. But our folks are frustrated. They asked me to put a scare into CG. The last thing they want is a repeat of the past few years where CG blew off all the complaints. People are getting killed over there.”

“What did you say?”

“I’m not stupid, I colored between the lines. I asked a few simple questions. If they’re nervous, that’s exactly how I want them.”

As good as Mia was, Nicky reminded himself, she was still a junior agent prone to making rookie mistakes. He pushed off the desk and said, “The Capitol Group is not some penny-ante outfit, Mia. They define the word clout. They are the big league. You don’t just go over on a whim and stick a finger in their eye.”

“I know who they are. They have everybody but God on their board,” Mia answered. “But they work for us, last time I checked. They take our money, don’t they?”

Nicky stared hard at her face, as if trying to see if he was missing anything. His phone rang and he picked it up.

“I’ve got work to do,” Mia said, and she shot out the door.

21

The plan was simple.

A few nights every week, Jack grew tired of his own cooking and slipped out to a local eatery. All local places, so he could enjoy a cocktail with his meal without being overly concerned about picking up a DUI on the trip home. Thursday’s usual was McLoone’s Rum Runner, a restaurant in Sea Bright with good seafood, great river views, dark wood paneling, a roaring fireplace, and a sailing ambience.

Thursday, and as usual, Jack was out the door at seven. By seven-thirty, he was comfortably seated in McLoone’s, at his customary table for two beside the roaring fireplace. Without a menu, he ordered the house favorite, stuffed shrimp, and his usual cocktail. The glass of scotch on the rocks was being delivered when a familiar figure passed by his table.

The figure came to a dead halt. “My God, Jack… Jack Wiley. That is you, isn’t it?” the man asked, feigning confusion.

Jack put down his scotch and looked up. “Hello, Lew.”

Wallerman took two steps closer, right beside the table. “What are you doing here?”

“I live nearby.”

Wallerman looked around for a moment, then back at Jack. “I’m here alone. Mind if I join you?”

“I’m expecting somebody,” Jack lied, glancing at the door as if somebody would walk through any second.

“Then, I’ll just join you for a quick drink. Catch up on old times. The moment your guest arrives, I’ll get lost.” Without waiting for an answer he slipped into the seat across from Jack and held a hand up for the waitress. “So what are you doing these days?” he asked ever so casually.

“A little of this, a little of that. Nothing interesting.”

The waitress arrived. Wallerman ordered two gin and tonics, and make it fast. He reached into his pocket, dug out his cell phone, and carefully positioned it on its backside in the center of the table. “I’m expecting an important business call. No rest for the greedy.”

The phone had been loaned to him only an hour before by Morgan, who at that moment was hunched over in a black Dodge van outside in the parking lot, overhearing every word. The phone had been recently reconfigured by TFAC’s tech department-the insides had been gutted and replaced by two wide-angle lenses facing apart, and a digital microphone so sensitive it could hear a fly fart. TFAC was quite proud of it. This was the first time the newest marvel would see use in a real-life setting.

Morgan, munching popcorn in the van, had his eyes glued to the side-by-side video monitors. Jack’s face appeared on the left screen; Wallerman’s on the right. He slapped the console and blurted out, “Ha, got you now, you bastard.”

Jack was staring straight ahead at Wallerman. “You seem to be doing well, Lew.” His tone was edged with surprise.

Immaculately dressed as he was, in a brand-new, two-thousand-dollar blue suit bought by the TFAC boys, he looked like he was doing better than well. His nails were neatly buffed, his hair smartly trimmed by a two-hundred-dollar stylist. Even his teeth had been whitened and varnished to a high sheen. It took a lot of time and money, but he looked exactly like what he wasn’t: a Wall Street fat cat loaded with cash ready to pitch a deal worth millions, or billions.

“I have to admit I’m doing better than I ever expected,” Wallerman offered, trying to capture just the right dose of humility. No answer from Jack, and it was clear he didn’t want to talk. “So, you married yet?” Wallerman asked in an effort to keep the conversation flowing.

“No. You?”

“Tried it once. That was one more than enough. Caught her red-handed in bed with this guy I was doing a hundred million deal with. I didn’t mind losing her, really. I married her because she put out. Turned out she put out for everybody. The hundred million broke my heart.”

Jack laughed, politely at best. Rich-boy humor.

Wallerman let a moment pass, then admitted very softly, “Truth is, Jack, I expected to find you here.”

His eyes glued to the screen, Morgan studied Jack’s face for a response to this interesting confession. He was instantly rewarded by a dramatic change in expression-stage fright might be a good word to describe it. “What’s this about?” Jack asked, unable to hide his concern.

“Let’s talk about Edith Warbinger first,” Lew insisted. “Long time ago, I know, but surely you remember her.”

“Oh, that.” Jack leaned back in his chair, a clumsy attempt to look indifferent. “Too bad what happened to the old girl. But you’re right, it’s ancient history.”

“She’s gone but not forgotten, Jack.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember when I asked you to cut me in? If I recall your exact words, you told me to screw myself. I needed the money back then. Needed it badly. It would’ve changed my life, Jack. You really hurt my feelings. An old pal from college, I introduced you to the firm and even vouched for you. How could you blow me off that way?”