“Welcome to the club,” Dana answered somberly.

There was a clock over the entrance, and Brad noticed the time.

“I should be going,” he said.

“It’s been great seeing you again. Say hi to your better half.”

Brad smiled. “I will. When Jake gets back, we should double.”

“It’s a date,” Dana said.

Brad walked to his car and Dana waved. The temperature had dropped, and she was grateful for the warmth her motorcycle jacket provided. Despite what she’d told Brad, she did miss the action. Her boring work paid well, and there was an upside to not having people trying to kill you 24/7. But action made her blood move faster and made the colors brighter, as it had the other night at the motel when she’d saved that girl. Still, now that she had Jake and she had a choice, she’d opted for the quieter side of life.

Dana stopped being introspective long enough to start Jake’s Harley and check for traffic. There were a few cars on the road, and she waited for an opening, then eased out. At this hour, she figured the trip home would take half an hour, which would give her time to think about what she wanted to accomplish in Oregon. The car that was following her stayed far enough behind Dana that she didn’t notice it.

Chapter Twenty

Ginny was in a good mood when she arrived at Rankin Lusk the next morning. What had seemed so frightening last night seemed to be meaningless worry in the light of a new day. Justice Moss, not Brad, had been the object of the attack at the Court, and the assailant was most probably, as Brad had assured her, some nut case with an irrational agenda.

“You’re to go straight to Conference Room E, Miss Striker,” the receptionist said when Ginny entered the reception area.

Ginny frowned. She had a lot of work to do, and the few times she’d sat in on a client conference, there had been a lot of intentionally wasted time, all of which counted as billable hours.

Clients waiting in Rankin Lusk’s reception area could see through glass walls into Conference Rooms A and B. Clients meeting in these rooms could gaze out through floor-to-ceiling windows at a magnificent view of the Capitol. Conference Rooms A and B were used to impress the clients who met in them and to give the impression to clients in reception that the attorneys at Rankin Lusk were always involved in big deals and didn’t really need their business.

Conference Room E, which was a floor below reception, had no windows and was in the rear of the building away from prying eyes. As soon as Ginny walked into the room, she knew why the meeting was being held in a conference room where the conferees would not be on public display. Audrey Stewart and Dennis Masterson had their heads together at the far end of the table. Seated to Masterson’s left was Greg McKenzie, a fourth-year associate who worked with Masterson and made Ginny uneasy. McKenzie was huge and had been an offensive lineman at Iowa before going to Stanford Law. McKenzie always seemed angry, and Ginny wondered if he used steroids to maintain his pro wrestler physique.

“Ah, Miss Striker, come in and close the door,” Masterson said. Everyone stopped talking and looked her way. Masterson introduced Ginny. Then he smiled.

“Want to guess what we’re doing?” Masterson asked her.

“Helping Ms. Stewart prepare for her confirmation hearing?” Ginny asked cautiously. She hoped she had guessed correctly. If that was her assignment it would be the most exciting one she’d received since starting at the firm.

“A-plus,” Masterson answered with a smile. Then he addressed everyone in the room.

“I was delighted when President Gaylord nominated Audrey to the Court. We met when we worked together at the CIA, and we’ve kept in touch since we both left. The Court needs first-class minds, and Audrey was far and away the sharpest person I worked with at the Agency.”

Masterson stopped smiling. “Sadly, the liberals are going to attempt to discredit her by focusing on practices that kept them safe after 9/11 but have now fallen into disfavor. I’ve already heard from several sources that Senators Cummings and Vasquez are sharpening their knives. These liberals cowered in their holes while Audrey was facing fire on the front lines. Now they’re going to cast stones at the very people who protected them. So we have our work cut out for us. But,” Masterson said, breaking once more into a smile, “I feel confident that we will prevail, because our cause is just and we have God on our side, not to mention a bunch of very smart lawyers.”

Chapter Twenty-one

The offices of Exposed, Washington’s most widely read supermarket tabloid, took up two floors of a renovated warehouse within sight of the Capitol dome in a section of D.C. that was equal parts gentrification and decay. Abandoned buildings and vacant lots peopled by junkies and the homeless could be found within blocks of trendy restaurants, chic boutiques, and rehabilitated row houses owned by urban professionals. Exposed was an unrepentant rag that had gained a measure of respectability when it broke the Farrington case, thanks to a deal between Dana Cutler and Patrick Gorman, the paper’s owner and editor. But its bread and butter still consisted of Elvis sightings, accounts of UFO abductions, celebrity gossip, and guaranteed miracle diets.

Dana found Gorman eating an extra large pepperoni and cheese pizza in his second-floor office. A good deal of the wall space was given over to framed copies of the paper’s most outrageous headlines. The fact that none of them made Gorman blush said a lot about his regard for journalistic integrity. Dana stared at a section of one wall displaying the Pulitzer Prize the paper had won for its coverage of the Farrington scandal.

“That’s a nice addition to your wall of shame,” Dana said.

Gorman hated to be interrupted when he was working or eating, but he broke into a grin when he saw who was standing in the doorway.

“How’s my favorite anonymous source?” he asked as he motioned Dana into a chair. Most gentlemen would have stood when a lady entered, but Gorman was grossly obese. Dana knew it took a real effort for him to heave himself to his feet, so she forgave him for his lack of chivalry.

“I’m well, thank you. And you? How are you handling being a legitimate journalist?”

Gorman waved his hand. “I got over that months ago. Though I do get the occasional flashback in which I’m standing on the podium with our Pulitzer and looking down at the sickly green complexions on the faces of those effete snobs at the Times and Post.”

“I have noticed that you haven’t stooped to including any more legitimate reporting in your rag,” Dana said.

“I didn’t know you were a reader.”

“It’s one of my guilty pleasures. I hide Exposed in between the pages of my dominatrix magazines.”

Gorman laughed hard enough to make his jowls shake. Then he pointed at the remnants of his dinner. “Pizza?”

“No, thanks.”

“If you didn’t come here to eat with me, to what do I owe this visit? You don’t happen to have another juicy exposé for me, do you?”

“No, I’m here to ask a favor.”

“For you, anything within reason.”

“I want press credentials for Exposed, and I want you to back me up if anyone calls to verify that I’m one of your reporters.”

“I’m intrigued. Why do you need the cover?”

“I’ll tell you but I need your promise that this will stay between us.”

“Sure, with the proviso that Exposed gets exclusive rights to any juicy stories.”

“If I can. I’d need permission from my client.”

“Who is?”

Dana wagged a finger at the editor. “You know better than that.”

Gorman shrugged. “You can’t blame a guy for trying. What can you tell me?”