“So was Alex Rodriguez until he met Madonna. Listen, as long as Mrs. Girardi keeps Mr. Girardi out of East Hampton, he’ll be fine. But if he happens to come to town and just happens to bump into this particular material girl, I can’t be responsible for what Cupid does to the poor guy.”

Elise laughed again. She had no doubt that if Girardi, or any other New York Yankee, showed up in her jurisdiction, Rita would personally put them under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Not only that, but she would probably find a way to introduce herself and end up inviting them out to her favorite tavern to drink them under the table. She was one of those people you couldn’t help but enjoy being around. She had an infectious laugh and a larger-than-life personality. She was an irresistible force that immediately became the center of gravity in every room she ever walked into.

An attractive woman in her late forties with dark hair and bright blue eyes, Klees had a pair of breasts almost as big as her personality. She was fond of saying that her boobs did for her what Columbo’s wrinkled raincoat had done for the clever television detective. Most men, and more than a few women, believed that breast size and intelligence were inversely proportional. That patently asinine line of reasoning was fine by Klees. She was smarter and better at her job than any four men put together. The NYPD had known it and had promoted her accordingly. She’d earned her gold shield faster than any woman in the history of the force.

But after losing two close friends on 9/11, she’d decided she’d had it with New York City. She traded in the stress, the crime, the hassles, and a not insignificant portion of her paycheck for life in the Hamptons. And while she didn’t live like a rock star or a hotel heiress, she was happy. Rita made friends wherever she went and East Hampton was no exception.

Though she was several years removed from Manhattan, she still maintained excellent contacts back at the NYPD and with many of the federal law enforcement agencies. When organizations like the Secret Service came to East Hampton, it was a no-brainer for Rita’s chief to assign her as the liaison. That was how she and Elise Campbell had become friends.

Due to the number of threats he had received, Robert Alden had been assigned Secret Service protection very early on in the primary campaign, and Elise had been one of the agents tasked to his detail. Part of her responsibility was doing advance work and interfacing with local law enforcement wherever the senator traveled. Though Elise wasn’t working the trip on which Nikki Hale was killed, she had made several visits to East Hampton with Alden and had gotten to know Rita Klees very well. Their mutual love of the Yankees vaulted Campbell’s standing in the East Hampton detective’s eyes, and on multiple evenings off, Rita dragged Elise to some of her favorite watering holes. And even though Campbell had not returned to East Hampton since the Hale incident, she and Rita still kept in touch via email-which technically meant that she was on the daily receiving end of humorous emails forwarded by the East Hampton detective.

“So, you coming to town or did you call just to talk baseball?” asked Klees.

“No to both, unfortunately.”

“What’s up?”

“I need some help with something,” said Campbell. “Do you remember the Nikki Hale case?”

“The wasted senior staffer who plowed her car into that minivan head-on last summer? Yeah, I remember it. Why?”

“I need to see the file.”

“What for?” asked Klees.

“Off the record?”

“Sure. Off the record.”

“There’s a concern that someone may not have been completely truthful in their witness statement.”

There was a pause and Elise thought she could hear her friend taking a puff on a cigarette, though she doubted even the larger-than-life Rita Klees would be allowed to smoke in the East Hampton Town PD headquarters.

When Rita finally answered, her tone had changed. She was a lot less jovial and a lot more businesslike. “Which witness are we talking about?” she asked. “And who exactly is concerned?”

“I can’t say,” replied Elise.

“Can’t say to which question?”

“Both.”

“No offense, Elise, but you were just one of Alden’s advance people and you weren’t even out here during the whole Hale thing. Why am I getting this call from you?”

“Because we’re friends.”

Klees was silent again. Elise strained to discern if it was because Rita was taking another drag, but she couldn’t tell. She assumed it was because Klees was deciding how to respond.

“Are you in some sort of trouble?” asked the detective.

“No. Of course not,” she replied. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you’re not being straight with me.”

Whether it was because she’d been a cop, or because she was a native New Yorker, Rita had an exceptional bullshit detector.

In all fairness, Elise did too, and she knew better than to try to lie her way through this. “I can’t go into the specifics.”

“Why not?”

“I told you. I can’t say.”

Again, Rita was silent.

“Listen,” continued Elise. “I could be completely off-base here. That’s why I need to see the file. And that’s why I’m asking you.”

“So this isn’t an official Secret Service request, then,” stated Klees.

“No,” replied Campbell. “It’s just cop to cop.”

“Well, cop to cop, there’s no way in hell I’m sending you a copy of this file.”

Rita’s retort stung, and it took Campbell a few seconds to reply. “I’m not asking for my own permanent copy.”

“Elise, I’ve seen people lose their careers over stuff like this. I like where I am and I’d like to stay here. I also like my captain, even if he is a Mets fan. He’d be in a hell of a lot of trouble if this thing went sideways.”

“I don’t want to get you or anyone in your department in trouble, Rita. Listen, like I said, I don’t know if there’s anything to this or not.”

“So what exactly are you looking for?”

“I won’t know until I see the file.”

Rita was silent yet again as she thought it over and then replied, “I can’t send you a copy of the file, but I can let you see the one we have here. On one condition.”

“Shoot.”

“You come completely clean and tell me what you’re looking for. And if I think, even for a second, that you’re not being totally honest, cop to cop or friend to friend, it won’t matter. Our deal will not only be off, but I’ll get your boss on the phone and find out what the hell is going on, even if I have to reopen this case and make it official.”

CHAPTER 17

NORTHEASTERN AFGHANISTAN

Atrip to Nangarhar Hospital in Jalalabad confirmed what Elam Badar already suspected-his son’s jaw was broken. Though it was difficult for the boy to speak, Elam Badar had coaxed from Asadoulah what had happened. When the boy explained that Mullah Massoud’s retarded brother, Zwak, had attacked him without provocation, the father was incensed.

He had always thought it ridiculous that the elders of Massoud’s village allowed Zwak, the halfwit, to run around with a rifle, even if the barrel was taped at the end. The man should have been kept indoors. Allowing him to roam the streets of his village accusing visitors of being spies or having come to poison the village well was asking for trouble. And now trouble had come.

Asadoulah told his father how he had made the hour trek to the neighboring village to visit friends. While there, the boys told him about the American that Massoud’s men had taken hostage. Like many Afghan boys, Asadoulah had never seen an American woman before. His friends offered to show her to him.

Asadoulah told his father that Zwak must have been on the other side of the hut they were using to hold the woman because no sooner had he begun peering through a crack in the wooden door than the retarded man appeared, called Asadoulah a spy, and clubbed the boy in the jaw with the butt of his rifle.