Jonathan thought it was lovely and elegant. Presently, he was standing in line for the bar, where an overworked bartender struggled to keep up with the sissy drinks that were favored by most of the patrons. If Jonathan were king, the only ingredients that could be legally added to an alcoholic beverage would be olives and the occasional ice cube. Okay, and twists of certain citrus fruits. If good scotch were involved, even the ice cubes would be illegal.
His date for the night — because he wasn’t currently in the market for a girlfriend — was Venice Alexander, the brains behind so much of what his company, Security Solutions, had been able to accomplish over the years. Pronounced Ven-EE-chay, the young lady who was currently charming the ambassador of Buttscratchistan over by the base of the stairs to the Opera House had been a friend of his for nearly as long as she’d been alive. The older he got, the less the eight-year age difference meant, but there were still more than a few people tonight who’d noticed that her skin was chocolate brown while his was Polish white. At one level, Jonathan lived for the moment when someone would have the balls to say something out loud.
Venice deserved a decent man in her life — God knew she’d endured her share of shitheads — and if a fancy-ass black-tie gala could help her find one, Jonathan was all over that. So long as love never trumped her loyalty to Security Solutions. No one on Earth matched her skills for making cyberspace dance to a prescribed melody.
When it was his turn, he ordered a neat Lagavulin for himself — one of the requirements for an open bar in his universe was to have decent liquor — and a Hendrick’s with orange juice for Venice.
“Are you two-fisting your drinks this evening?” asked a sweet female voice from behind.
He turned to behold a pretty thirtysomething dressed in a clingy red gown and the ultimate in stiletto sandals. “Poison in one hand,” Jonathan said, lifting the scotch, “and antidote in the other.” He’d been sniffed at by too many bimbettes over the years to be drawn into her trap.
She smiled. “I’d offer to shake hands, but you don’t seem to have one available. My name’s Kit,” she said. “That’s what they call the offspring of a wolverine.”
The words caused Jonathan to pause. Wolverine was the code name for a very senior official in the FBI. “Oh yeah?” he asked. “Do you know a lot about wolverines?”
“Only what I’ve been told on Ninth Street,” she said.
Jonathan processed the words. The J. Edgar Hoover Building, FBI Headquarters, resided on Ninth Street, Northwest, in Washington, DC. Whoever this lady was, she had been dispatched by Irene Rivers, director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He raised the gin and orange juice, as if part of a toast. “I need to deliver a drink to my guest,” he said.
“I’ll be waiting right here,” Kit said.
Jonathan peeled away and worked his way through the shoulder-crushing crowd to find Venice. She was in the sweet spot of her biennial crusade to lose weight, striking a stunning chord in her little black dress that had the power to stop traffic. “Excuse me,” he said, interrupting her conversation with Ambassador What’s-his-name. “This is for you.”
Something in his tone caught her attention. As she reached for the proffered glass, she said, “Is there a problem?”
“Ask me again in a few minutes,” Jonathan said. He turned and headed back toward the woman in the red dress.
Kit stood in front of the tall windows, purportedly staring out at the Potomac River, while in fact, he suspected, studying the reflections of the room. He approached from behind and took a spot next to her. “You got my attention,” he said.
“My boss says that you’ve been hard to find for the last few weeks,” she said.
“Apparently not,” he replied. Not nearly enough time had passed since the last time he’d gotten pulled into the kind of political hot spot that threatened his life.
Kit turned to face him and offered her hand. “My real name is Maryanne Rhoades,” she said.
Jonathan smiled. “Real enough for tonight, anyway,” he said. “And to think that I could escape cloaks and daggers and spend an evening merely giving huge sums of money to charity.”
“Being a billionaire must be a terrible burden,” Maryanne said.
Her sarcasm made him like her less. He waited for her to make her point.
“We have an issue,” Maryanne explained.
“Help me with ‘we,’ ” Jonathan said.
“In this case, all freedom-loving people,” Maryanne said.
Jonathan laughed before he could stop himself. “How long did you practice that line before you actually had to deliver it?”
Her smile evaporated. “Can we find a corner to talk?”
Jonathan looked at his watch. “Intermission is about to end,” he said. “And I have a date.”
“Your date is a coworker, and you don’t like opera.”
He wasn’t going to argue with a stranger, but the fact was that he had recently found a place for opera in his life, thanks to the influence of a woman named Gail, who only recently joined a long line of women who ultimately couldn’t live with the risks that defined his world. As for his date, she deserved better than to be stood up.
“Tell you what, Maryanne,” he said. “Why don’t you just hang out here till the end of the second act. I’ll be back for the next intermission.”
He turned and walked away. Irene Rivers would never have been so dismissive of Venice, and there were precious few crises in the world that couldn’t cook for another hour or so. He considered it time well spent if it taught Kit-Maryanne a little humility and manners.
“Who’s the lady in red?” Venice asked as he rejoined her in the line that was headed back into the Opera House.
“A friend of Wolverine,” he said. “Lots of attitude. She can wait.”
Venice turned and glared. “Digger! You can’t do that.”
He shrugged. “Sure I can. I don’t work for them, and it’s not right for a lady who’s dressed as hot as you to sit by herself in a box seat.”
Venice pulled to a stop. “Oh, my God,” she gasped, feigning shock. “Did you just give me a compliment?”
Jonathan felt himself blush. “Oh, come on.”
Venice grinned. “Go,” she said. “Like it or not, important people have come to depend on you.”
“But I want to see the end—” His phone buzzed with an incoming message. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew the electronic leash. The screen read J. Edgar, his little dig at Irene’s professional heritage.
The text message was simple and to the point: “Don’t be an asshole. She means well. We need you.”
“Wolverine?” Venice asked with a knowing smile.
Jonathan sighed and took a healthy pull on his scotch. “Enjoy the show,” he said.
The doctor’s house looked much bigger on the inside than it did from the exterior — and far more opulent. A wide, round foyer led to a sweeping staircase to the second floor. The floor beneath Jolaine’s feet appeared to be marble — some sort of white stone. Now in brighter light, Sarah’s blood seemed even redder — not just where it flowed from her body, but where it smeared on every surface it touched.
The rooms that Jolaine could see screamed serious money. Overstuffed furniture atop Oriental carpets. From the masculinity of the décor and darkness of the color palette, Jolaine suspected that Wilkerson did not have a woman in his life. The place looked more like a country-club cigar room than a home.
She considered asking where they were taking Sarah, but didn’t when she realized that she’d know soon enough. “Are you still with us, Graham?” she asked without looking back. When he didn’t answer, she threw a glance over her shoulder. He seemed dazed by the crimson smears on the floor.