She was so proud of herself right then. So smug and confident.
Too confident.
As Grant stood there, pointing his gun at her, he had one thought on his mind.
He would not be out-smarted by a fucking whore.
Mandy slipped the tape recorder back inside the pocket of her robe and eyed his hands unconcernedly. “You can put the gun away, Grant. We both know you’re not going to shoot me.” She turned her back on him and began heading toward the bathroom.
Grant reached under his blazer and tucked the gun back inside his shoulder harness. “You’re right. I’m not going to shoot you.” Without warning, he lunged for her—pleased she never saw it coming—and grabbed her by the throat and threw her onto the bed. She hit it with enough force to bang the bed loudly against the wall. Before she could scream, Grant was on top of her, and the bed slammed against the wall a second time as he pinned her. He slapped his hand over her mouth.
“You don’t know who you’re messing with. You need to understand who’s in control here, bitch,” he hissed.
Mandy’s eyes widened—his sudden burst of rage finally put some fear and respect into her—and she began to fight back. Grant grabbed one of the pillows next to her head and brought it down over her face. Her arms flailed, her hands clawed for his face, and she kicked out with her legs, trying to buck him off. Probably not the way she was used to being ridden in bed, Grant thought, using his elbows and chest to hold the pillow down while he grabbed for her wrists and pinned them under his knees.
She fought really hard at that.
Grant let it go on for a nice long moment, finding her panic and the power he held over her to be strangely thrilling. Intoxicating. He was about to pull the pillow away, ready to see the submission in her eyes, when it hit him that she was such a dumb-ass scheming bitch that she would never really submit, and he knew then that he never should’ve trusted her in the first place and in that moment, he hated himself for being so naive. He knew that, no matter what she might say, no matter what she might promise right then, he’d never be able to believe anything that came out of her lying mouth. For all their plotting, he wasn’t going to get a fucking dime because of her, and worse, now she had him. Sure, he could take the tape away from her, but he could never, ever trust her to keep her mouth shut, she’d always have this thing she could hold over him, that he’d planned to blackmail the senator. And even if he could convince her to walk away, he’d always be wondering when the day would come when she’d be back, wanting something.
He knew this for certain: he did not want to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder. He didn’t want her to have that kind of power over him. They were supposed to be partners, but now it seemed to be every man and woman for him or herself. And he didn’t see any other option.
So he kept the pillow right where it was.
It took longer than he expected. Her struggles grew weaker, feeble, but still she persisted, and it wasn’t until a good two minutes or so had gone by without any movement that Grant dared to lift the pillow with his gloved hands.
Her eyes were open and empty. Staring down at her lifeless body, Grant’s first thought was that he was surprised he didn’t feel more. No remorse, just . . . nothing. Though he’d been in the Marines, he’d never actually killed anyone and he’d always assumed it would be kind of a big deal.
Hmm. Apparently not.
Grant sat up and smoothed back a lock of hair that had fallen into his eyes. He climbed off Mandy’s body, thinking he’d better get out of that hotel room. Fast. His mind raced, the adrenaline kicked in, and it took him a second or two to clear his thoughts. He needed a plan and was impressed by how quickly one came to him.
The senator.
Hodges’s fingerprints were all over the room. The escort service would have a record that he was the one who’d been with Mandy that night. And if he left behind the videotape of the senator and Mandy having sex, that would give the authorities enough of a potential motive. A crime of passion, they’d guess. She’d tried to blackmail the senator and when he found out, he’d panicked and killed her.
It would be enough, Grant told himself. It had to be. It wasn’t like he had a lot of options. There were only so many scenarios one could explore when unexpectedly finding oneself in a hotel room with a dead hooker. Plan A: get the fuck out. Bonus plan B: pin it on someone else.
Grant reached into the pocket of Mandy’s robe and found the tape recorder. He slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans, making sure it was hidden by his blazer. He put the videotape and recorder back behind the television, then hurried to the door. He flipped up the hood on his T-shirt.
After all, one never knew who might be watching.
AND NOW HE needed to finish what he’d started.
Grant set his empty beer bottle off to the side and took out his wallet to add a few bucks to the cash Driscoll had thrown down earlier. As he left the bar and stepped outside, he flipped up the collar of his coat to guard against the crisp fall wind that came rolling in off the lake. An L train roared by on unseen tracks somewhere in the near distance.
Grant thought back to Driscoll’s orders.
Find out what the FBI knows.
He had every intention of doing just that.
It wasn’t going to be easy getting the information, he knew, but his mind was already working. Jack Pallas could potentially be a problem—if the stories going around about him were even partially true—but Pallas had made enemies with some people that no one should make enemies with, and Grant had a feeling he could use that to his advantage.
The FBI obviously had something. Although not enough to point them in his direction—yet—he didn’t like having any loose ends lying around. And as soon as he found out what the loose end was, he planned to take care of it. For nearly fifteen years he’d been covering up other people’s secrets and lies. He would handle this with the same objective precision. No more being played the fool. No more mistakes. From now on, he was in control.
And he would do whatever it took to keep it that way.
Nine
BY WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, as Cameron headed off to court for a preliminary hearing, she could almost convince herself that her life was getting back to normal. Almost.
Fortunately, the police surveillance had turned out to be less intrusive than she’d feared. She barely saw the officers assigned to the day shift—they started duty outside her house at 6:00 A.M. while she was sleeping, nodded to her as she pulled her car out of the alley on her way to work, followed her downtown to her office, then had virtually nothing to do until they ceded all responsibility to the night shift at 6:00 P.M. She’d had several court appearances that week, but because the courtrooms for both the Northern District of Illinois and the Seventh Circuit Court of Appeals were located in the same building as the U.S. attorney’s offices, there’d been no need for the officers to accompany her. Not a bad gig for them, Cameron supposed, to be assigned to protect someone who worked in one of the most secure, heavily guarded buildings in the city. Maybe tomorrow she’d get crazy and make a run to Starbucks just so they could see a little action.
The guys on the night shift were a different story. They’d taken the time to introduce themselves the first night of their surveillance, and Cameron found herself warming quickly to Officers Kamin and Phelps despite the oddity of the situation. They’d established something of a routine over the course of the last three nights: they followed her home from work, checked inside her house to make sure all was secure, waited outside in their unmarked car while she changed into her workout clothes, then walked her back and forth the three blocks to the gym. Sure, it was a little strange, looking up from the treadmill and seeing two police officers watching her from the juice bar, but then she recalled that the alternative was getting herself murdered, and that pretty much got her past the awkwardness of the situation.