number-one slot. I don’t intend on letting an asset like that walk
away.”
“I won’t forget this, Jack.”
“I won’t let you.”
After Jack had left, Lord started to pour another drink but stopped. He
looked down at his quivering hands and slowly put down the bottle and
glass. He made it to the couch before his knees gave out. The
federal-style mirror over the fireplace caught his image. It had been
twenty years since a single tear had escaped the heavy face. That had
been at his mother’s passing. But now the outpourings were steadily
coming on. He had cried for his friend, Walter Sullivan. For years Lord
had duped himself into believing that the man meant nothing more to him
than a solid-gold draw check each month. The price for that
self-deception had come due at the funeral, where Lord had wept so hard
that he had gone back to his car until it was time to go bury his
friend.
Now he rubbed at the puffy cheeks once again, pushing away the salty
liquid. Fucking young punk. Lord had planned everything down to the last
detail. His pitch would be perfect. He had envisioned every possible
response except the one he had gotten. He had mistaken the younger man.
Lord assumed that Jack would have done what Lord himself would have
done: pressed -for every advantage in exchange for the enormous favor
being asked.
It wasn’t only guilt that pulled at him. It was shame. He realized that
as sickness enveloped him and he bent low over the thick, spongy carpet.
Shame. He hadn’t felt that one for a long time either. When the nausea
subsided and he once again looked at the wreck in the mirror, Lord
promised himself that he would not disappoint Jack. That he would rise
back to the top. And he would not forget.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
FRANK HAD NEVER IN HIS WILDEST FANTASIES EXPECTED TO be sitting here. He
looked around and quickly determined that it was indeed oval in shape.
The furnishings tended to be solid, conservative, but with a splash of
color here, a stripe there, a pair of expensive sneakers placed neatly
on a lower shelf, that stated that the room’s occupant was not nearly
ready for retirement. Frank swallowed hard and willed himself to breathe
normally. He was a veteran policeman and this was just another routine
inquiry in a series of endless one& He was just following up a lead,
nothing more. A few minutes and he’d be out of here.
But then his brain reminded him that the person he was about to make
inquiries of was the current President of the United States. As a new
shock wave of nervousness rushed over him the door opened and he quickly
stood, turned and stared for a long moment at the extended hand until
his mind finally registered and he slowly moved his out to meet it.
“Thank you for coming down into my neck of the woods, Lieutenant.”
“No trouble at all, sir. I mean you’ve got better things to do than sit
in traffic. Although I guess you never really sit in traffic, do you,
Mr. President?”
Richmond sat behind his-desk and motioned for Frank to resume his seat.
An impassive Bill Burton, invisible to Frank until that moment, closed
the door and inclined his head toward the detective.
“My routes are pretty well laid out in advance I’m afraid.
It’s true I don’t end up in many traffic jams but it does stifle the
hell out of spontaneity.” The President grinned and Frank could feel his
own mouth automatically turning up into a smile.
The President leaned forward and stared directly at him.
He clasped his hands together, his brow wrinkled and he went from jovial
to intensely serious in an instant.
“I want to thank you, Seth.” He glanced at Burton. “Bill has told me how
cooperative you were with the investigation of Christine Sullivan’s
death. I really appreciate that, Seth.
Some officials would have been less than forthcoming or tried to turn it
into a media circus for their own personal gain. I hoped for better from
you and my expectations were exceeded. Again, thank you.”