James Grippando - Born to Run

Chloe said, “I’m here, just like I said I would be. Where are you?”

“Watching.”

An uneasy feeling came over her, as if she were suddenly in a fishbowl.

“You owe me,” he said.

“I know, but it’s-here’s the thing about that,” she said, unable to steady her voice. It was so much easier to play it cool by e-mail. She was quaking like a schoolgirl in the principal’s office.

Pull yourself together, damn it!

He said, “Don’t get cheap on me,” but it took Chloe a moment to realize that tsip was cheap.

“We have to talk.”

“Talk, my ass,” he said. “I done enough talking.”

She swallowed hard. “You need to be patient.”

“No,” he said. “You work for a rag sheet. The rag sheet pays its source.”

Rag sit? What is that accent?

“I e-mailed you copies of the wire-transfer instructions. Didn’t you see?”

“You think I’m stupid, Chloe?”

Her heart sank. She’d thought the documents were convincing fakes. “Transferring that much money to an offshore account takes time,” she said.

“You bitch, I see what you’re doing. Make me think the money is right around the corner, get me to give up the story for free, bit by bit. I could have sold this story to any of the tabloids. I picked yours.”

“It was the right choice.”

“Until your editor put a newbie on the assignment. A story like this, I expected him to take it straight up to the owner. Guess your boss only wants pictures of celebrity party girls in short skirts and no underpants.”

“A White House story is a more complicated negotiation. I have to flesh out the gist of it, at least, and then I can get the money.”

“And I believed that crap at first. You seemed smart. Hungry. Primed to stick it to President Keyes, after the way they fired your ass from the White House. But you know what, Chloe? I don’t think you intend to pay me a dime. It’s like you changed on me. What happened-all of a sudden you decided you don’t like being a checkbook journalist?”

She didn’t dare tell him how true that was. What was the point in landing a story this big if the world-led by Princess Paulette-was going to accuse her of sleazy tactics?

And, of course, a quarter million dollars was simply way over budget.

“Please,” she said, “just-”

“Shut up!”

Chloe gripped the phone, afraid that he was going to hang up. Suddenly, his tone took on an even sharper edge.

“Do you have any clue who you’re dealing with? Do you? ”

“Just calm down, all right?”

“I calm down when people pay. And if they don’t pay, I make them pay.”

Chloe froze, unaware of the approaching car on the street.

“We can work this out,” she said.

“I already told you too much,” he said. “I know better than to trust a reporter. You aren’t going to pay. Period.”

“Let’s be reasonable adults here.”

He didn’t answer.

“Hello?” she said, but the line was silent.

Her source was gone-and so was her story of the century.

Chloe closed her flip phone and held her head in her hands, staring down at the sidewalk-until she noticed a car pull up to the bus stop.

The night was suddenly a blur, and everything seemed to happen at once. Instinct took over, warning her that the same car had passed by the bus stop just a few minutes earlier, that someone had been circling the Plexiglas fishbowl, that the driver’s side window was open despite the cold night air, that the silhouette behind the wheel was the face of her informant, that she was staring into a marksman’s tunnel of death. She braced herself for the flash of gunpowder in the darkness, the crack of a pistol, the sound of her own scream-but there was none of that. Or perhaps she’d simply blinked and missed that final split second of her young life.

Chloe felt the hot explosion between her eyes-and nothing more-as the car pulled away. Her body slumped forward and dropped, face-first, onto the sidewalk.

Jack and Andie went straight from the White House Christmas party to the FBI Headquarters.

Initially, Jack had agreed with Andie’s gut reaction: the message was from some wacko who’d gotten hold of Jack’s cell number. That all changed when Andie forwarded it to Stan White, the assistant special agent in charge (ASAC) of the Washington field office. White immediately summoned Jack for a debriefing, and Andie came along. Something about that message made the FBI treat it as a serious and credible threat.

Jack and Andie were seated on one side of the conference table. Around the table with them were the ASAC, two supervisory special agents from the FBI, a criminal profiler from the FBI Academy in Quantico, and two special agents from the Secret Service presidential protection detail. Each had a printed copy of the message:

“Congratulations to your old man. How would he like to be president? I can make it happen, guaranteed. Meet me. Monday. Two P.M. Wait outside the mall-side entrance to the National Museum of Natural History. Alone.”

“Clearly he’s talking about assassination,” said White. “How else could someone ‘guarantee’ that a vice presidential nominee will become president?”

White was in his fifth year as the Washington ASAC, bumping right up against the FBI’s mandatory retirement age of fifty-five. He struck Jack as the anti-G-man. Had they allowed smoking in the building, he probably would have lit up. If neckties were optional for a man of his position, he wouldn’t have owned one.

White glanced toward the profiler, inviting her comments.

“Very similar to the previous message,” she said.

“Previous message?” said Jack. “I didn’t get a previous message.”

“No, you didn’t,” said White. “Someone else did.”

“Who?”

“That’s a detail the FBI can’t share with you.”

“Do you have a suspect?” said Jack.

“We’ve constructed a profile,” said the ASAC. He glanced again at the profiler, as if to say “Give him a little.”

“In general terms,” she said, “a self-deluded loner who fancies himself an assassin who works for hire.”

Jack said, “Why would he contact me instead of my father directly?”

Another agent jumped in. “Between a lawyer and a politician, maybe he thought the lawyer was more open to murder for hire.”

That brought a few smiles from law enforcement-even Andie.

“Traitor,” Jack said beneath his breath.

“Sorry,” said Andie.

White said, “More likely, he fears that every communication to Harry is being screened by law enforcement. You’re a criminal defense lawyer with privileged communications. Surely someone like you isn’t going to allow law enforcement to monitor his incoming e-mails.”

“He had to know I’d run to the FBI. He’s probably just a nut who gets off by broadcasting his intentions. I saw plenty of that doing death penalty work.”

“I don’t think he’s broadcasting anything,” said the profiler. “He’s negotiating.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Jack. “You truly think that this guy wants to meet with me tomorrow morning outside the Smithsonian and talk about killing the president for money?”

“We did say ‘ self-deluded loner,’” said White.

Jack said, “So if I show up at two P.M. tomorrow, he’ll be there?”

The ASAC shrugged. “One way to find out.”

“Wait a minute,” said Andie. “I’ve been quiet because of my relationship with Jack, but this is starting to sound dangerous.”

“What Andie’s trying to say is that I’m a great catch but I make lousy bait.”