Joseph Finder - Guilty Minds

She cocked her head, curious what I meant.

“You’re safe, you’re thriving, you’re on fire. 60 Minutes, The View ...”

“Oh, and I’m in talks with TruTV — they want me to host a new true-crime investigative series they’re calling Spotlight. How cool is that?”

“ Spotlight, huh?” I laughed.

“Yeah, Spotlight. I know: just what you avoid. I mean, I realize it’s not serious journalism or anything. It’s journalism lite. But it could be a way for me to get back into the business.”

“Sure.”

She studied me for a long moment. “We really don’t swim in the same waters, do we?”

I drained my beer. “How do you mean?”

“You’re, like, one of those deepwater fish. Like a dragonfish or whatever they’re called, that live a mile down, where it’s almost totally dark and the pressure’s intense and the water is freezing cold.”

“Come on, Mandy, I’m just—”

“No, really,” she said, interrupting me. “You prefer the dark. You’re all about keeping secrets.”

“Secrets are my business. I keep ’em or I find a new line of work.”

“I thought lies were your business. Isn’t that what you told me once?”

“Both, I guess.”

In the last few days I’d been thinking about her a lot. If we lived in the same town, maybe we could keep on spending time with each other. But I was going back to Boston and she was staying in Washington. Our paths were diverging in other ways, too. Mandy Seeger, the kidnapped journalist, was becoming a TV personality, an instant Internet celebrity.

She was right, though. I preferred the shadows. That was where I belonged.

“How much longer are you in town?” she asked, playing with her straw.

“I’m flying home tonight.”

“Tonight?”

I pointed to my carry-on, on the floor next to the booth. “I’ve got a lot of work to catch up on.”

“And I’ve got to fly to New York early tomorrow morning. So... yeah. Wow.”

I glanced down at the tabletop, at the gashes and wounds in the wood. I was feeling a little numb and more than a little sad. Maybe we both were.

“Next time I see you will probably be on TV.”

“Don’t let me read about you in Slander Sheet.”

I chuckled. “Yeah, right. Come see me if you’re in Boston.”

“I will.”

An empty promise, surely, but I let it lie.

Outside the bar we said good-bye beside my cab. We kissed, in a slow lingering way that I didn’t expect. It didn’t feel like a good-bye.

When we separated, she put a hand on my cheek. “Bye, Nick,” she said, and she turned around and gave me a little wave.

Then I got in the cab. A motorcycle roared by at deafening volume. As we pulled away from the curb, I turned to watch her, through the rearview window, walking away. I was hoping to exchange one last glance, but she never turned around.

Some very generous people helped me research and write this novel, and I want to thank them. They include, for much help on cell phones and computer forensics, Jeff Fischbach; on mobile phone forensics, Tom Slovenski; on computer hacking, Adam Hernandez, and especially Kevin Ripa. On perimeter security, locks, and lock picking: Marc Weber Tobias and, once again, Jeff Dingle and Kevin Murray. On hotel security: Jeffrey Saunders of the Saunders Hotel Group, Jon Estabrook of the Lenox Hotel, Jim McGlynn of Engineering PLUS, and Fred Juran of Kaba.

Jay Groob of American Investigative Services was again extremely helpful, as were Dick Rogers, Jack Hoban, Matthew Fleming; and Sean Murphy of The Boston Globe . In DC, my thanks to Kenneth Cummins of the Capitol Group, Robert “Buzz” Glover of the MPD, and especially James Trainum.

On gossip websites: Ben McGrath of The New Yorker and Gaby Darbyshire. For help with ecclesiastical Latin, thanks to Dr. William L. Daniel and Matt C. Abbott. I had legal assistance from Martin Garbus and, once again, Jay Shapiro of White and Williams; big thanks to the brilliant jurist Leo Katz of the University of Pennsylvania Law School for advice on mens rea . Clair Lamb was, as always, invaluable in all sorts of ways, including DC research; thanks as well to Karen Louie-Joyce; and to my good friend Rick Weissbourd, Stanford ’79.

My thanks for the loving support of my wife, Michele Souda, and our daughter, Emma J. S. Finder. At Dutton, I’m grateful to Amanda Walker, Carrie Swetonic, Jess Renheim, and especially Ben Sevier. Finally, thanks so much to my terrific agent, Dan Conaway of Writers House, and my brother Henry Finder.