James Patterson - Truth or Die

“Okay, give me about thirty seconds,” he said.

In layman’s terms, Owen was now hijacking Brennan’s hard drive, gaining access to every document he had. In the scheme of things, needing only a half minute to do that was like building Rome in a day. But from where I was standing, it was feeling like forever.

I kept looking at the door, fearing the worst. It would be the next second or the next second after that when someone would turn that handle and walk in on me. Mr. Henchman, or even worse, Brennan himself. Some things you simply can’t talk your way out of.

“C’mon, Owen,” I said to the beat of the tick-tick-tick in my head. “Tell me we’re done.”

“Just a little longer,” he said.

“I’m starting to get a bad feeling.”

“That’s called paranoia.”

“No, it’s called empirical evidence,” I said. “Have you been keeping a diary this week, by any chance?”

“Good one,” he said. “Now do me a favor, will you?”

“What’s that?”

“Go back to the party.”

Click. He was done.

I pocketed my phone, exiting the browser and powering down the laptop as quickly as I could. All the while, I kept glancing at the door, willing it to remain closed.

But it wasn’t the door I should’ve been worried about. It was the desk.

The desk?

I toppled to the floor so fast there wasn’t even time to break my fall. Instead of throwing out my hands, the best I could do was lead with my shoulder. Better a cracked collarbone than a cracked skull.

What the hell just happened? Did I really just get decked by the desk?

Sort of.

Right there under it, and still gripping my ankles, was the Annie Oakley of skeet shooting herself, Beverly Sands. What on earth she was doing there I was certain we’d get to in a moment. But first, it was pure instinct as I tried to kick myself free. I almost did, too, until she grabbed both my shins.

Uh-oh. My shins.

The second she felt the holster beneath my pant leg, out came a snub-nosed .38 that was strapped to her inner thigh courtesy of a tricked-out leather garter belt. Very La Femme Nikita.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Why do you have a gun?”

“Right back atcha,” I would’ve said if it hadn’t been for the fact that her gun was aimed right at my head.

Instead, “I’m Trevor Mann,” I answered, trying to catch my breath. “We met when you arrived, remember?”

“Yeah, but you don’t write for the Times. ”

“What makes you so sure?”

“You don’t look smug enough,” she said. “You’re also too nervous to be law enforcement.”

“Yeah, well, sorry I can’t be more cool for you with a gun in my face.”

She was losing her patience. “What the hell are you doing in here? Who was that on the phone? And what do you want with Brennan’s computer?”

“Jesus, one at a time, will you? Slow down.”

She motioned over her shoulder toward the door. “We don’t have that luxury.”

“Whatever I tell you, you won’t believe me,” I said.

She was about to respond, her mouth open to form the first word. But she suddenly stopped, pointing at me.

“Trevor Mann,” she said, repeating my name as if running it through her memory. “Why does that ring a bell?”

“The NYPD pension fund?”

She nodded. Bingo. “You’re that lawyer.”

“Yes, I’m that lawyer.”

Her finger was still pointing at me, but fortunately the gun wasn’t. She lowered it. “Honest to a fault,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment,” she informed me. “But go ahead, I might just believe you now.”

There are times to talk and there are times to shut up. Then there are times when you’re on the floor with a woman wearing a leather garter-belt holster in the private office of a rich and powerful man who’d be less than understanding, to put it mildly, should he walk in on you.

Whatever you tell her, Mann, make it fast...

With that, I gave the quickest possible summation of what I was doing and why. “We think Brennan is involved with something he shouldn’t be.”

“Join the club,” she said. “But who’s we ?”

“Me and the guy on the phone.”

“Were you hacking Brennan’s e-mail?”

“Something like that.”

“Was it something more than that?”

The way she asked the question, she sounded — of all things — hopeful.

That was when it clicked, what she was doing underneath the giant desk. I could see the wires running straight down from the top through a grommet-covered hole.

“You were bugging his phone, weren’t you? And I walked in on you,” I said.

“Something like that,” she replied, mimicking me.

“Who are you, then?” I asked.

She thought for a second, weighing the truth versus a possible lie. The truth won out. “My name’s not Beverly Sands, it’s Agent Valerie Jensen,” she said. “I’m with the NSA.”

“Since when do you guys have field agents?”

“We don’t. Just like we also don’t bug phones,” she said, standing. Without the slightest hint of modesty, she hiked up her white sundress, reholstering her .38 along her inner thigh. “C’mon, we’ve got to get back to the party.”

I stood up, falling in line behind her. We were ten feet from the door when she suddenly motioned for me to stop.

The next thing I knew, she was kissing me.

Before I could figure out what the hell was going on, the door of Brennan’s office opened. The hinges had the distinct sound of a train flying off the tracks.

Immediately, Valerie broke away from me. We’d been caught in the act: our mouths agape, eyes wide with surprise. But between the two of us, I was the only one not acting.

Valerie had heard the footsteps and had seen the turn of the door handle. Talk about thinking fast on your feet. Agent Jensen was even faster with her lips.

“Are you two cheating?” the young girl asked.

Staring at us with her arms crossed, waiting for an answer, was the Brennans’ nine-year-old daughter, Rebecca.

“Cheating?” asked Valerie.

“You know, like, having an affair? You came to the party with a different man,” Rebecca said. “I saw you, don’t lie.”

“No... no, honey,” I said, shifting quickly into denial mode. It was pure reflex. “We were just—”

Valerie cut me off faster than a New York City cabdriver. “Yes, you caught us,” she said. “We’re having an affair.”

I looked at her, stunned. Did you really just say that?

She really did.

Little Rebecca nodded with the kind of self-satisfied grin kids get when a grown-up treats them like a grown-up. She pointed at me.

“You better be careful, then,” she said. “I saw this movie on TV, and when the husband found out, he killed the other guy with a snow globe.”

“Ooh, I’ve seen that movie, too,” said Valerie. She turned to me, raising her hands to act it out. “You get hit right in the head with the snow globe — bam! — and blood starts gushing down your forehead and—”

“I know, I know!” said Rebecca excitedly. She was rocking from her heels to her tiptoes. “Wasn’t it gross?”

“ Totally gross,” said Valerie. “Like, gag me with a giant spoon.”

Rebecca giggled. “You’re funny,” she said. “You’re also really pretty.”

“Thank you,” said Valerie. “I think you’re really pretty, too.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, and your mother tells me that you go to the Sidwell Friends School, so I bet you’re really smart, too.”