Power Play (FBI Thriller 18)

Davis said, “This is Washington, which means he’s got more than enough on his plate. He’ll get over it.”

Savich said, “I’ll have Sherlock call Callie. She’ll help talk him around.”

“No, she won’t,” Perry said. “She’s as bad as he is. She wants to know everything. She’ll know this attack on me tonight ties in with my mom and she’ll be on my case before breakfast.”

Savich looked down at his Mickey Mouse watch. “I should be getting back. I left Sherlock muttering about wrecking some of my major body parts because she couldn’t come with me, not with Sean asleep down the hall.” He looked at Perry. “Did anything happen after you left the Hoover Building, something that could be connected to that threat in the men’s room? Something that would lead that person to want to up the ante?”

Davis said, a bit of rancor in his voice, “She had dinner with the secretary of state’s son, a lifelong friend, a coal lobbyist.”

Perry frowned at Davis. “I’m thinking wrecking my bike was more about my mother than about me, since, really, I didn’t do anything else today except work and talk to you. What do they want from us? That she should resign? Lie down in the middle of the road at rush hour? Call a press conference and tell everyone she’s a lying, heartbreaking psychotic? What, exactly? Why would anyone care so much about an ambassador to go to all this trouble? Take all these crazy risks? Oh, goodness, guys, I don’t want my mother to know about this. I don’t know what she’d do, but I don’t want them to win, not by threatening me.”

Savich said, “Natalie doesn’t need to know about this, at least not tonight. You’re sure Callie won’t report it out?”

“Callie thinks she’s a great kickboxer and I take her down regularly. Plus, we eat tacos together. She won’t report it out.”

“There’s a strong bond,” Davis said.

“You bet. And Ben told me a property crime report rarely attracts any attention.”

Savich said, “All right, then. Davis, can you stay? Make sure the perp doesn’t come back? As long as these people are escalating, I want Perry safe. Maybe you can eat tacos together.”

“Of course I will,” Davis said, as he turned a paper plate loaded with Fig Newtons in his hand. He said easily, “Nice place you’ve got here, Black, except for the little spots of dust and grease here and there. You want me to ask Monroe if he could fit you in?”

She nodded, but it wasn’t about the grease and dust, it was about Davis Sullivan staying here, with her, in her condo. Did Dillon really think she could be in danger? The graffiti, then her Harley—he could be right. She eyed Davis, saw he was thoughtfully chewing a Fig Newton, never taking his eyes off her. Slowly, she nodded again, and thought, I really don’t want someone to destroy me like they did my Harley.

“Okay,” she said, “okay. Davis can move in.”

Savich eyed the two of them. People handled shock and fear in different ways. Perry was stand-up, thankfully, and Davis had a nice light hand. He said, “Good. I’m going home, try to talk Sherlock out of her snit, convince her she didn’t miss any excitement. Sleep well, Perry. The bozo can sleep on your sofa with his size twelves hanging off the end.” He grabbed a Fig Newton as he jerked his head toward Davis on his way to the front door.

Perry walked to the kitchen door so she could hear them talking. Dillon kept his beautiful speaking voice low, but she had no problem hearing him. “I don’t like how this is developing, Davis. And we haven’t identified that kid who left the graffiti yet.”

“Show me his photo,” Perry said, stepping into the entryway. Davis said to Savich, “I’m not surprised she’s lurking. Eavesdropping, Black? Come and look.”

Perry looked down at Davis’s iPhone, at a color still from a lobby video camera at the Post. He was a tall, skinny, dark-skinned teenage boy. No, he wasn’t a teenager; he was twenty years old. She couldn’t believe it. She looked up.

“I know him.”

Washington Post offices

Thursday morning

The column in The Baltimore Sun Sports section the following morning had no byline:

POST REPORTER’S HARLEY TRASHED

The story beneath the flamboyant headline appeared to have been written by someone who had stood in the middle of Perry’s living room last night. At least there was no mention of her mother. In fact, the short article came across as a spoof, pretending to be straight news about a reporter who’d broken a big story before turning to ironic humor, speculating whether this is what a sportswriter should expect if she fell asleep on the job.