She got in the passenger seat and shut the door, and the car pulled away.
I should’ve headed straight to the airport, but I didn’t. Instead, I went back inside headquarters and had someone arrange a rental car. And then I called Bebe and asked her to find Greer for me.
Within an hour, Bebe had Greer’s room number at the Embassy Suites and gave it to me with no questions. Of course, I wasn’t about to question her as to the means she employed to find this information. It wouldn’t have surprised me if she’d hacked the CIA telephone system, which records all calls, and found the one Greer obviously placed to someone to come get her. Or, more simply, she probably hacked Greer’s credit cards—assuming she had a go bag set up here in DC for just such occasions. It would have money, credit cards, and identity documents. Probably a cell phone too.
Regardless of how Bebe came by the information, I now know exactly where Greer is. Before I can talk myself out of it, I go inside the hotel. The elevator takes me to the sixth floor, and then I’m knocking on room 632.
Greer opens the door but doesn’t invite me in, instead asking in a fatigued tone, “What are you doing here, Ladd?”
She’s changed out of her sweatsuit ensemble and is wearing a pair of charcoal leggings and an oversized, cream-colored sweater. Her blond hair is bunched on top of her head in a messy bun.
“I wanted to make sure you’re okay. Can I come in?”
Greer studies me shrewdly. She has reason to think I’m lying, because she would think I’d be the last person to care about her. But I must, since I’m here.
She sighs and backs away from the threshold, a silent invitation. I enter the suite, which has a living area, small kitchen, bath, and bedroom.
The TV is on, but turned so low I can barely hear it. I see an open suitcase on the bed as I walk by the bedroom.
She doesn’t invite me to sit, but that’s fine. I’m not staying long. Only want to make sure she’s truly okay.
“Mind telling me why Newman has it out for you?” I ask, more to satisfy my own curiosity. There’s no doubt her disavowal and the decision to keep her disavowed was personal for Newman.
Greer laughs mirthlessly. “Her misguided notion that she needs to avenge her son’s bruised feelings?”
There’s no stopping it from coming out of my mouth. “Did you leave him at the altar too?”
“I didn’t leave you at the altar,” she snaps and then rubs her hands over her face. I know she’s exhausted and heartsick.
A flush of guilt for attacking her that way settles in. “I’m sorry for saying that. You obviously didn’t leave me at the altar.”
“But I broke off the engagement,” she murmurs apologetically. “Same as leaving you at the altar, I suppose.”
“Old news,” I say, so we can move on. “What’s the deal with her son?”
“He was a partner,” Greer says, her tone laced with disdain. “And he was no good. Violating protocols, refusing orders, pushing boundaries too far. I didn’t report him, but I offended Gayla deeply when I refused to lie and cover up some things. He ended up resigning before anything happened, which is why Gayla kept her position, but she’s had it out for me ever since.”
“Jesus,” I mutter in disbelief.
Greer just put her life on the line for our country, got invaluable intelligence to put a major dent in international crime, and essentially got the boot because she refused to sacrifice her morals and lie to stay on Newman’s good side.
“I’ve got a connection to the president,” I offer. “One of our agents is married to the president’s niece. I can have him reach out on your behalf.”
Greer shakes her head, crosses her arms over her stomach. “I’m going to take some time off. Evaluate my options.”
“And where will you go?” I don’t know where she lives or if she even has a home. When I first met her, she had a small condo in Arlington. We later chose to live together in western Tuscany in the port city of Livorno because we could be based anywhere in the world in our particular line of work.
“I’ll stay at my parents’ house,” she says as she reaches for a bottle of water on the coffee table. And then almost as an afterthought, and more to herself than me, “I’m glad I never got around to selling it.”
I jolt with surprise. “Selling it?”
Greer blinks as if she doesn’t understand why I would question her, and then realization dawns. “I’m sorry… you don’t know. They died about four years ago.”
“Fuck,” I growl low from the shock of her statement. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”
Catalina and Martin Hathaway were good people. A true love story. She was Miss Argentina and competed in the Miss World beauty pageant in Los Angeles. He was working security for the event. He asked her out for coffee, never thinking she’d accept. She accepted, and they fell in love.