Secret of the Seventh Son - By Glenn Cooper Page 0,24
that?”
She nodded sullenly.
He hissed at her. “What? Did you think I was going to get another drink? For Christ’s sake, I needed to make sure it wasn’t poisoned.”
“Self-sacrifice,” she observed. “Admirable.”
He took a leak and came back angry.
He strained to control his volume. “You know, partner, you need to get off your high horse if you want to work with me.” He demanded, “How old are you?”
“Thirty.”
“Well, sweetheart, when I got into this game, you were in junior high, okay?”
“Don’t call me sweetheart!” she hissed.
“You’re right, that was inappropriate. In a million fucking years you’d never be my sweetheart.”
She responded with a full blast of whispered fury. “Well that’s good news because the last time you dated someone in the office you almost got fired. Way to go, Will. Remind me never to take career advice from you.”
Clive snorted and half stirred. They both went mute and glared at each other.
Will wasn’t surprised she knew about his checkered past; it wasn’t exactly a state secret. But he was impressed she had brought it up so quickly. It usually took him longer to push a woman to her boiling point. She had balls, he’d give her that.
He had taken the transfer to New York six years earlier, when Hal Sheridan finally kicked him out of the nest after convincing the H.R. group in Washington that he could handle a managerial assignment. The New York office thought he was an acceptable candidate for Supervisor of Major Thefts and Violent Crimes. He was sent back to Quantico for a management course, where they crammed his head with everything a modern FBI supervisor needed. Sure he knew he wasn’t supposed to screw the admins, even the ones in another department, but Quantico never put a picture of Rita Mather in their training manuals.
Rita was so perfectly luscious, so fragrant, so inviting, and so allegedly spectacular in bed that essentially he had no choice. They hid their affair for months, until her boss in White Collar Crimes didn’t ante up the raise she was expecting and she asked Will to intervene. When he demurred, she blew up and outed him. A huge mess ensued: disciplinary hearings, lawyers up the wazoo, H.R. into overdrive. He came within a hairsbreadth of termination but Hal Sheridan intervened and brokered a quiet demotion to let him finish out his twenty. On a Friday, Sue Sanchez reported to him; on the Monday, he reported to her.
Of course he considered resigning but, oh, that pension—so near and dear. He accepted his fate, took his mandatory sexual harassment training, did his job adequately, and kicked up his drinking a notch.
Before he could retort to Nancy, Clive stirred, his eyes blinking open. He was lost for a few moments then remembered where he was. He smacked at his dry lips and nervously checked the fine old Cartier on his wrist. “Well, I ain’t dead yet. Okay if I go pee on my own without federal assistance, chief?”
“Not a problem.”
Clive saw that Nancy was upset. “You all right, Miss FBI? You look mad. You’re not mad at me, are you?”
“Of course not.”
“Must be mad at the chief then.”
Clive rocked himself upright and painfully straightened his arthritic knees.
He took two steps and abruptly stopped. His face was a mixture of puzzlement and alarm.
“Oh, my!”
Will whipped his head around, scanning the room. What was happening?
In a fraction of a second he ruled out a gunshot.
No shattered glass, no impact thud, no crimson spray.
Nancy cried out, “Will!” when she saw Clive tipping past his balance point and nose-diving the floor.
He fell so hard his nasal bones pulverized on impact and splattered the carpet with an abstract pattern of blood resembling a Jackson Pollock painting. If it had been captured on canvas, Clive would have been pleased to add it to his collection.
SEVEN MONTHS EARLIER
BEVERLY HILLS, CALIFORNIA
Peter Benedict saw his reflection and marveled at the way his image was chopped up and scrambled by the optics of the glass. The front of the building was a deeply concave surface, soaring ten stories over Wilshire Boulevard, almost sucking you in off the sidewalk toward the two-story disc of a lobby. There was an austere slate courtyard, cool and empty except for a Henry Moore bronze, a lobulated and vaguely human conception off to one side. The building glass was flawlessly mirrorlike, capturing the mood and color of the environs, and this being Beverly Hills, the mood was usually bright and the color a rich sky blue. Because the concavity