Jennifer Rose said. “According to the kitchen gossip, it’s a traveling hump fest.”
Ryskamp wouldn’t have been shocked if the story checked out, but there was a limit to what could be done. Mastodon and Mockingbird were seldom in the same room, much less the same bed. Regardless of whom they were screwing, the Secret Service’s mission was to keep them safe from harm. Keeping them safe from scandal was supposed to be somebody else’s job.
“The rumor’s strictly from Spalding?” he asked Agent Rose.
“It’s been floating around, but this was the first time I picked up the name of the supposed boyfriend.”
“So who is he? We’ll need a background check right away.”
“Actually, we won’t,” said Jennifer Rose.
“We’ve already got a file on him?”
“Everything, Paul.”
“Uh-oh.”
“The First Lady’s lover is Agent Josephson. Supposedly. Allegedly.”
“Great. Cute. Perfect.” Ryskamp banged a fist on the desk. “Fuck!”
“At least he’s not one of yours,” Jennifer Rose said. “Still, I figured you might want to kick it up the ladder—”
“Whoa.” Ryskamp raised a hand. “Has anyone actually witnessed Mockingbird and Agent Josephson in the act?”
“Of fucking their brains out? Not that I’m aware.”
“Kissing? Holding hands? Exchanging sultry glances?”
Agent Rose shook her head. “But we haven’t questioned any of the staff yet.”
“And we sure as hell ain’t gonna start now,” said Ryskamp.
“What about Josephson?”
“I’ll have a talk with him, Jen.”
Among the other agents it was common knowledge that Josephson was actually Ahmet Youssef. They also knew why his name had been changed.
“You’re not in his chain-of-command,” Jennifer Rose pointed out.
“True, but I am in the brotherhood of men who’ve made astoundingly poor decisions about women.”
She smiled and asked Ryskamp if he’d be joining the after-work bitch session at the bar on Clematis. He said no, he was going home to watch a hockey game.
But as soon as she left, he locked the door, took out a calculator, and began working up the numbers for an early retirement.
* * *
—
Joel’s ankle was sprained, not fractured, but he still scored a full-siren ambulance ride to the hospital. Angie’s pickup was charred to a husk, smoldering on bare rims. A sheriff’s deputy who gave her a lift back to Lake Worth said Pruitt would be arrested soon; officers were staking out his apartment building.
As soon as she got home, Angie emailed pictures of her burned pickup to the insurance company. She had a tricky job scheduled for the next morning—a momma skunk with four kits had taken up residence in the backyard of a retired Wall Street broker and his wife, who together had fled to a suite at the Breakers. The couple lived in a gate-with-a-guard community, so Angie planned to rent a truck and attach the magnetic “Discreet Capture” signs that Joel had designed for the pickup. Fortunately, not all her wrangling equipment had melted in Pruitt’s firebombing; at home she kept a spare pole for noose jobs, and plenty of extra traps and transport kennels.
Spalding called and asked to meet for a late drink. Angie said she was too tired.
“But I got some face-time with the First Lady! Don’t you want to hear about it?”
“Maybe later. Like on my death bed.”
“In person she’s super hot,” Spalding went on excitedly, “even hotter than her modeling pictures. And she smells just incredible.”
“A grateful nation thanks you for your service.”
“And, yo, I’m ninety-nine-point-nine-percent sure she’s shagging one of her Secret Service guys!”
“Really? I heard it was Orlando Bloom.”
“Hey, what’s with the snark?”
“Sorry,” Angie said. “Somebody blew up my pickup tonight. I’ll call you in the morning.”
After hanging up, she realized she was no longer interested in having sex with Spalding; he’d never made a move, and now the window had closed. It was nothing he’d said or done; possibly the allure of his accent had worn off. Maybe it was that simple.
Jerry Crosby had given Angie his private cell number, so she texted him saying that Pruitt had torched her truck. Because of the late hour she didn’t expect a reply, yet the phone rang almost immediately.
“What the hell happened?” Crosby asked.
“I got a call from a fake number with a fake mouse emergency. Pruitt must’ve been waiting when I got there. He threw a Molotov cocktail in the back of my pickup. The worst part was my stepson was with me.”
“Are you guys okay?”
“We jumped out and ran like hell,” Angie said. “Joel sprained his ankle. The truck’s fried.”
“When did this happen?”
“Couple hours ago.”
The chief said she was lucky to be alive. “Did you get a look at