Mistress полностью

I punch out my cell phone after I finally get a concession from Diana’s father that he’ll keep quiet for forty-eight hours. I don’t know if those guys in the bathroom were bluffing, but somebody is taking this very seriously, and I don’t want the deaths of Diana’s parents on my conscience, however she may have felt about them.

I pull out my keys and start to climb on my bike when I hear a squeal of tires, a car racing down the ramp from the upper level of the parking garage. It’s a black stretch limousine. And it stops right in front of me.

I brace myself. I’m a sitting duck. I’m standing in a parking space with cars on either side of me and this limo cutting off my only route of escape.

I have no good options. I don’t even have time to panic.

The tinted passenger-side window rolls down. A handsome, well-appointed Asian man stares at me.

“Well, well,” I say.

“You’ve been looking for me,” says Jonathan Liu.

Opposite me in the back of the limo sit the notorious Jonathan Liu and a stocky white guy holding a firearm in his lap who looks formidable. Not barroom-brawl formidable but special-forces formidable.

Up close, Jonathan Liu is everything you’d expect-the nattily attired lobbyist, the slick look. But beneath the facade there is more-hands that tremble, eyes that dart about. Jonathan Liu is scared.

“Are you going to kill me?” I ask, which if you think about it is kind of a dumb question.

Liu studies me a moment. “If I wanted you dead,” he says, “you’d already be dead.”

That’s a pretty cool line. Something you’d hear in a movie. And convincing, too. But if I were going to kill somebody and didn’t want that person to resist while I drove him to some undisclosed location, that’s exactly what I’d say to him. If I wanted you dead, you’d already be dead. Then the guy would relax, I’d drive him to a garbage dump and say, Just kidding! and pump him full of lead.

(I mean, if I were the kind of person who’d shoot a guy.)

“Then how ’bout your friend puts away his gun?” I suggest.

Liu shakes his head. “That’s to make sure that when we’re done talking, you get out.”

“I hate to shatter your ego, but this isn’t the first time I’ve had a gun pointed at me.” Samuel L. Jackson’s line in Pulp Fiction. Always loved that line. Never thought I’d use it. Never thought it would be true.

Jonathan Liu observes me awhile. “I’d heard you could be stubborn. Relentless, actually, is the word I heard.”

I look back and forth between Brutus and Liu. “You heard that from…Diana?”

He nods but doesn’t speak.

“How is she, by the way?” I ask, as though I’m asking him about his folks or something.

The comment doesn’t register with him immediately. “What kind of a sick thing to say is that?”

“C’mon, Jonathan. I was born at night, but not last night.”

“I-don’t understand that reference.”

“Oh, now you’re the foreigner who doesn’t speak English so good? Give me a break, Jonathan. You speak English better than me.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re not suggesting Diana is alive.”

This guy’s a lobbyist by trade, so his entire job description comes down to two words: bullshit artist. He’ll look you in the eye and promise you that deregulation won’t lead to corporate misbehavior, that Fortune 500 companies need government subsidies so they can put people to work, even if the money goes to golden parachutes for their CEOs. He’ll piss on your leg, as they say, and tell you it’s raining.

“That would be news to the US government,” he says. “I even heard the president gave her a ten-second eulogy at his press conference.”

“And why would he do that?” I ask. “I’ve covered over a hundred presidential briefings, and other than at the death of a world leader or some other elected official I’ve never heard a president do that. For your run-of-the-mill staffer? Why is it so important to the federal government that we believe Diana is dead?”

He doesn’t have an answer for that. He has an agenda today; he planned out the whole rendezvous, so he obviously has something to tell me. I might as well hear what he has to say.

The limo reaches the ticket booth of the parking garage and we exit. The driver, whoever that may be behind the shaded glass, pulls the car over instead of heading toward the highway.

Jonathan Liu rubs his hands together and wets his lips-tells, giveaways, indicators that something or somebody has put the fear of God into him. A good reporter recognizes all the signs.

“You’re asking the wrong question,” he says.

“And what question should I be asking, Jonathan? I have a hundred for you.”

“Have you ever heard of Operation Delano?”

I haven’t. My expression probably answers for me.

“That’s where your shovel should be digging, Mr. Casper.”

“Help me,” I say. “Tell me where to dig.”

He gives me a smile that on a normal day I’d interpret as condescension. But the sweat trickling from his brow gives me an indication of the struggle he’s experiencing.