supposed to get together tonight for dinner. I’m sure he just forgot. It’s not like I’ve never been stood up before.”
But he’d never knocked on Mackenzie’s door looking for his missing dinner mate. She’d met Harris Mayer when he and his wife would visit Bernadette at the lake, long before the gambling scandal that had forced him into early retirement and disgrace. He’d lost money he couldn’t afford to lose, he’d lied to his family and friends, he’d used everyone he could think of to get any kind of advantage—and while he hadn’t gone to jail, he’d paid for his compulsions. His wife had left him. Their two grown children had little to do with him. His friends had deserted him.
Except, of course, for Bernadette, who was loyal and forgiving to a fault.
“Why would you get together with Harris Mayer?” Mackenzie asked.
Cal looked uncomfortable. “Because he asked. I’m sure he just decided to get out of this heat for a few days and forgot about our dinner. The years haven’t been kind to him. Sorry to disturb you.”
“Did you try to call him?”
“Of course—and I stopped by his house. It was just a stab in the dark to stop by here and check if he’d said anything to you last night. But I gather I was mistaken, and you didn’t see him.”
Mackenzie frowned. “Cal, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“If you’re worried about Harris, you should talk to the police—”
“I’m not worried. I also wanted to talk with you about the other matter. What you saw at the lake. I’m sorry, Mackenzie. I shouldn’t have put you in the position of keeping a secret from Bernadette.” He seemed surprised by his own words, but added quietly, “You’ve been a good friend to her.”
“And she to me. But, Cal—”
He glanced at his watch. “I have to go.”
Short of siccing her ghosts on him or finding a reason to arrest him, Mackenzie had no way to make him stay and tell her what was on his mind. But his car wasn’t out of her driveway before she dialed Nate Winter’s cell phone. “J. Harris Mayer?” she asked after he clicked on.
She was met by silence.
“Nate?”
“What about Mayer?”
Mackenzie related her encounter with Cal Benton, leaving out, as she’d promised, any mention of his liaisons at the lake.
When she finished, Nate said, “Strange that those two have hooked up at all. Mayer could want to retain Benton as his lawyer for some reason. It doesn’t matter. If I were you, I’d just forget about it.”
“If you heard I was at the literacy fund-raiser last night, did you hear Harris Mayer was?”
Nate was done with the conversation. “Have a good weekend,” he said, and hung up.
Mackenzie didn’t throw her phone at the wall, but was tempted. She debated calling Bernadette. If she did, Bernadette would ask questions, and Mackenzie knew she was too agitated, too irritated, to answer them without giving herself away. Then there’d be more questions, and just to keep from telling Bernadette about Cal and his cute brunette, she’d no doubt mention Rook, their three weeks together, how he’d dumped her.
It’d be a mess. Bernadette could always see through her. She would be able to tell—no matter how Mackenzie tried to hide it—that the one-time-hellion kid she’d saved had fallen fast and hard for an FBI agent.
Mackenzie locked the porch door and turned up the air-conditioning another notch. She hadn’t let firearms training and defense tactics and learning to drive a car like a bat out of hell derail her. She wouldn’t let Andrew Rook. She would get control of her emotions, just as she had during training when she’d faced fresh challenges, new fears.
She went into her little sitting room with its worn wood floors and simple, tasteful furnishings. Sarah Dunnemore Winter’s touch.
Aware of the silence of the historic house, Mackenzie sat on a cozy love seat and studied a pair of old prints hung side by side on the wall opposite her. One depicted Abraham Lincoln giving the Gettysburg Address months after that bloody battle. The other was of Robert E. Lee on his horse—she didn’t recognize when or where. She didn’t know the story of how the two well-known nineteenth-century Americans supposedly had ended up haunting the house. It was in the brochures Sarah had so meticulously researched and written for prospective tourists.
Mackenzie promised herself she’d read one.
“In the meantime,” she said aloud, sighing at the two adversaries, “if you boys are around, now would be the time to show yourselves.”
But there was no answer, only the creak of old floorboards, and she gave a mock shudder of relief at the silence. Thank heaven, she thought, jumping to her feet. Bad enough if she ever had to explain Rook to her marshal colleagues. If ghosts started talking to her, she’d be kicked back to her campus ivory tower in New Hampshire, and be writing her dissertation in no time flat.
Three
Harris staggered out of the hole-in-the-wall Georgetown bar, an old favorite where he could place a gentleman’s bet and not have to worry about anyone sniffing in disapproval. He was tired and he’d had too much to drink. After twenty-four hours, he could no longer drum up any energy for steering clear of friends or enemies. He had no attention span for going into hiding.
It was late on a dark, hot summer night. Who the hell would bother hunting him down now?
When he reached M Street, he recognized a Washington Post columnist and a prominent U.S. senator getting into a private car, and gave them a surreptitious middle finger, hating them for the life he’d squandered. Once, he’d had his own driver. Now he was reduced to cabs, buses and an ancient Honda that was a bother to keep on the road. It wasn’t a question of finance as much as of prestige.
People who had nowhere to go didn’t need drivers or fancy cars.
He smelled of stale cigarette smoke, sweat and alcohol. He walked past nice bars, nice restaurants, heard music and laughter and saw people who looked good, were good. He’d been like them once, filled with hope, ambition—and hubris. He’d known he was smarter than most people. He could not fail.
Now he had the FBI hunting him.
And worse.
The heat and stifling humidity started him sweating again. His shirt stuck to his back. His eyes stung. He wanted to vomit, but not on M Street. Not in front of people who used to respect him.
Then again, why the hell not? Who did they think they were? They had their own secrets and compulsions. Everyone did.
“Harris, for God’s sake.”
For a moment, Harris didn’t realize who was speaking to him, but he looked up and saw Cal Benton, as if he’d materialized out of nowhere. “Cal?”
Cal hooked a hand around Harris’s forearm just beneath the elbow. “You’re drunk.”
“Tipsy. I have higher standards for drunk.”
Cal smelled of antiperspirant, as if he’d given himself a fresh swipe before getting out of his car. He was sweating, too, but he’d have to be inhuman not to sweat on such a night. “In here,” he said, tugging Harris toward a nearly empty coffee shop.
“If we’re seen—”
“We won’t be.” Cal opened the glass door, pausing to glare at Harris. “Unless your new friend Special Agent Rook is on his way.”
Harris licked his lips. Even after three beers, he felt dehydrated, parched. “Who?”
“You slimy, corrupt son of a bitch, Harris.”
Cal’s reaction was a sign