Guilt By Degrees - [8]

Finally, she signaled to a waiter (another of her employees), put her half-empty glass on his tray, and-shoulders hunched, head tilted obsequiously-approached the circle of suits surrounding the congressman, a tall, slender man whose blond head hovered above the crowd.

A lull in the conversation gave her an opening. “Congressman, it’s an honor to meet you.” She extended her hand. “Sabrina McCullough. I was wondering whether you intend to oppose the cap and trade bill?”

The congressman glanced at her, then turned a warm smile on the circle surrounding him. “That’s a complex bill. I never like to form any final conclusions until I’ve had the chance to consider all of the possible ramifications. But I’d love to hear what you gentlemen think of it.” Dismissing Sabrina completely, the congressman put his hand on the shoulder of a solid man with heavy jowls that swayed with every turn of his head. “Senator Beasley?”

Sabrina nodded, though she knew he wasn’t looking and didn’t care. Frankly, neither did she. She’d made the necessary contact with her target. Her employees, especially Chase, had pointed out the danger of these encounters, insisted they weren’t worth the risk. But Sabrina said that the personal contact, however brief, gave her unique insight. The truth that she didn’t admit, even to herself, was she craved the adrenaline rush of physical proximity to her targets-it was an addiction, not a choice.

Sabrina waited to find out if the congressman would say anything of interest. But after the senator “fumphed” his nonreply regarding the cap and trade bill, someone changed the subject to the congressman’s upcoming vacation to Martha’s Vineyard, which set him off on a journey of boring reminiscences about his boyhood summers on the Cape. Sabrina slowly melted out of the room. On her way down the stairs-she avoided elevators, which threatened tight proximity with too many eyes, not to mention the close-up security cameras-she took off her glasses and, masking her movements from any unseen surveillance, removed a small item from the frame. Just before stepping out into the lobby, she put on her sunglasses. One of the valets came to attention, and when she nodded, he ran to get her car. His tip came wrapped around Sabrina’s microcamera-which he quickly pocketed. Sabrina never traveled with anything that could be traced back to her job. The valet would send his intel about all of the guests, along with the camera, by a well-established secure route.

The next morning dawned bright and warm. Sabrina tossed her carry-on into the backseat and tilted her face up to the sun. Winter in Miami-there was nothing like it. Even California didn’t have it this good. She started the engine, pushed the button to roll back the convertible roof, and sped off to the airport, her long black hair a darkly glowing streamer in the wind.

She pulled out her cell phone and hit the number 1.

“’Lo?” Chase answered, his voice thick with sleep.

She’d forgotten she was three hours ahead, but she didn’t care. An early start wouldn’t kill him. “I’m done here.”

“When do we have to deliver?”

“Yesterday.”

Silence. Chase always got nervous with tight deadlines. But she knew he worked best under pressure.

“You find our friend yet?” she asked.

“No. But we know he’s not in any of the hospitals.”

“You saw him go down? You’re sure?”

“There’s no doubt,” Chase replied.

Sabrina nodded to herself. So far, so good. As long as he stayed down.

6

Paperwork in hand, I headed to the clerk’s office and got lucky to find Rosario, one of the more efficient filers, on duty. She let me in behind the counter, where I’d be able to avoid the usual obnoxiously long lines. Then I got even luckier and ran into Toni LaCollier-fellow denizen of the Special Trials Unit and one of my two “besties.”

I gave her the lowdown on my eventful morning.

“Girl, trouble and you are like white girls and Justin Bieber-one always chasing the other,” Toni said, shaking her head.

“Kind of like black girls and Usher?”

“We don’t have to chase,” Toni sniffed. “We just have to slow down.” She looked around and lowered her voice. “But, seriously, you need to watch out for that little tool, Brandon.”

“You know him?”

“I know of him.” The clerk passed Toni the complaint for her case-the initial charging document-and she signed it.

“From?” I asked.

“J.D.”

Judge J. D. Morgan was Toni’s on-again, off-again boyfriend. Perfectly suited for each other, they had all the bad and the good things in common. Since both were commitment-phobic, this meant that one or the other would inevitably back away after they’d been together for any length of time. And once they’d been apart for a while, one would eventually sidle up to the other. They were currently in one of their “on” phases.

“He tried a case in front of J.D.,” Toni said. “According to him, the guy was a showboat-without the boat.”

“That fits,” I replied. “And he’s got a big hard-on for Special Trials.”

“Want to know why?” she asked.

“No,” I replied.

Toni ignored me. “Guess who’s his boss and big angel in the office?”