First Daughter - Eric van Lustbader [135]
Having checked three times for surveillance, Paull walked along the open gangway on the second floor of the motel, inserted a key in the lock of a room at the far end, opened the door, and went in.
Nina Miller was sitting on the bed, her long legs stretched out, crossed at the bare ankles. She'd kicked off her sensible shoes and now looked fetching in a pearl-white silk shirt. Her dove gray wool skirt had ridden partway up her muscular thighs. She was a fine tennis player, as was Paull. It was how they'd met, in fact. Now they played mixed doubles whenever they had a chance, which, admittedly, wasn't often.
Nina put down the book she was reading—Summer Rain, by Marguerite Duras—a first edition Paull had given her last year for her birthday. It was her favorite novel.
"You're looking luscious."
She smiled. "I could have your job for workplace sexual harassment."
"This isn't the workplace." Paull bent, kissed her on the lips. "This isn't harassment."
"Flatterer."
Paull pulled over the desk chair, sat down beside her. "What have you got for me?"
She handed him a thick manila folder. "I back-checked the dossiers of every member of the D.C. Homeland Security office. Everyone's clean, so far as I can tell, except for Garner."
"Hugh's my deputy." Paull shook his head. "No. He's too obvious a choice."
"That's precisely why the National Security Advisor recruited him." She pointed at the open file she'd compiled. "Over the past eight months, Hugh has met five times with a man named Smith." She laughed. "Can you believe it? Anyway, Mr. Smith is Hugh's acupuncturist. He also happens to be in the office adjacent to the National Security Advisor's chiropractor."
Paull, paging through the file, said, "I see their appointments overlapped on those five occasions."
Nina folded her hands in her lap. "What d'you want to do?"
Putting the folder aside, Paull leaned over her. "I know what I want to do."
Nina giggled, took his head between her hands. "I'm serious."
"I couldn't be more serious." His lips brushed the hollow of her throat. "How's your friend Jack McClure?"
"Mmmm."
Paull raised his head. "What does that mean?"
She made a moue. "You're not jealous, are you, Denny?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
She pushed him away. "Sometimes you can be so starchy."
"I only meant that considering Hugh Garner hates McClure's guts, perhaps between us we can work out a way for him to take care of Hugh for us."
Her mouth twitched. "What a Machiavellian mind you have."
Paull laughed appreciatively as he manipulated the tiny pearl buttons down the front of her shirt.
Tossing the file on the floor beside the bed, she said, "I've gotten as close as I can to Jack. He's carrying a Statue of Liberty-size torch for his ex."
"Poor bastard."
"Nothing you'll have to worry about," she said. "You don't have a heart."
"Birds of a feather." He made a lascivious grab for her. "Anyway, what could be better than an affair with no strings attached?"
"I can't imagine." She gripped his tie, pulled him down to her.
JACK TURNED and saw her, framed between two trees, her skin pale in the ghostly light.
"Dad . . ."
"Emma?" He took a step toward her. "Is that you?"
The rain, gaining strength, beat down on him, water rolling into his eyes, mixing with his tears. Could Emma have come back to him? Was it possible? Or was he losing his mind?
He moved closer. The image wavered, seemed to break up into a million parts, each reflected in a raindrop spattering black branches, glistening brown bark, pale gold of dead leaves. She was all around him.
Jack stood in wonder as he heard her voice, "Dad, I'm here. . . ."
It wasn't the voice of a person or a ghost. It was the sough of the wind, the scrape of the branches, the rustle of the brittle leaves, even the distant intermittent hiss of traffic on faraway streets, avenues, and parkways.
"I'm here. . . ."
Her voice emanated from everything. Every atom held a part of her, was infused