TailSpin - Catherine Coulter [125]
She ate the entire carton of kung pao chicken but didn’t read him her speech. “I’m still thinking, and rewriting,” she said.
“As you should. It’s quite an honor.”
She sighed. “Yes, I realize that.”
Jack’s cell rang.
FIFTY-TWO
The Jefferson Club
Washington, D.C.
Monday evening
When it came down to it, you placed good people around you and trusted them to do their jobs. If you couldn’t, it was time to hang it up. The six undercover FBI agents working the big room were the best—smart and focused.
Savich spotted Director Mueller standing with Rachael. Jack, he didn’t see. He was checking out the catering staff imported for the event. He’d already arranged checks on the extra waitstaff the club had brought in for tonight’s shindig, and the permanent staff for that matter.
Savich smelled a mellow, woodsy perfume and turned to see Laurel Abbott Kostas coming toward him, a flute of champagne in her hand, dressed in an undoubtedly very expensive black dress that did nothing for her. Odd how well he thought he knew her, yet this was the first time he’d ever seen her in the flesh.
She wasn’t wearing a long gown, like most of the women. Instead she wore potentially sexy black fishnet stockings on her heavy legs, but her feet were in low-heeled pumps, a real clash in message. Her coarse graying hair was pulled back and clipped at the nape. She wore a touch of lipstick, nothing else. But the diamonds—she was wearing mounds of them everywhere, her ears, throat, wrist, fingers. She looked like she’d cleaned out a display case. De Beers had to love her.
Her husband, Stefanos, another player whose character Savich thought he understood fairly well, was at her side, dressed in an expensive tuxedo, his black hair slicked back from his swarthy heavy face, a handsome dissipated face Savich didn’t like or trust. He watched Kostas’s eyes roam and assess. He looked bored and restless, and on edge. He held a whiskey in his hand and used it as an excuse not to shake hands when Savich introduced himself.
“Mr. Kostas,” Savich said, and nothing more, very aware that Laurel was giving him the once-over. When he turned back to her he saw a spark of interest in her flat cold eyes. What was that about?
Laurel said in a smooth, dismissive voice, “I know who you are. I saw you on TV, running that ridiculous FBI press conference.”
He smiled at her. “I’m Agent Dillon Savich. And you are Mrs. Laurel Kostas?”
She nodded. “I see you’re wearing a tuxedo, Agent Savich, and it is expensive. A surprise, I suppose, given you’re a policeman.”
Stefanos was looking at a woman’s cleavage. His eyes slid past Savich to his wife, and he said with world-weary contempt, “The whiskey is watered down.” Then he turned on his heel and made his way through the crowd toward the bar, where the woman and her cleavage were standing.
Laurel said, “I suppose you’re here because Rachael is. She isn’t actually going to tell everyone what the senator did, on an occasion like this, is she?”
“You will have to ask her, Mrs. Kostas. I really don’t know.”
He motioned to the waiter carrying a silver tray of champagne flutes. At her nod, he handed her one, took the empty one and put it on the tray.
“Where is Quincy Abbott, ma’am?”
“I left him speaking to the vice president about the current power struggle between the French and the Germans, nothing new there. Actually, no one seems to get along with either of them. In business, as in war, I’ve learned it’s always best to pit them against each other. Where is Rachael? I don’t see her. Perhaps she’s decided not to make a spectacle of herself, not to make us all the butt of malicious gossip?”
He smiled his vicious smile that Sherlock told him could freeze your heart, but it didn’t seem to work on Laurel. He said, “If you look to your left, you’ll see her speaking to Senator Mark Evans. There was a break-in at her house Saturday night. The intruder was careless and left us some evidence.”
She went stiff, her cold eyes suddenly