Zero Game - Brad Meltzer [56]
If he’s yanking on my heartstrings, I’ll kill him for this.
“Listen to me,” he pleads. “This isn’t the time to zip yourself in a cocoon.”
“Barry . . .”
“I want to come see you,” he insists. “Just tell me where you really are.”
My eyes pop open, staring down at the phone. When Pasternak first hired me all those years ago, he told me a good lobbyist is one who, if you’re sitting next to him on an airplane and his knee touches yours, it’s not uncomfortable. Asking where I am, Barry’s officially uncomfortable.
“I gotta run,” I tell him. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Harris, don’t . . .”
“Good-bye, Barry.”
Slamming the phone in its cradle, I once again turn toward the window and study the sunlight as it ricochets off the roofline. Matthew always warned me about competitive friendships. I can’t argue with him anymore.
25
TOWERING OVER CHEESE’S desk, Janos carefully took a slight step back and painted on a semifriendly grin. From the anxious look on Harris’s assistant’s face, the FBI windbreaker was already more than enough. As Janos well knew, if you squeeze the egg too hard, it shatters.
“You think he’s okay?” Janos asked in his best concerned tone.
“He sounded okay in his message,” Cheese replied. “More tired than anything else. He’s had a rough week, y’know, which is obviously why he’s taking the week off.”
“So he called this morning?”
“Actually, I think it was late last night. Now tell me again why you need to speak to him.”
“We’re just following up on Matthew Mercer’s death. The accident happened on federal land, so they wanted us to talk to a few of his friends.” Reading the look on Cheese’s face, Janos added, “Don’t worry . . . it’s just standard follow-up . . .”
The front door to the office opened, and a young black girl in a navy suit stuck her head inside. “Senate page,” Viv announced, balancing three small red, white, and blue boxes. “Flag delivery?” she said.
“The who what?” Cheese asked.
“Flags,” she repeated, checking out both Cheese and Janos. “American flags . . . y’know, the ones they fly over the Capitol, then sell to people just because it went up a flagpole on the roof . . . Anyway, I’ve got three here for a . . .” She read the words from the top box, “. . . for someone named Harris Sandler.”
“You can just leave ’em here,” Cheese said, pointing to his own desk.
“And mess up your stuff?” Viv asked. She motioned through the glass partition at Harris’s messy work space. “That your boss’s pigpen?” Before Cheese could answer, Viv headed through the door in the partition. “He wants the flags . . . let him deal with them.”
“See, now that’s what we gotta see more of,” Cheese called out, slapping his own chest. “Respect for the Kid!”
Eyeing the girl carefully, Janos watched as Viv approached Harris’s desk. She had her back to him, and her body blocked most of what she was doing, but from what Janos could tell, it was just a routine drop-off. Without a word, she cleared a space for the flag boxes, set them on Harris’s desk, and in one smooth motion, spun back toward the rest of the office. Viv jumped when she saw Janos staring right at her. There it was. Contact.
“H-Hey,” she said with a smile as their eyes locked. “Everything okay?”
“Of course,” Janos replied dryly. “Everything’s perfect.”
“So can you fly anything over the Capitol?” Cheese asked. “Socks? Underwear? I’ve got this vintage Barney Miller T-shirt that would love to go for a whirl.”
“Who’s Barney Miller?” Viv asked.
Cheese grabbed his chest in mock pain. “Do you have any idea how much that physically hurt? I’m slayed. Seriously. I’m bleeding inside.”
“Sorry,” Viv laughed, moving toward the door.
Janos looked back at Harris’s desk, where the flag boxes were neatly stacked in place. Even then, he didn’t think much of it. But as he turned back to Viv—as he listened to her giggle and as he watched her bounce toward the door—he saw the last passing glance that she aimed