The Black List (23 page)

“That would make this the place to network, then,” Sydney said as Griffin left her to mix in with the crowd. Sydney glanced toward Scotty, thinking it was high time to interrupt him. Before she even had a chance to start in his direction, the woman stuck out her hand. “I’m Amanda.”

“Nice to meet you,” she said, trying to keep one eye on her ex in case he moved off.

“Sorry about being pushy. Our law professor makes us do that. He says we need to start building connections.”

“Not a bad idea. Looking to go into political law?”

The woman laughed. “I know this is going to sound stupid, but I’m tempted to go into the FBI.”

That put Sydney on guard. “FBI?”

“I know, crazy, right? But see that man over there? The cute guy in the dark suit at the end of the bar?” She lifted her wineglass and angled it in Scotty’s direction. “He came to our school on government career day,” she said, which immediately put Sydney at ease, now that there was a logical explanation. “I doubt I would have even thought about it until then. But every time I see him here, I start to wonder.”

“It’s a good career,” Sydney replied.

“Of course my friends all think I’m nuts, since everyone
knows
the FBI doesn’t pay shit compared to the big firms here on K Street, but I liked what he had to say. I even thought about asking him, you know, what it’s like, but I get tongue-tied.”

Sydney took a closer look at her. Pretty. Smart. No ring on her fingers . . . Maybe this was fate. “So you come here a lot?”

“When I’m in the area. I intern across the street two days a week. Or I did. Today was my last day.”

“For what firm?”

“Tarlington, Wolfe and Rolland. Not the best, but at least it wasn’t Wingman Squared, right?” Then, at Sydney’s blank look, she said, “Wingman and Wingman . . . ? You’re
definitely
not from around here, or you’d be nodding in sympathy. It’s like the whole bar’s talking about it.” She leaned in, then lowered her voice, which in the crowded bar was something slightly less than shouting. “They’re investigating one of the lobbyists at W2 for political corruption. Don’t ask me the particulars. I have
no
idea.”

“Did you say W2?”

“What insiders call the firm.”

The folder on Redfern’s desk. Not a tax file at all, she realized.

Amanda sipped her wine, then gave a deep sigh. “I waver, though. Law or FBI? I’d love to ask the guy, but he’s surrounded. As usual. Besides, I don’t have the guts to interrupt.”

“Just so happens that I have an in,” Sydney said. “You really think he’s cute?”

Amanda turned an appreciative glance his way. “Are you kidding?”

“Perfect,” Sydney said, taking her by the arm. “I’ll introduce you.”

“Time to go,”
Sydney said, dragging Griffin from the bar.

“Scotty?”

“Turns out that he doesn’t know much about Redfern or his association with the refugee program. Besides, he’s somewhat occupied.”

Griffin looked over his shoulder at Scotty and the young woman Sydney had introduced him to. “You actually did it?”

“Yep. Killed two birds with one stone. She thinks he’s cute. And he clearly thinks the same. Any luck and Scotty will be head over heels in love and I will have a personal life that doesn’t include him checking up on my every move.”

“That’s only one bird,” he said as his phone rang.

“I know.” She looked over at him and smiled, very pleased with herself as she buttoned her coat against the frigid cold.

He answered his phone. “We’re just walking out . . . I’ll, uh, ask,” he said to the caller, then covered the phone with his hand. “McNiel. He wants an update and offered to buy dinner. I can tell him no . . .”

Not an auspicious start to their first official night out. However, it
was
his boss, so she gave a shrug, indicating she was fine either way.

“Sure,” Griffin said into the phone. “There’s a tapas restaurant about two blocks down.” He disconnected, then dropped the phone into his pocket. “Sorry about that.”

“Bosses . . .”

“Back to your big secret,” he said to Sydney, guiding her in the direction of the restaurant.

“Have you heard of a law firm called Wingman and Wingman?”

He hesitated the barest instant, then said, “Wingman Squared. One of the top ten lobbyist firms the last several years running.”

“How do you keep up with this stuff?”

“In my line of work, a necessity. What about them?”

“According to the girl I introduced Scotty to, one of their lobbyists is or is about to be investigated for political corruption. That may or may not be important. It is Washington, and since when is that news? What is, is that there was a file folder labeled W2 on Redfern’s desk.”

“End of the year. It could be taxes.”

“Exactly what I thought, until I learned W2 is also the insider’s nickname for Wingman Squared. Add to that, we have Senator Burgess leaving Redfern’s office after at least a thirty-minute conversation with the W2 file on his desk at the same time? Coincidence? Or something more?”

“Not seeing a lot there.”

She looked up at him, surprised. “You of all people I thought would get this. What about the call from Pearson, trying to put the kibosh on our investigation? Someone reached pretty far up the food chain to pull that off.”

“Maybe we were asked to back off because of the investigation into Wingman’s lobbyist.”

“You don’t think you would have heard about that investigation by now?”

“We’ll run it by McNiel when we get to the restaurant. In the meantime, I have something for you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small white box, handing it to her. “It looks more expensive than it is. Was. I picked it up in Mexico.”

She lifted the lid and saw an opal pendant set in silver. The stone sparkled orange and red beneath the streetlight. “It’s beautiful.”

“I might not have gotten your call at Christmas,” he said, lifting the necklace from the cotton layer, “but I was thinking of you.”

He draped the chain around her neck and fastened the clasp, then kissed her.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, taking her hand in his as they walked. And from that moment on, the investigation was the last thing on her mind.

37

If Sydney was disappointed
that their first official date wasn’t just the two of them, she hid it very well, Griffin thought, at least for the couple blocks it took to get to the restaurant. Like the grill they’d just left, the tapas restaurant bar was filled to capacity with those looking to take advantage of the after-hours networking and half-priced drinks. The restaurant area, however, was fairly quiet, it still being early hours for the dinner crowd. Griffin asked for a table in the far corner, well away from the noise of the bar, sitting with his back to the wall. McNiel walked in a few minutes after their arrival.

They ordered an assortment of tapas. A waiter served drinks, then left, and Griffin casually mentioned the rumor of a political corruption investigation at Wingman Squared, since he was sure that McNiel wouldn’t want Sydney looking into it. The decades-old investigation was connected to Sydney’s father and had far-reaching implications. It would not put Griffin, McNiel, and ATLAS in a good light. In other words, it definitely was not something he was about to discuss with Sydney even if he thought McNiel would allow it.

At least not here, not now, and he could hear Tex’s
I told you so
ringing in his ears.

“Wingman Squared?” McNiel asked. “Where did you hear about this?”

And Sydney said, “At the bar.”

McNiel eyed her. “What was said?”

“Just that everyone’s talking about it, and that I must be new if I haven’t heard of it. What made it interesting was that she called the firm W2.”

“W2?” McNiel swirled the ice cubes in his drink, took a sip, then looked at Sydney. “I’m assuming this means something to you?”

Sydney described what she saw in Redfern’s office. “Of course, he is a law firm, so maybe he’s defending Wingman’s lobbyist.”

“I’ll look into it,” McNiel said. “Enough shop talk for the night. Here comes the waiter with our food.” The conversation at that point turned to the mundane—weather, sports—and McNiel ordered more drinks, then leaned back in his chair. “So, tell me, Sydney. What does your family think about you being an FBI agent?”

“Depends on who you ask. My eleven-year-old sister is thrilled to no end, wanting to follow in my footsteps. My mother and stepfather . . . Let’s just say they’ve come to accept the fact.”

“So what’d you do before you came to the Bureau?” he asked, as though he hadn’t read the same dossier as Griffin when they’d done a thorough background on her all those months ago when they asked for her help on another case.

Sydney apparently opted to pretend they knew nothing about her, and willingly talked about her family, spending the summers as a child on her uncle’s farm and then her early years at the Sacramento PD before joining the Bureau. Hearing it in her words was a far cry from reading the dry report they pulled on her background, and Griffin found the time passing quickly as they laughed over some of her misadventures as a teen let loose on a farm. After which McNiel talked about his youth, growing up in California’s Central Valley in an area not too unlike Sydney’s uncle’s town. Then, all too soon, McNiel was paying the tab, saying he needed to get home. “Finish your drinks,” he said, signing the credit card receipt. “I’ve got an early morning meeting.”

He left, and Sydney and Griffin followed a few minutes later, surprised to find the bar nearly empty and the downtown streets, normally thriving and bustling during the day, mostly deserted at that hour. When they walked out, Griffin said, “I was thinking maybe we could get dessert and coffee? Just the two of us?”

“Or we could skip the coffee and go straight to dessert?”

He looked over at her. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

She smiled but didn’t answer, which was answer enough, and they walked down the street, arm in arm. After a while she said, “Dinner was nice. I like McNiel.”

“He’s a good guy to work for. Although I’ve heard rumors he’s looking to get out. The sixteen-hour days are getting to him.”

“What about you?”

“I’ve got a few good years left in me,” he said as they strolled past an office building, the plate-glass panels reflecting the area around them. “Just hoping I won’t have to test it out tonight.”

“Quite the joker.”

“Actually, my sense of humor is on the low side.” He nodded toward the window to their right, and the reflection of the man he’d been watching across the street these past five minutes since they left the restaurant. “We’re being followed.”

38

Griffin put his hand
on Sydney’s back, urging her to walk faster. They were about a block from the parking garage. “He’s been shadowing us since we left the restaurant.”

“I was right about the whole W2 thing.”

“I doubt it. But if you are, you can gloat later.” Whoever it was had to have followed them from the grill to the restaurant. He wouldn’t have noticed the tail as readily, given the number of pedestrians out at the time.

He quickened their pace, glanced into the reflection and noted the man was still paralleling them on the opposite side of the street. “He’s either really bad at this or there’s more than one and this guy’s purpose is to draw our attention.”

“I remember back when my life was so ordinary.”

“Remember how much paperwork was involved with ordinary?”

“I’ll take paper cuts over gunshots any day.”

They entered the garage and stopped at the kiosk, where Griffin inserted his parking ticket, then paid with his credit card. The machine spat out the validated parking pass. From the corner of his eye he kept watch on the entrance. Though he didn’t see anyone, he was fairly certain he heard the footfall of a person running across the street shortly after they entered. That meant the tail was probably waiting just outside, undoubtedly knowing they’d have to stop to pay for their ticket. In other words, someone familiar with the area, someone who knew this was a self-service garage.

He took Sydney by the arm, leading her toward the first-level ramp. “When I let go of you, keep going like I’m still at your side.” Their footsteps echoed in the deserted garage, and he noted the pattern, the cadence of their walk, one that was soon joined by a slight distortion as someone else entered the garage.

“Now,” he whispered. He ducked behind a column and Sydney continued on. His back pressed to the cold cement, gun drawn, he listened, heard Sydney’s footsteps growing softer, the other man’s getting louder . . . When the man passed the column, Griffin reached out, grabbed him by the scruff of his coat collar, yanked back so the man fell against his chest.

“Who are you?” Griffin said, screwing his gun in the man’s side, then realized the guy couldn’t be older than maybe twenty-one or twenty-two. Probably still in college.

The kid’s eyes widened, nostrils flared. “Don’t shoot me. I’ll give you my wallet. Whatever you want!”

“
Who
are you? And
why
are you following us?”

“T-Timothy Mad-Madison. Someone paid me. I swear. Don’t hurt me.”

Sydney rounded the corner, her gun held down at her side, and Griffin said, “Paid you for what?”

“He gave me a hundred bucks to follow you. He said he’d double it if I found out where you were parked, double that to tell him what car you were driving, and five hundred more if I g-got the license plate.”

Griffin holstered his weapon while Sydney covered. “Why did he want it?”

Timothy, his gaze fixed on Sydney’s gun, said, “He didn’t say. I swear. He—He stopped me when I was going into the bar and asked if I’d keep an eye out for anyone who wasn’t a regular and was asking questions.”

“And how were you supposed to get this information to him?”

Timothy slipped his hand into his pants pocket and pulled out a slip of crumpled paper with a number written on it, which he gave to Griffin. “I—I wanted to get your license.” He tried to laugh. “I needed the money.”