Page 43 of Exposed

“Keep me up to date. I’m out for the next few days. We drop Teagan at school this week to start her sophomore year. Samantha left last week. Annette is a mess thinking about the empty nest again, but less of a mess than she was last year. We’re going to take an extra couple of vacation days on the way home.”

I’m about to put it in reverse when the phone that the tech guys set up for me rings. “Gotta go. I’m getting a call, and it might be the one I’ve been waiting on.”

I can’t risk missing it, so I hang up on Tim and answer just as fast. “Daniel Armstrong.”

The voice that hits me from the other side is professional and all business. It sounds like someone calling to schedule my six-month dental cleaning rather than setting up a meet with a kingpin. “Mr. Armstrong, this is Rebecca from The Pink. I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Carter to set up the meeting that was discussed yesterday evening.”

I throw my car in park and settle back in my seat. Dex Carter has a set of balls on him having his receptionist schedule meetings to discuss money laundering. “That sounds great. I appreciate the opportunity. My schedule is tight this week, but I’m willing to move meetings around.”

“Lovely,” she states blandly as if everyone in the world bends over backwards for her boss. “He would like to kindly host you and Ms. Carter tomorrow night for dinner at seven o’clock.”

Shit. My new confidential informant is too green around the gills. I planned to have more time to prep her. “I’ll have to check with Goldie. I think she has something scheduled tomorrow night, but I can be there.”

Rebecca’s tone remains even, as if she doles out threats on the regular. “I’ll put this as politely as I can … Ms. Carter’s presence is required. Directions from Mr. Carter himself.”

I drag a hand down my face and keep the frustration out of my tone. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Do that,” she croons. “Mr. Carter’s directions were abundantly clear. He wants to meet with both of you, or the meeting is off. Shall I schedule the two of you with Mr. Carter tomorrow for seven?”

I wonder what the fuck I’m doing—or more specifically, what the fuck I’m doing to Goldie. “We’ll be there.”

“Wonderful.” A smug smile echoes in her tone. “Feel free to come a few minutes early for a cocktail.”

I’ll need one. “I wouldn’t miss it. Thank you, Rebecca.”

“Do enjoy the rest of your evening.” And without allowing me to say goodbye, she hangs up.

It doesn’t take long when I get a call on my government phone from the office. It’s the tech department.

“Hey,” I answer. “That came through as an unknown caller.”

“Not for me,” he says. “And that was a number we didn’t have from last night.”

I reverse out of my spot and hit the road as I talk. “Perfect. Shoot me that number, and I’ll add it to the list. I want those wires up and running. I’m writing the affidavits tonight and have an appointment with the judge first thing in the morning.”

“Will do. Sounds like that’s not the only appointment you’ve got tomorrow. You want to wear a mic again or just carry your cell?”

“This time I’m not sneaking in. Let me talk to my informant. We’ve thrown up enough red flags, and I can tell they don’t trust me because of my association with Goldie Carter. Let me gain their trust.”

“Sounds good. I’ll touch base tomorrow.”

I disconnect, merge onto the freeway, and dial Lake.

She answers after two rings. “I drive all the way to Miami, go grocery shopping, fill your fridge, and I’m cooking again. The least you can do is show your face at home. Your niece is bored, and I’m on the verge of a personal crisis thanks to my husband who’s going to be charged with campaign fraud tomorrow. You’re not at all helpful with any of that.”

I ignore my little sister’s inclination for drama. “I thought he was going to be charged today.”

She huffs a sigh. “Apparently they’re waiting for Monday, so that the small percentage of people who actually have a life and don’t watch the news on weekends will see it.”

I merge north, which Laken will not be happy about because it’s the opposite direction of her. “How do you know that?”

“Bill told me.”

“Everything is staged,” I mutter.

“Hell, yes it is. Other than the effect on Willa. That is not staged. I’m trying to prepare her for it. But when you’re a tween whose father regularly makes the news in a negative way, the mean girls at your private school don’t let you forget it. Life isn’t easy.”

“Then you’re really going to be pissed.”

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