Page 34 of Lord Have Mercy Part Four: Big Son

Fox had smirked. “You don’t look like aspy.”

The fake ID, the suits, the car, and Fox’s brilliant acting job got Deborah Sawyer in the back of the Tahoe and into their custody.

She wasn’t going to be wholly cooperative, though.

“I don’t understand. The Justice Department?” Ghost could hear the little click-click of something scrolling on her phone screen. “I don’t have any emails from Clark.”

Shit. She knew somebody at the DOJ. Of course she did. All these Abacus shitheads had each and every finger in a powerful pie.

Ghost skated a look toward the passenger seat to see that Fox had his jaw set at an unusual angle, a tension in his necknever present in his natural state. In his Beltway voice, he said, “He’s not involved in this. This isn’t a professional call, Miss Sawyer. We’re investigating accusations of corruption at the FBI.”

“What corruption?” she snapped.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you more right now.”

The next few minutes would be the most tenuous. Until they had her somewhere secure, and until they got hold of her phone and laptop bag, she could bring hell raining down upon them.

“Where are you taking me?”

“An offsite secure location,” Fox said. “We have a few routine questions, and we think it’s best not to ask them in your office.” He twisted around to peer between the front bucket seats and glanced at her seriously over the rims of his shades. “We don’t know whether or not there are listening devices in your office.”

A quick glance at the rearview mirror proved that her manicured brows had flown up, and her face gone pale. “You think my office isbugged?”

“We’re sending in a team to check,” Fox said. “Until then, we think it’s safest to talk somewhere secure.”

She subsided with a huff, playing at put-out, but clearly spooked. She lapsed back into silence, phone making muted scrolling sounds, until Ghost turned into the parking lot of their destination: a block of nondescript, gray concrete office buildings, sunlight gleaming black off the windows, men and women in business attire coming and going in the parking lot.

The leather of the seats squeaked as Sawyer sat up straighter in back. “This isn’t–”

“No, we’re not going to HQ,” Fox said. “We’ve been working out of this annex to keep things low profile. If the media catches wind of you turning up at the DOJ…”

“Right. Yes. Of course.” She sounded relieved.

Mike had been the one to score them the location: an empty office space on the second floor of Building B, at the end of a long hall, well away from the elevators. Fox had gone by earlier to get it all set up, to, in his words, “make it look legit,” and to disable the security cameras in all the places that would capture their comings and goings.

Ghost parked, farther from the building than he liked, but Fox was all extended arms and conciliatory, “Right this way, Miss Sawyer,” and “sorry for the inconvenience,” and “this shouldn’t take long.” Ghost kept silent and his reflection in the glass doors, as they approached, looked sufficiently fed-like, he thought.

One of Fox’s other little tidbits of wisdom: the details were the thing that sold a con. He’d said “op,” but same difference. Ghost clocked the floor directory in the building lobby, and saw that Fox had used the stick-up letters to make an entry for their fake office. He saw Sawyer clock it, too, and said a silent thanks to Fox’s neurotic commitment to the bit.

Sawyer stayed on her phone – typing in rapid bursts and sighing – the whole elevator ride and trip down the hall. As someone wealthy who had drivers, and no doubt a private chef, and domestic help, she’d grown used to living in her own little world, concerned with only herself while others floated around her, opening doors, offering her refreshment. It worked in their favor…until they reached the office, and she lifted her head to find it stark and empty. No computers, no files, no ringing phones. The reception desk sat empty, and the air was chilled and stale; there was no mistaking they were the only three people here.

“What–” Sawyer started.

Fox snatched her phone in one quick movement, then her bag while she was spluttering a protest, and then caught herhands together and slapped her in handcuffs. When she started to scream, he fitted his hand over her mouth and said, “Don’t do that.”

Her eyes bulged.

Ghost shut and locked the door. The blinds were already drawn, and the sunlight only a muted glow through their plastic slats. In the dim stillness of the empty space, he could hear Deborah Sawyer breathing roughly through her nose.

Fox put his face very close to hers, and said, “If you scream, I’ll hurt you. Cooperate, and you can be home by dinnertime.”

Her legs wobbled, and Ghost thought she’d go down. Panic turned her pupils to pinpricks, but then, slowly, she calmed, and nodded.

~*~

Walsh’s anger wasn’t so much bristling, as pulsing, like a deep-tissue bruise, painful, but disorienting. He wanted to sleep for a week. He settled for pouring a vodka rocks and calling his wife in the privacy of the clubhouse office.

He was greeted by clattering in the background, and Emmie’s voice, away from the phone, saying, “No, Vi, don’t – yeah. Like that.” She sighed, and then, closer, said, “Hi, baby. Sorry. Uncle Tommy’s teaching Violet how to play pool.”

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