Page 44 of The Grave Artist
“Your employment wasn’t in danger ... at least not much.” Now he offered a true, if brief, grin.
“Congratulations, Eric.”
Nothing jokey now. She opened her mouth to say more but was interrupted by a trilling phone.
Williamson momentarily closed his eyes and rested the back of his head against the massive chair, a black leather swivel rocker that he’d purchased out of his own pocket because there was nothing in the government warehouse that could handle his bulk.
The pleasure he felt was diminished by the news that HK had attacked and severely injured Frank Tandy, whom Williamson had worked with several times in the past. He placed a call to Tandy’s captain at LAPD, who told him she had spoken to the hospital, but had no updates about his condition. She added that she would look for another gold shield to serve as liaison, but for the time being, the LAPD and I-squared would have to work independently and share information as needed.
He told her he would keep her informed and they disconnected.
Baker appeared once more at the door. “Congressional Liaison office. Somebody’s coming by with paperwork.”
“When?”
“Probably ten or fifteen.”
“How did they know for sure I was here?”
Baker shrugged. “They knoweverything, Eric. Key cards, all that. The US Congress doesn’t have time to waste. If they’re coming to get your signature, they’re going to know exactly where you are.”
“I’ll need to draft a memo to everyone. Could you hang around—”
“Not going anywhere till I see a congressional ass in this doorway. I wonder if they look like everyone else’s ass.” She zipped back to her desk.
Williamson picked up his landline phone. He had never in his life asked a secretary or PA to “get so-and-so on the line for me.” It was demeaning to everyone. He aimed a blunt finger toward the speed-dial list. The names beside the buttons were printed in his own clumsy script—a hand injury had forever affected his writing. One might think it was from eight years of line- and quarterbacking football, or eight years as a field agent, but that would be wrong.
He hit button number one.
A ring, then: “Honey!” Camille’s breezy voice was sweet and satin smooth, utterly disarming to defendants on the stand—who, upon hearing it, expected a shy schoolteacher when it came to cross-examination. They got instead breathtaking speed and precision of delivery, as she wielded verbal knives with which she cut their legs—and the foundation of their case—out from under them.
“All good?” she asked.
Both parents spent equal time marshaling, nurturing, educating and chauffeuring the four boys—with the help of an impeccable nanny. A call to his wife during office hours, a rarity, might have to do with a problem at school, a medical issue or the like.
“Fine.” A pause. “I just heard. Looks like it’s going to happen.”
He offered no further explanation. Sure enough, Camille instantly understood.
“Oh, my!”
“A congressional aide or somebody is on the way over here with the paperwork.”
“So I-squared will be permanent?”
“That’s right.”
Camille said, “Is this where I mention that you’ve damn well earned it?”
“That’s what the script calls for. Along with how wonderful I am in general. And an irreplaceable asset to King and country.”
“Handsome too,” Camille said coyly.
“Forgot that one.”
“What, the best part?”
Williamson wondered how his agents—say, Carmen Sanchez—would react, hearing him talk like this. Like a normal husband. And not the gruff bull he was in the office.
