Page 6 of Not Our Daughter

There was a knock on his door, followed by his assistant poking her head inside. Like him, Brenda worked nearly every day. She’d been with him for twenty-six years. She probably knew more DC political secrets than the entirety of the Senate. And he paid her twice as much as their government salaries.

“Sir, Mr. Lester is here.”

“Okay, you can let him in.”

Ross Lester had been a friend and confidant for more than two decades. A valuable friend, since he worked inside the elite inner circles of the FBI. A balding, pudgy guy nearing sixty, Lester entered the office wearing a cheap brown suit and holding a briefcase. He’d always reminded Fisk more of a community college professor than an intelligence expert.

“You really need to get better suits, Ross,” Fisk said.

“You’ve been telling me that for years.”

“I’m reminded of it every time you come see me.”

“Not all of us have our own tailor, Carl. Some of us work in the real world.”

“That’s a shame.” Fisk offered a hand toward a sitting area with a long black leather sofa and two leather chairs. “Have a seat. You want a drink?”

Lester sat on the sofa and shook his head. “Nah, can’t.”

“If you knew the expense of what I’m holding in my hand, my friend, you would never turn it down. Believe me.”

“Yeah, well, Nancy has been riding my ass lately about my drinking. I can’t afford to have that on my breath when I get home, no matter the cost.”

“Again, a shame.”

Fisk walked back over to his bar, poured himself another glass.

“Well, what’s so urgent?” he asked Lester, who had texted him only a few minutes ago.

“I got an unexpected hit on one of the cases you’ve had me monitoring.”

Fisk had Lester keeping tabs on dozens of cases that were all directly or indirectly connected to his multitude of clients. In return, he’d treated Lester to many of the city’s luxuries over the years. The best seats at ballets, shows, sporting events, and restaurants. Lester once said Fisk was the only reason his marriage to Nancy had lasted. She loved to be treated to the good life. Something the FBI could never afford them.

“Which one?” Fisk asked.

Lester popped open his briefcase, pulled out a manila folder. “Something that has been cold for a long time. Greg and Amy Olsen ring a bell?”

It took some serious restraint for Fisk to keep from spitting out his whisky. Those were the last two names he wanted mentioned around him right now.

“What kind of hit?”

“They found them.”

This time Fisk felt a tremble move through him and he dropped his glass. It shattered on the hardwood floor. He quickly tried to calm himself, but his hands were shaking.

“You all right?” Lester asked.

“Yeah,” Fisk managed, swallowing. “Damn thing just slipped out of my hand.”

He didn’t bother with the glass shards; instead, he quickly stepped back over to Lester.

“Where are they?” he asked.

“Colorado, apparently.”

“How did they find them?”

“A wire transfer from an offshore bank.”

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