Page 48 of The Grave Artist
But not enough for Eric Williamson.
He wanted—needed—I-squared to be permanent, and not implemented by executive order, as it had been, but by Congress.
Now it was clear from Reynolds’s message, Williamson had succeeded.
And with some luck, the subcommittee might have also approved the staff expansion he dreamed of. He envisioned Carmen overseeinga dozen field agents. Heron in charge of I-squared’s cyber operation, white hat hackers and penetration testers just like him.
Williamson heard voices just outside his office and looked up to see a man of around thirty and a slightly younger woman, both with dark-blond hair in, respectively, a businessman’s trim and a taut ponytail.
Destiny Baker spoke to them, and she walked to the door. “You free now?”
You bet he was. A nod.
She escorted the two inside.
“Agent Williamson. I’m Steve Mehlman. And this is my associate, Karen Winters. Office of Legislative Counsel.”
The men shook hands, she nodded.
“Please, sit.”
“We can’t stay, sir. We’re only here for some signatures.” The man glanced to Winters, who dug into a shoulder bag and withdrew an 8½ × 11-inch envelope and two sheets of white paper. She gave them to Mehlman, who completed the hand-off to Williamson.
“If you could sign both copies. One’s for your files.”
It was a receipt saying he acknowledged accepting delivery of certain documents listed below.
He looked at the first item on the list and the smile of anticipation faded.
Wait . . . no!
He tore open the envelope and read.
It was the worst news he could possibly imagine.
Chapter 23
Selina Sanchez hadn’t gotten where she was by sitting around and waiting for others to do things for her.
Or by asking for permission to do them herself.
She was a champion gymnast with an athletic scholarship. She was also an A student, mastering tough subjects like organic chemistry and advanced calculus using what she called her “mental muscle.”
She was an intellect who’d begun to crack the Da Vinci code of her father’s supposed suicide note.
And now was playing ace investigator, pursuing the case her sister would not.
Selina was sitting in the office of her father’s former business partner, in Whittier, a suburb of LA.
Dapper, sixty-year-old, balding, solidly built Carl Overton—who always wore dark three-piece suits—looked at her with dismay. “Someone’s stalking you? One of your dad’s former clients?”
“I think so.” A hedge that sort of defused the lie. “I’ve gotten messages about how Dad ruined their lives with his bad investments. And now they want to ruinmylife.”
“What does your sister say? Or the police?”
She scoffed and tried to remind herself to be a talented—that is, understated—actor playing her part in the role she’d created. “Theydon’t care. There’s no proof a crime was committed. They can’t devote resources until something actually happens.”
“Yes, I’ve heard about that. Domestic abuse and stalking. The police need concrete evidence before they do anything.”
