She had on clothes that looked more like she should be working out—I hated it when women wore yoga pants and training tanks as everyday clothing—but the ensemble accentuated her fit body in a way that it wouldn’t have flattered one less athletic.
Even though she was mad as hell—over a salad, who does that—she was gorgeous. I could only imagine how pretty she’d be if she smiled, not something I’d likely ever see since I doubted I’d run into her again in a city with a population closing in on a million.
Thirty-five years ago, when my father, the senior Senator from the State of Louisiana, with a record of being the second-most conservative member of congress, arrived in the district, the population was half what it was now.
I was still waiting on my salad when I saw her come back out of the building a few minutes later, this time, dressed in a pair of jeans and a blouse. She walked in the opposite direction, toward the pub down the way. The food wasn’t as good as what they served at the café, and they certainly didn’t have a gyro salad.
“Here you go,” said Lindsey, looking in the same direction I was. “You should be ashamed of yourself. She was here before you.”
I ate here at least once every day and didn’t want to piss off the woman who almost always took my order. “Tell you what, the next time she comes in, I’ll pay for her order.”
My phone chimed with a message from my mother, and I groaned. What was wrong with me? How in the hell had I forgotten that today was Sunday and I was having dinner with my parents? I walked out, leaving the to-go container sitting on the counter.
“You’re late, Sumner,” my mother said when I walked into the kitchen and kissed her cheek.
“Is he here?”
“They’re in your father’s study.”
“Ah, there he is,” said my father, motioning me closer. “Ed, this is my son, Sumner. Son, you know Director Fisk.”
“Sumner, it’s a pleasure. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“From my father, no doubt.” I shook the hand of the man who was three rungs above my boss, and hoped that asking my father to arrange a meeting between me and the new director of the CIA wouldn’t blow up in my face.
“Actually, no. I understand you were the person who took down Irish Warrick.”
“There was a team, sir.”
My father clapped me on the back. “What did I tell you, Ed?”
“Dad…”
“Look,” said Fisk. “They call you Cope, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The trial gets underway tomorrow. I’m assuming that’s why you asked for this meeting.”
My father cleared his throat. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’ll see how dinner is coming along.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.
I took a deep breath, knowing that what I was about to do could end my career, but worse, if it didn’t work, it could cost the lives of CIA agents around the world.
After dinner, I walked the director to his car. When I came back, my father was waiting on the porch. “Dad, I—”
“Come with me,” he said, leading me back into his study. “Have a seat, and tell me what the hell that was all about.”
My father was the sitting chair of the United States Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, the whole reason he’d been able to get me an audience with Fisk.
“I can’t talk to you about this, Dad.”
He sat down in the chair behind his desk, turned, and looked out the window.
Three
Ali
I tossed the container that held the rest of my half-eaten burger into the trash, not even sure why I’d brought it back to the apartment.
I pulled my cell phone out of my bag when I heard it ringing.
“Hey, Jessica. I was just getting ready to call you.”
“Are you settled?” asked my boss as of yesterday.
“This apartment is incredible.”
“More importantly, ideally located.”
“Right.”
“You ready for tomorrow?”
“I’m about to take another look at my notes.”
“Give me a call when it wraps up, and try to get some rest.”
The alarm on the bedside table went off at five, jarring me awake. I was still on West Coast time, which meant, for me, it was two. I got up and padded my way into the kitchen, wishing I’d figured out how to use the coffee maker before I went to sleep. It was far too complicated this early in the morning.
I walked as close to the windows as I could get without having a panic attack and stood on my tiptoes to see if the café across the way was open. Lights were on; that was promising.
Before I could make up my mind whether to get dressed and go down to grab a cup of coffee—which would entail taking the elevator—or attempt to figure out the machine that looked like it would take a barista’s degree to use, a light in the apartment directly across from mine came on.
It had the same floor-to-ceiling windows and an exercise bike sitting in the same location as the one in this apartment. Although bike was too simplistic to describe this thing. Like the coffeemaker, operating it would take a degree in fitness training.
When I saw someone walking toward it, I jumped back. Oh my God. It was Sumner Copeland. He was shirtless—and hot as fuck.
I rested against the exposed brick wall, wishing I could take another peek, but knowing I couldn’t risk him seeing me. Since I couldn’t stare at him, I went back to the kitchen and stared longingly at the coffee machine. It would be easier, and hopefully quicker, to tackle it than to go across the street to buy a cup, so I searched up an instruction video. Fifteen minutes later, I was rewarded with the best coffee I’d had in my life; it better be, since according to the website, the thing cost thousands.
The elevator ride to the parking garage didn’t make me as queasy as it had the day before; there was a chance I’d be used to it within a few days. After all, I had figured out how to use the fancy coffee machine. As my mother always said, I could do anything I set my mind to, I just had to want it badly enough. Who knew? Maybe tomorrow I’d overcome my fear of heights enough to check out the exercise bike.
I looked at my reflection in the polished glass of the elevator, trying to determine if I’d gone overboard in my decision to wear a conservative suit, or if I should’ve gone more casual. I shrugged. Too late to change my mind now.
My older-model car looked pathetic in my designated spot between two BMWs, but this morning, I was thankful the apartment came with a paid space. It would be insanely expensive to keep a car in DC otherwise, and right now, I needed it.
It would be at least an hour to get to the United States Eastern District Court of Virginia, longer if traffic was bad. Taking a car service would’ve probably cost more than the coffee maker, and by the time I figured out how to get there via public transportation, the opening arguments in the trial I’d been assigned to cover would be over.
I arrived an hour before the scheduled court time, parked, followed the signs for security, and waited in line. Even with ten people in front of me, I should still have time to kill before the hearing began.