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  Stone cemented his standing in Watson’s hierarchy when, as Deputy Commissioner for Child Welfare, he testified before a Grand Jury that he was solely responsible for the disastrous selection of Quark Enterprises to supply food for the city’s custodial youth. The Mayor, Stone insisted, had no input on the decision to give the contract to Quark. Yet O’Brien knew personally that Stone was the bagman for an under-the-table contribution to Watson—O’Brien didn’t know how much, but he knew it was a boatload—from Quark’s principal, Everett Heap. Heap was somewhere in Mexico now, O’Brien had heard.

  The Commissioner resigned over the Quark catastrophe, and, ironically, Stone, the man admittedly responsible, took over. It was a short walk from there to Public Works.

  Over the noise of the glasses and silverware, O’Brien felt, more than heard, Stone’s approach. Every few minutes he would stop and stick a gargantuan paw at some startled patron or wave grandly at a sycophant across the room. In this, Stone imitated his boss, the Mayor, who could not go out in public, even for a turkey sub, without being inundated by hundreds of well-wishers. The difference was that people genuinely liked Watson; they shook Stone’s hand only because he presided over a half-billion dollar budget, much of it discretionary. Stone, his face slippery with sweat from his brief exertion, slammed down hard in the antique chair between O’Brien and Spagnola.

  “I saved you some bread,” O’Brien said.

  Spagnola, a small man, instinctively shifted his body to sit as tall as he could opposite the immense bureaucrat. He watched as Stone devoured a breadstick in two bites and slammed down half of the bourbon old-fashioned O’Brien had ordered for him in a single gulp. “I’m Joe Spagnola,” he said, sticking out his hand.

  “John Stone.” The Director enveloped Spagnola’s hand in his own massive paw. He was looking at Evelyn.

  Spagnola glanced at O’Brien, and then back at Stone. O’Brien’s eyes told him nothing about what he needed to know. How candid could he be with Stone? Spagnola had done everything he could to get this contract, since it would be the key to everything he dreamed about. He had agreed to sub an inordinate amount of the contract to MBG because it was run by an old protégé of Watson’s, an asshole named Charles Dworkin. Indeed, at a $500-a-plate fundraiser for one of Watson’s favored charities, the Mayor came right up to him and told him that he was looking forward to working with RDE on the parking-ticket contract. But Spagnola was a cautious man, and he decided to be cautious here.

  “Disappointing season, huh?” he said. The Redskins were seven and seven and going nowhere after having won the Super Bowl the year before.

  “Skins suck,” Stone said indifferently. “Tell me, my dear, how you came to be involved in the computer business.”

  Evelyn flashed a smile, and so did Spagnola. He would have to be patient, but he could see this was going to be easy.

  Midway through the meal Evelyn excused herself. She had no need to go to the ladies’ room but she wanted to give her lunch companions a chance to talk about her, as she knew they would. For twenty minutes, John Stone had been speaking into her breasts as though they were a public-address system. And Spagnola had been shifting, butt-cheek to butt-cheek, like he was inventing some sort of sit-down dance. And the other guy, O’Brien, kept pursing his face like he was trying to send Spagnola signals with his nose. They were planning something dirty. And it involved her. And they didn’t want her at the table while they talked about it.

  Evelyn sighed. Didn’t they know who she was? She had seen her share of rough men. Of course, the fellas at her table today were uptown men, not afraid of doing the crime, just afraid of saying it. For a while she thought she floated above all that; with her degree in business administration, her Phi Beta Kappa, her volunteer work for the homeless and tutoring back in the old neighborhood. But when she started to work for a living; when she started to earn contracts and do business, she came to see that the world’s business was just like her daddy’s, except that it was dressed up in a different bullshit language. A woman who slept with a man for ten dollars was a ten dollar whore, but a woman who slept with a man for business was a vice-president.

  She checked her makeup and accepted the hand towel from the attendant. She washed her hands. She was ready to do the bad thing, whatever it was.

  “Where did you get her from? I’ve never seen boobs like that …what is she, a size D, double D?” asked Stone as soon as she left.

  Spagnola nearly laughed out loud. Stone’s obsession with women’s breasts was legendary. According to O’Brien, Stone had once gotten drunk at a Christmas party in the Mayor’s office and asked the wife of the City Administrator (the highest ranking appointed official in the DC government) why she had small breasts. “I think she’s a size D,” replied Spagnola, at length.

  “Are they hers, or did she have plastic surgery?”

  “As far as I know, they’re hers.”

  Stone smacked his lips, and Spagnola’s smile broadened. If Stone would talk about Evelyn Boone’s breasts with him, he would talk about anything.

  “I need your help, Mr. Stone,” Spagnola said. “I thought that we had this contract wired for RDE, but I hear Boeing Computer Services just submitted a bid...”

  “The aerospace company?”

  “The same. They have infinite resources and I’m worried.”

  “Okay, whaddya want from me?” replied Stone.

  “I want to see their technical proposal and their price proposal,” Spagnola said.

  “You know that’s proprietary.”

  Spagnola waited the moment out, patiently.

  “I wish you’d asked me for that earlier this week when the bids were in my office. All contracts over a million dollars have to go to the Mayor’s office. I sent them over to Watson’s office this morning.”

  The table was silent. At last Stone said, “I’ll tell you what. Tomorrow is Friday. Tell Evelyn I want to take her to dinner. We’ll stop by the District Building and pick up the Boeing proposal. I can let her have it for the weekend. But I need it in my office by seven o’clock Monday morning.”

  “You’ve got a deal,” said Spagnola. “We’ll have the proposal back on Monday morning. I appreciate this.”

  As they left the restaurant Spagnola pulled Evelyn aside and explained what was going to happen. She rolled her eyes. “I will sleep with him or I will steal that bid,” she hissed into his ear. “I will not do both.”

  Spagnola’s eyes widened. “Just get the bid,” he said softly.

  Evelyn arrived at Stone’s office at seven p.m. After small talk over a drink from Stone’s liquor cabinet, Evelyn and Stone walked the two blocks west to the District Building.

  The District Building, a short jog away from the White House, was an elegant example of early 20th century architecture. However, the ornate interior statues and marble staircases were now badly in need of refurbishing.

  Stone sweet-talked the two of them past the security guard, who looked high to Evelyn. They walked through the darkened lobby to the elevator and then, on the fifth floor, to the majestic doors below the black and gold-lettered sign, OFFICE OF THE MAYOR OF THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA. Stone unlocked them, and led Evelyn into the reception room. He walked across it and, Evelyn following, opened the door behind the receptionist’s desk that led to the Mayor’s own office.

  This new room, plush and enormous, had a sweeping view across the south lawn of the White House to the ornate facade of the Treasury building.

  “Look for a pile of loose leaf binders. You know what contract proposals look like. They’re probably here somewhere. Remember, we’re looking for two proposals. One marked ‘Technical Proposal’ and one marked ‘Price Proposal.’ I’ll check in the City Administrator’s office in case they got passed on there.”

  Evelyn, uneasy, watched him leave. She was now illegally occupying the office of the Mayor of the City of Washington with the intent of stealing a bid proposal, and her fate was largely in the hands of a man who was more likely
to remember her bra size than her name. She went to work.

  After a few minutes, she found a binder with the distinctive Boeing logo on it. She quickly paged through it. She was in luck. The technical and price proposals were still in the same binder. Then, to her surprise, she heard laughing in the distance. The laughter got closer. She stiffened. Where was Stone?

  The voices were now in the secretary’s office outside the Mayor’s door. Quickly, Evelyn stuffed the Boeing proposal in her tote bag and looked for a place to hide. Under the desk would clearly be ridiculous, and a closet would be too risky, they’d probably want to hang up coats. Surely he had a private bathroom. Could she hide in the shower? The lights! She sprinted over to the switch and turned them off, and in so doing, noticed a slight recess in the paneling, indicating a door, directly behind the Mayor’s desk. She frantically traced her way back in the dark, found the door, opened it, and staggered into a small room. She swung the door closed, but not completely. She couldn’t risk locking herself in. And in spite of her enormous fear, she was curious about what would happen next.

  Two people walked into the Mayor’s office. They were Wendell Francis Watson, Jr., Mayor of the nation’s capital, and a petite woman with a wide smile, who Evelyn guessed to be about thirty. Watson carried a bottle of gin. The woman carried only her purse.

  “Before we have some fun, look what I have.” He took out a small packet.

  “Wendell, I can’t do that.”

  “Suit yourself, Sugar.” He took a snort in each nostril.

  Evelyn saw the Mayor put the bottle of gin on his desk. After pulling the woman to him and kissing her, Watson slowly began to remove her blouse and then her sheer, lacy bra. He ran his fingers up and down her bare back. Standing behind her, he began to caress her breasts.

  “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” he murmured. “Thou art more lovely and more temperate.” He kept stroking her. “Damn, Sharon, you’re looking and feeling even better than last time. I should’ve promoted you long ago.”

  Evelyn felt herself blush as Watson unzipped Sharon’s slacks and let them drop to the floor. She stepped out of them, pushing them aside with the toe of her shoe. He had his hand in her bikini panties, then slid them down. Evelyn blinked as he himself stripped down to a flashy pair of red silk boxer shorts and matching singlet. Then deftly he pulled off his underwear.

  Evelyn steadied herself. Twenty feet away, a man—the mayor of Washington!—and a woman were having sex. What’s more, it looked as though the Mayor had just snorted a shitload of cocaine. Evelyn almost felt high herself, just watching them. At the same time she knew she was in trouble, terrible trouble. Wendell Watson was an extremely dangerous man. Word on the street was that he was mobbed up; that if you were a threat to him you ended up as worm food in a PG County cornfield. This, somehow, made her feel even higher. What was she going to do?

  She could make a run for it, but that was a long shot. Maybe they would finish and leave. And where was Stone?

  Stone took longer than he had expected in the City Administrator’s office and had no luck finding the contract proposals. He moved his 350-pound hulk quickly through the darkened hallway toward the Mayor’s office suite. This time, a member of the Mayor’s police detail, wearing a sober business suit, was standing in front of the closed door.

  “Good evening, Mr. Stone. You know the office is closed now,” said Sergeant Aloysius Hightower.

  “Whaddaya mean closed? I was in there a few minutes ago. I just need to pick up something I left there this afternoon.” He extended his hand toward the antique brass door handle.

  “Mr. Stone, the office is closed. You’ll have to wait until Monday.”

  Stone’s hand stopped in midair and his face clouded. He wasn’t used to being refused. “You don’t understand. I was just in there a few minutes ago and then I had to use the men’s room. I just need to pick up some important papers. It’ll only take a minute.”

  “Mr. Stone, the office is closed. You’re gonna have to wait until Monday.”

  Stone began to sweat. Watson was in there, maybe with somebody. Stone hoped Evelyn had been able to get out. He gave Hightower a withering look and headed for the elevator. Maybe she was waiting for him downstairs.

  Sergeant Hightower was joined by Officer Ronald Hawkins, another member of the Mayor’s security detail.

  “Whatcha think just happened, Hawk? That lard ass, John Stone, came by and wanted to get in. He tried to tell me he was just in there. I told him to get lost.”

  Hightower and Hawkins were part of the Mayor’s personal security detail, a thirty-one-member force. Mayor Watson had more than double the security detail of any other mayor in the nation.

  The force was a Praetorian Guard of twenty-eight fiercely loyal officers and three sergeants. Picked personally by the Mayor, they acted quickly when necessary and kept their mouths shut.

  “Who’s Watson in there with now?”

  “Sharon Scott.” Hightower rolled his eyes. Scott was Watson’s latest conquest, recently elevated—wonder why!—to a position in DC Government middle management.

  Inside, the Mayor and Scott were finishing up. “I need a cigarette,” she said. She reached for the purse she’d left on the side of the couch, and as she did so, her arm knocked the purse off the couch and its contents tumbled onto the floor. “Oh shit, my stuff’s all over the floor.”

  “Don’t worry your gorgeous head about it, Honey. You can pick it up later.”

  “I wanna pick it up now.”

  “Why the fuck you gotta pick it up now?”

  “Because I want pick it up now.”

  The Mayor looked down, his eyes drawn to a reflection beside the couch. “What’s that silver thing?”

  “What silver thing?”

  “That silver thing over there.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Whaddaya mean nothing?”

  “It’s just my compact.”

  “Lemme see it.” The six-foot-three, 210-pound Watson easily held the small-boned woman with his right hand and grabbed at the silver object with his left hand. He picked up a small silver tape recorder.

  “WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS? BITCH, YOU’VE BEEN RECORDING THIS WHOLE THING.”

  “I left it in my purse by mistake, Wendy. I swear. Besides, it’s not on.”

  “Don’t give me that shit. You were trying to set me up for some kind of blackmail.” Watson slapped her across the face, picked the tape recorder up, and threw it against the wall.

  As blood spurted from her mouth, Sharon Scott ran toward the center of the room. Watson pursued her and grabbed her from behind.

  “Bitch, you’re not gonna get away with this,” said the Mayor. Suddenly, viciously, he kicked out, knocking her feet from under her.

  She fell to the side and grabbed the chair to keep from landing on the floor. She wheeled and slammed the Mayor directly in the groin with her foot. He moaned and doubled up, holding his crotch.

  Scott stumbled to the desk and picked up the half-empty gin bottle. Watson was coming at her full steam. Despite her slight frame, she swung the liquor bottle hard, striking his head. It shattered, anointing the rug with alcohol.

  Stunned, his head lolling, Watson stumbled but came at Scott again. This time she was able to grab a large ashtray from the desk and connect with another direct hit to his temple. Watson let out an agonized yell. A gash began spurting blood. Like a crazed animal he continued to lunge at her.

  Hearing the yell, Hightower threw open the door and took in the bloody scene. He saw the Mayor, prone and bleeding; Scott, ashtray cocked in her hand; the blood on the floor. He fired his Glock semi-automatic pistol, and part of Sharon Scott’s head exploded.

  Evelyn pulled herself back into the inner office. Think clearly, girl, her mind screamed, as though there was a way to think clearly about what she just saw. She looked desperately around her. The room was dark. There was nothing she could do about that. There didn’t seem to be any windows. She
peered along the ceiling line; no vents. There was no way out.

  Except through the Mayor’s office.

  In high school, she had been a pretty fair runner, and thank God she had kept in shape. She would have given anything for a pair of Adidas. But the inch-high heels she wore for her dinner with John Stone would have to do.

  Silently, she stepped into the doorway. It was a straight shot to the door of the reception area, and from there into the hallway. Two security guards stood over the Mayor, waving their arms and talking loudly.

  She took off.

  Hightower and Hawkins caught the quick movement and looked at each other in disbelief. Had some chick witnessed the entire incident and just now run past them out of the office? Watson was still too dazed to have noticed.

  “I’ll get her, Hi,” Hawkins said, and in a moment he was gone.

  Bloody and dazed, the Mayor stumbled to his feet and stared at the body face down on the plush carpet.

  “You saved my life, Hightower. I’ll take care of you when it’s promotion time.”

  Chapter 2

  For a moment, she thought about taking the elevator and then she heard “I’ll get her, Hi.” She ran to the emergency exit, flung it open, and felt something slip out of her tote. The proposal! she thought, and she knew in an instant that she had no time to pick it up, no time to do anything but run. She flew down the stairs.

  She was a big girl, the tallest girl on her high school track team, and she took the steps two or three at a time. Somewhere between the fifth and fourth floor the heel of her left shoe caught and broke off, and she almost tumbled the rest of the way. She kicked her useless shoes off and, unsteady in the slippery nylons, continued downward as best she could.

  On the third floor landing, she caught sight of the younger cop bearing down on her. She had to pick up speed. Then she had a stroke of luck. She heard her pursuer fall hard on the stairs. “Jesus Christ shit,” he yelled. He must have fallen over her shoes.