“I thought you might need a reminder of just how mutually aligned our interests are,” Kane states sharply.
“I do not,” Pocher assures him tightly. “But I do believe your future wife does.”
“The future wife is standing right here,” I snap. “And I’m quite clear on the situation. However, I’m also quite aware that while you may not be guilty of this, you’re guilty as fuck in general where I’m concerned.”
His lips quirk. “I’m sure you didn’t come here to tell me I am guilty as fuck, as you say, Special Agent Love.”
“I’m always up for reminding you of the facts, but ironically, I’m here to save your life.”
He arches a brow. “Really? I’m intrigued. Do tell.” He waves at one of the men. “Get them a drink.”
He doesn’t offer us a seat. I guess he doesn’t want us to stay.
Kane, in turn, waves off the offer for both of us and inclines his chin at me to continue. “I assume you’re aware of the recent murders. One here in the city and two in the Hamptons?” I ask.
“I knew about the Hampton murders. I didn’t know there was another here in the city. What do they have to do with me?”
“Did you know Rip Vaughn?”
“The name doesn’t sound familiar.”
Of course not, I think. Rip was beneath him. Most people are.
“What about Naomi Wells and Emma Wells?”
"Not familiar.”
I pull up the photos of Rip, Ann, Emma, Naomi, and Marilyn on my phone and motion to his guard. “Show him these photos.”
The guard doesn’t move until Pocher lifts a finger in his direction. Then, and only then, does the guard accept my phone and hand it to Pocher. Pocher glances at the photos and then holds the phone out to me directly. He’s living brave.
I close the space between us and take the phone, but like a good little FBI agent, I step back into my spot next to Kane. “Do you know any of them?”
“I don’t,” he states. “But I assume the man is Rip Vaughn. And I still don’t know what this has to do with me. Get to the point, Agent Love.”
“Rip was luring people in to pitch to him and potential investors, and telling them fake investors were interested. They’d lead the people on and those people would do anything they wanted. Then they’d tell them the investor backed out.”
“And I’m one of those investors,” he assumes.
“You are.”
“As am I,” Kane states.
Pocher’s attention turns to Kane. “Did this person take your chopper down?”
“Unknown at this point,” Kane says, despite the fact that he knows exactly who came at him, and I know why. It would be weak to suggest one of his own tried to kill him. “But it certainly can’t be ruled out,” Kane adds.
“Are you familiar with any company pitching a weapon that the victim would unwittingly ingest?”
“You mean poison?”
“No,” I say, “not poison.” I offer nothing more.
“Whatever that means, it doesn’t involve me. I’m aware of no such thing and for good reason. I don’t invest in military or defense assets. Those things are highly controversial and counterintuitive to my support of my chosen political candidates, such as our future governor, Mayor Love.” He shifts back to the prior topic. “Can you elaborate on the weapon?”
“Since I don’t trust you not to use this for some kind of press gimmick,” I say, “no. But for the time being, I’d make sure you know exactly where everything comes from that goes into your mouth. And anything that has not been in your presence since preparation, do not eat.”
“I’m well protected.”
“So are we,” Kane says. “And this person got a little too close for comfort.”
He gives a nod. “Point taken.”
My cellphone rings and I punch the silencer button. “You’ve been warned,” I say. “I did my job.”
“Ah yes,” Pocher says. “The FBI agent who spreads a little too much love in all the wrong places. Speaking of, how about spreading it in the right places?” He looks between the two of us. “Can I count on you both to be at the weekend fundraiser?”
“We’ll attend,” Kane replies. “And do so with the intent of us reaffirming and nurturing our mutually aligned interests as we have in the past.”
“Does that mean you’ll write a check to support her father?”
“No,” Kane says. “I don’t like the man.”
“And neither do I,” I reply. “And as much as I’d like to blame you for that, he’s his own man.”
“Indeed,” Pocher states. “And the future governor of our great state.”
“You mean you’re the future governor of our great state, and he’s your puppet,” I say.
“I’m but a mere admirer supplying support to a man with a well-decorated and respected career in law enforcement.”
In that moment, my mother is on my mind. And I want answers. I want them right now. “Too bad my mother couldn’t be here to see this all unfold, don’t you think?”