Mortal Faults Read Free Page A

seven-term representative of Orange County’s Gold Coast.
    His hairline had receded since the photo on his Web site was taken, his temples were grayer, and he was wearing a pair of reading glasses which he took off, perhaps self-consciously, before rising to shake her hand. A strong clasp, his palm cool and dry.
    “Miss Sinclair. Have a seat.”
    She knew he was looking her over, sizing her up, and she gave him a moment to do it. He would see a trim, wiry woman of thirty-four—though she looked younger, or so she told herself—with brown hair in a cute pageboy ’do, selected because long hair could be grabbed in a fight. She was of medium height, tall enough to fend for herself and short enough to get lost in a crowd. Her face was pale, with high cheekbones and a scattering of faint freckles. Her hazel eyes regarded the world coolly, keeping secrets.
    He resumed his power position behind his desk, while she had to settle for the role of supplicant in a straight-backed armless chair.
    “Pleasure to meet you,” Reynolds said in his aged-whiskey voice.
    “Same here,” Abby said. “Nice digs.”
    “I maintain this office year round. It’s where I work when Congress is out of session.” He leaned forward and steepled his hands—large hands, which went with his large, athletic frame. He still had the rangy build of a quarterback, and a squinty gaze set for sixty-yard passes. “As you may have realized, I have a security issue I need to deal with.”
    “Don’t you have the Secret Service to protect you?”
    “The Secret Service doesn’t provide protection to members of Congress, only to the president and vice president and their families. And visiting heads of state. Basically their turf is the White House and the vice president’s residence.”
    “Not the Senate or the Capitol building?”
    “That’s the jurisdiction of the Capitol Hill police.”
    “So you’re covered when you’re on the job in D.C. How about when you’re out of town?”
    He shrugged. “I’m on my own.”
    In the post 9-11 world, Abby had assumed that every politico had official protection at all times. “No security at all? You serious?”
    “Some members of Congress hire personal bodyguards. Security firms are available that specialize in protecting politicians. There are also retired D.C. police officers who go into the private security business. But not every congressmen or senator traipses around with an armed man at his side. Personally, I’ve never felt the need.”
    “What about public events?”
    “Local law enforcement generally provides protection, crowd control, security checkpoints ...”
    “And when you’re just driving around, shopping for groceries or whatever?”
    “I’m by myself. Of course, most of the time I go unrecognized. Most people don’t even know who their congressmen is, let alone what he looks like. Believe me, I don’t draw many stares.”
    “It still seems crazy.”
    “The system may be a little out of date. Things change slowly in Washington. You know, it wasn’t that long ago that Harry Truman used to walk out of the White House with one Secret Service man and stroll down the street for a haircut.”
    To Abby, it seemed like plenty long ago—decades before she was born. “So the bottom line is, you’re unprotected?”
    “I’m hoping you’ll protect me, Miss Sinclair.”
    “You do realize I’m not a bodyguard?”
    “I’m not looking for a bodyguard. I’m looking for someone to assess a specific threat.”
    “In that case, you came to the right gal.”
    “I hear you’re quite good at what you do. Of course, I guess you don’t advertise your failures.” This was added with a smile.
    “I don’t advertise at all,” Abby answered mildly. “I keep a low profile.”
    “You run a one-woman operation—no staff, no overhead?”
    “That’s right.”
    “But you still charge like you have overhead, don’t you?” Another smile.
    “I don’t work for free. But there are easier