Pieces of Ivy Read Free

slapped down today’s, Tuesday, May 10, 2011, newspaper on the table beside her as he left, sending a torrent of dust twisting in a slice of morning sunshine. The headline caught her eye.
    Should We Be Afraid of Lionel Starr? it asked. An oft-used photo of her father’s indignant face filled the front page.
    She did a quick scan. In a rare show of solidarity between two megapapers, The New York Times and Los Angeles Times had rerun the article by former veteran journalist Howard Kane.
    Referring to Lionel’s behemoth multinational Starr Enterprises, Kane wrote:
    If big pharma has a puppet master, it’s Starr. If your tax dollars are being siphoned off into defense, you can bet Lionel Starr has a fat hand in the pie. If it’s energy, clean or dirty, Starr is conducting the orchestra.…
    The scathing exposé measured the dangers of growing corporate power over our entire lives, with Vicki’s father painted as public enemy number one.
    Wearisome waiting had kicked Vicki off the wagon. For sixteen months she had avoided any news relating to her father’s monstrous empire—it was a good run. The article broadly reflected her own mistrust.
    An accompanying editorial espoused the daring move by both papers. But when asked why they wouldn’t rehire the former First Amendment legend, they had replied, “We’re angry, not stupid.”
    When asked to comment, a spokesperson for Lionel Starr stated, “We have no interest in discussing this or any related topics. That is all.”
    Charming as always, Daddy.
    She tossed aside the paper and released a long breath, trying to shift her energy. Her phone read 11:11. She scowled. Vicki’s morning had grown from terrible to great as she, yet again, got what she wanted—even if she didn’t know why.
    Kempt was not a man to yield, yet his muster fell to putty when it came to his star agent. Now, however, her morning hit a new low. Payback’s a bitch.
    This is such bullshit. She heard the door jingle, and the agent she was now dreading entered the eclectic diner. Why him? She raised a hand. He acknowledged and approached, catching a passing waitress and pointing to Vicki’s booth.
    Kempt had every right to be frustrated with her. He had pulled serious strings to get her the Sullivan case after she had insisted—but sending this guy ?
    “Agent Starr, I assume.” He extended a halfhearted hand as he slid into the bench opposite her.
    She shook his hand briefly. “Yes, and you’re Agent Dashel.”
    He offered a nod, looking equally unimpressed. She choked back her surprise at his disinterest. Vicki wasn’t accustomed to this response—especially from men.
    She had been crazy to think that she would be allowed to fly solo on this one. Her partners on the Sullivan case would need to stay on for continuity—her absence alone would disrupt the high-profile investigation. Maybe she was crazy. Abandoning a premier case for a small-town murder made no sense. But her gut was rarely wrong; and with that realization, she shuddered.
    “Thanks,” the disheveled man offered as an afterthought to the waitress who placed the hot cup of coffee in front of him. He hugged the mug with his hands as if it was cold outside—it wasn’t.
    Perfect.
    † † †
    Hank Dashel scanned the cluttered diner. Beams of dusty flecks drifted in the sunlight, stretching from the street-front wall of windows to the graying black patterns on the faded red carpet. The smoke-free establishment continued to reek of ancient cigarette smoke and decades of spilled coffee.
    Only two other tables were occupied. An old couple sat at the one nestled in the dark corner. They looked sourly at the breakfast they slowly sucked into their heavily aged mouths, neither speaking to the other.
    A booth behind Agent Starr held an enormously fat young woman wedged into the seat. Her heavy breasts claimed a chunk of the table space while the large wheel of her belly supported the table from beneath. Even from here, Hank could see the