Power Blind Read Free

political action committees of the Senate leadership to buy himself a seat on the Judiciary Committee.
    As much as he had despised it, at Yale they were known as Machiavelli and the Prince. Brandon: dark hair, peering eyes, diminutive face, expert debater. Landon: tall, fair-skinned, strong-jawed. A leader, not an arguer. That they could be brothers had unnerved their classmates, just as it had the families on Nob Hill where they’d grown up. The dissimilarity had always powered an undercurrent of whispering that tugged at them as they walked to their table in the dining room of their parents’ country club or swam in the pool. But, fortunately, age, like erosion, had smoothed the stark edges of their contours and softened the contrast.
    The phone beeped again. This time it was his driver. Landon rose, and then glanced down at the Supreme Court building across the street. It seemed at this moment like a fist with two fingers missing, mangled and powerless—
    But not for long.
    As he walked down the hallway toward the elevator, he wondered what the president’s reaction would be when he heard the two names. How would a president who had always fled to the center because he’d lacked the courage of his convictions adjust to this reminder that he owed his presidency to contributors who were finally demanding that they receive what they’d been paying for over all these years.

Chapter 3
    T he sun cresting the East Bay hills blinded Gage as the bridge exit into San Francisco looped back toward the waterfront. He descended into the shade of the office towers and condo complexes that had reshaped the shoreline in the quarter century since he had converted the hundred-year-old warehouse into his firm’s offices. A minute later, he emerged near the four-lane Embarcadero, its palm-bordered trolley line giving the boulevard the unnatural and uncomfortable appearance of having been harvested from the San Diego harbor and grafted onto San Francisco Bay.
    Gage paused at an intersection as a still-groggy runner crossed against the light, then drove south past a scattering of piers and restaurants, and slipped into an alley. He parked along the back wall of his building and walked around to the front, where he spotted his surveillance chief sitting on the concrete steps, staring across the street toward the water.
    â€œThanks for calling Socorro,” Viz said as Gage approached. “Your and Faith’s condolences meant a lot to her.”
    Hector McBride had been nicknamed by Gage for his godlike ability to catalogue the covert lives of his targets and to condense and evaporate like an omniscient cloud. Despite standing a couple of inches taller than Gage’s six foot two, it sometimes seemed the ex-DEA agent could disappear into the sliver of a midday shadow.
    But not today. Today his despair surrounded him like a physical presence.
    Gage examined Viz’s drawn face, and then sat down beside him.
    â€œThe problem was Charlie,” Gage said, “not your sister.”
    Viz shrugged. “Still . . .”
    â€œHow’s she holding up?”
    â€œIt’s kind of like he died twice. When he first got shot, the doctors said he wasn’t going to make it, so she got herself ready. Kind of steeled herself, then she got blindsided.”
    â€œHave they figured out what caused his death?” Gage asked.
    â€œA seizure, maybe a heart attack. They’re doing an autopsy this morning.” Viz glanced up at the hazy sky, then out at the commuter traffic inching toward downtown through a humid alloy of fog and smog. “Maybe yesterday’s heat had something to do with it.”
    Viz leaned forward, knees spread, forearms resting on his thighs, rotating his gray Stetson between his hands, fingers working their way along the inside of the sweatband and his thumb along the brim.
    â€œI’d appreciate you and Faith coming to the funeral. For Socorro’s sake. It’s