Free High Treason by John Gilstrap

ever living in New York. How would she get a Social from an area where she never lived?”
    Jonathan smiled. “You know what?” He reached into his pocket. “This is worth a phone call.” He pressed the speed-dial number for Wolverine.
    She answered on the second ring. “Scorpion.”
    “We’ve been doing some research here,” Jonathan said. “Is it possible that you’ve been holding out on us?”
    “I need more than that.”
    It took all of thirty seconds to lay out his concerns. “Has Mrs. Darmond been disappeared for a reason?” he concluded.
    Irene said, “This is not a conversation for the telephone.”
    Jonathan felt excitement stir in his gut. “Well, Wolfie, I have it on good authority that time is of the essence. It’s your call.”
    Hesitation. “Is it fair to assume that Mother Hen has found a way to stymie the National Security Agency yet again?”
    “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Mother Hen had long been Venice’s radio handle, but Jonathan wasn’t about to confirm that.
    “One day, you know we’re all going to share a jail cell, right?”
    “Not me,” Jonathan said. “I have immunity. Don’t tie my hands, Irene. You’ve asked me to find the First Lady. If you withdraw the request, I’ll sleep fine. But if you want me to do my job, please don’t get in the way.”
    Another hesitation. Much longer this time. “Bravo Four Three,” she said. “In two.”
    Jonathan checked his watch. It was well past rush hour, but it would still be tight to get downtown to Saint Matthew’s Cathedral in two hours. Then again, he was carrying a badge now—the absolute privilege to drive at killer speeds with impunity. “Okay,” he said, but Irene had already hung up.
    “Come on, Big Guy. We’re going to church.”
     
     
    David forced himself to suppress a gasp when Becky Beckeman answered the door of her Alexandria Apartment. She wore skinny jeans and some kind of a gauzy peasant shirt that somehow emphasized her nipples in high relief. She’d clearly tied her longish dark blond hair up in a hurry, creating a flyaway disheveled look that he’d never seen before. Her normally painted face was free of makeup, and in a weird way, the plainness of it looked better than the mask she wore at work.
    “David!” she exclaimed. “My goodness, are you okay?”
    “Can I come in?”
    She stepped aside, clearing a path. “Yes, yes, of course. Please, let me take your coat.”
    As he shrugged out of his North Face jacket, he took in the details of her apartment. Lots of yellow and lots of cat pictures. And daisies. Maybe they were sunflowers. Only the pictures, none of the living variety of either flora or fauna. Typical, he was sure, of twentysomethings living in the residential purgatory that Eastern Towers was, her chief designer appeared to be the Salvation Army thrift store, accessorized by the occasional slipcover. In yellow, of course.
    “You sounded so concerned on the phone,” she said. “Is everything all right?”
    Cue the pivotal moment. What was the appropriate amount to share when you suspected that representatives of the United States government, augmented by the Metropolitan Police Department, were conspiring to kill you?
    “I don’t think you’re in any danger,” he said. He’d meant the words to be reassuring, but when he heard them, he realized that they were terrifying. Becky’s wide-eyed expression confirmed that for him. “I mean—”
    “Oh my God, David. What have you done?”
    The presumption of fault startled him. “Nothing. I haven’t done anything. It’s my friend Deeshy.”
    “Who?”
    “DeShawn Lincoln. You met him once in the office.”
    “The African American police officer?”
    David would have said the black cop. “Yes. Him.”
    “What did he do?”
    “I think he got himself killed.”
    “Oh my God.”
    “Yeah. And I think the guys who killed him know that I know. And they know who I am. That’s why I can’t go