Free The Tourist by Olen Steinhauer

real thought into this." She let the smile appear this time; perhaps she thought he was joking.
    "Tell me what the Tiger had on you that was so damaging. Tom wasn't running him, was he? For your dirty little jobs? I don't know what you guys do in your tower, but I suspect it's pretty nasty." Milo was surprised by her vehemence, but he was more surprised by her superiority. "I suppose Homeland doesn't have any secrets?"
    "Sure, but we're not the ones on public trial. It's not our time yet." George Orbach pushed his way into the room, clutching a handful of paper packets. "No milk. Just this powder."
    Janet Simmons seemed disgusted by the news. "Doesn't matter," she said, crossing her arms. "Mr. Weaver is leaving now. He's in need of a good shower. I think we'll have to talk to Mr. Grainger instead." Milo rapped the table with his knuckles and got up. "Please don't hesitate to get in touch."
    "Fat lot of good that'll do me."
    The morning storm had left as soon as it had arrived, leaving behind damp roads and moist, clean air. As he drove, Milo lit a Davidoff from the pack he'd broken down and bought when he filled up the tank. The smoke felt good, but then it didn't, and he coughed hard, but kept smoking. Anything to cut the edge off the stink of death.
    He hadn't had his cell phone long enough to figure out how to change the ring tone, so when it woke up somewhere along Route 18 to Jackson, it played a stupid corporate melody. He checked to see if it was his wife, but it was Grainger. "Yeah?"
    "Is what that bitch from Homeland says true? I He's dead?"
    "Yeah."
    A pause. "Will I see you at the office today?"
    "No."
    "I'll catch you at the airport, then. We've got things to discuss." Milo hung up and turned on the radio, flipping through staticky country stations until, inevitably, he gave up and pulled out his iPod, which he'd listened to half this trip. He slipped in the earbuds, clicked the French playlist, and skipped to track five.
    His head was filled with the quick, swirling melody of "Poupee de cire, poupee de son," sung by France Gall, Luxembourg's 1965 Eurovision winner, penned by Serge Gainsbourg. The very tune he'd taught Stephanie for her talent show, the performance he was missing.
    He dialed Tina. Her voice mail picked up, and he listened to her story about not being in and the promise of a call if he left a message. He knew she was already at the show, next to an empty chair, watching their daughter sing Gainsbourg's phenomenal hit. He didn't leave a message. He'd just wanted to hear her voice.
    6
    Tina couldn't figure out what kind of idiot parents would think to dress their seven-year-old girl in pink tights and a tank top, tie a pair of pink angel's wings to her frail back, and then cover every inch with glistening sequins. You could hardly see the child from the spotlight's reflection as she pranced left and right on the stage to some dance beat with electric guitars, singing a warbling version of "I Decide," from (the principal had told everyone) "that hit Disney movie, The Princess Diaries 2." It might have been a good song, but from her seat near the center of the Berkeley Carroll School's auditorium, Tina could only make out the thump of the bass drum and see a little glittering girl-shape shift around on that painfully bare stage. But of course she clapped. They all did. Two stood and hooted--the idiot parents, Tina assumed. Beside her, in what should have been Milo's seat, Patrick struck his palms together and whispered, "In-fucking-credible!
    I'm getting my friends at CAA to sign up this one, ASAP." Tina hadn't wanted to call Patrick, but with Milo pulling another noshow, Stef deserved as full an audience as possible. "Be nice," she said. Milo had left another of his curt, unapologetic messages on their home phone, saying that there'd been a delay. As usual, he didn't call the delay by any name, just "delay."
    Fine, she'd thought. Miss your daughters talent show, and I'll bring her real father.
    Then