Free Dead to the Last Drop by Cleo Coyle

call witnesses —power corrupts . . .”
    “Absolutely?”
    “No. Insidiously. ”
    I studied him. “You’re not talking abstractly, are you?”
    “I’ve got . . . shall we say problems  . . . at work.”
    “Yes. I know. I’ve known for a long time. What I don’t know are the specifics. I’ve been waiting for you to open up.”
    He drained his beer bottle and set it aside. “How about we start with what you know.”
    I shifted uneasily, but then leaned forward.
    “I know your work is classified, some special DOJ task force focused on corporate wrongdoing that utilizes your years of drug enforcement expertise. I know your new lawyer boss—that Katerina creature—is trouble. And it’s not simply about snapping her fingers, and calling you at all hours, and forcing you into unpredictable overtime.”
    Quinn’s steady blue gaze remained on me. “Well? I’m waiting.”
    “For what?”
    He gestured to the Kennedy coffee service. “Don’t you think Jackie listened in on a few of Jack’s phone calls?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Clare, don’t you want to talk to me about what you learned after raiding my pocket?”
    Oh, crap. “Mike, I’m sorry—”
    “Don’t be.” He leaned back and folded his arms. “That’s why I left my mobile phone in my jacket—and my mailbox unlocked.”

N ineteen
    “T ELL you what . . .” Mike tossed me his phone. “Let’s review it together.”
    I turned the phone back on and reread the text messages . . .
Thur. 6:30 PM —Katerina Lacey, Esq.
Great work, Michael. You are the man! Late meet tonight, your room. Work review + bubbly to celebrate. You deserve it. When the cat’s away! On Rodeo now. Facial and shopping. Expect me at 9.
    Mike’s reply came two hours later:
Fri. 8:30 PM —Michael R. F. Quinn
Apologies. On standby @ LAX. Must get back. Urgent, personal. C U in DC.
    I handed the phone back to him. “Can’t you complain to someone? File a grievance?”
    “For what?”
    “Sexual harassment. That’s obvious, isn’t it?”
    Quinn grunted. “Not so obvious. Her text message mentions work. We were on a business trip.”
    “What about the ‘bubbly’ and that ‘cat’s away’ remark?”
    He shrugged. “Is that any different than my NYPD CO buying me a few beers after a stakeout?”
    “Then it’s down to ‘he said, she said’?”
    Quinn nodded.
    “What about what I say?”
    He actually smiled. “I love you, you know that?”
    “Mike, I’m not kidding. There’s something I never told you. Katerina and I had a . . . well, a verbal exchange at your place.”
    He leaned forward. “When was this?”
    “My first week in Washington . . .”
    When I initially arrived in DC, Madame was bunking with me in the mansion, so I confined my love life with Quinn to his high-rise apartment, across town. That Friday evening, I was already dressed for dinner, waiting for Quinn to shave and change.
    “There was a knock at your door,” I explained. “You were in the bathroom, so I answered. Standing there was Katerina Lacey . . .”
    *   *   *
    “E XCUSE me, do I have the right apartment?” she asked.
    Tall and slender with blunt-cut bangs and supernaturally straight, strawberry blond hair, precisely sliced mere millimeters from her narrow shoulders, Katerina spoke with a cultivated accent; and while her words were polite, her tone and manner were drenched with disdain.
    “Aren’t you Mike’s superior?” I asked.
    Her pea green eyes narrowed. “And you are?”
    “Clare Cosi, nice to finally meet you.” I extended my hand.
    In high heels and a belted coat, she clutched a briefcase in one hand, a bag of Chinese takeout in the other—and didn’t bother freeing either to shake mine.
    “Oh, that’s right,” she said instead. “You’re the little waitress.”
    My hand dropped. “Master roaster, actually, and general manager, and, as of this week”—I gritted out a smile—“DC resident.”
    “Oh?” She pursed her glossed