Free The Last Victim by Kevin O'Brien Page B

jeans. He had his sleeves rolled up, ready to go to work. Apparently, Wes had gotten through to Foley headquarters.
    Roseann was too busy trying to get the dinner served. So Foley stood around for about fifteen minutes—getting in the way while he discussed something with the two business-types. At one point, they flagged down Roseann and consulted with her.
    She broke away and made a beeline to Bridget. “Can you believe it?” she muttered. “They want us to move the entire food table to the other end of the gym, because the lighting is better over there. He’ll photograph better over there.”
    “What did you say?” Bridget whispered, filling another soup bowl.
    “I told the son of a bitch to shut up, put on an apron, and hand out sandwiches—or get the hell out of here.”
    Five minutes later, Jim Foley, wearing a chef’s apron, was standing beside Bridget, giving out ham sandwiches. It was Bridget’s first meeting with Foley. She said hello.
    He gave her a brief, patronizing smile. “Well, well, we have someone from the Corrigan camp here too,” he said. “Isn’t that nice? Brad sent his sister over. Good to see you.”
    Then he tried his charm on the newly homeless. “Hi, Jim Foley, nice to see you,” he’d say, giving some tired, despondent person a wrapped sandwich. Or: “Hi, Jim Foley, God bless,” and, “Hi, Jim Foley, I’m saying a prayer for you tonight.” All the while, flashbulbs popped and video cameras rolled.
    Bridget was in no position to criticize. She had a camera crew too. But they hadn’t pushed people aside to get a good shot. And they’d been there for two and a half hours.
    “Hi, Jim Foley. Here you go. God bless.”
    The plump young Latino woman with the pretty face had two toddlers at her side. She didn’t accept the sandwich he offered. She looked so exhausted, and scared. “¿Tiene mostaza este sandwich?” she asked timidly.
    “Take it,” he said, shaking the wrapped sandwich at her. “It’s good. Don’t hold up the line. C’mon.”
    “¿Tiene mostaza este sandwich? Mi hijo es alergico a la mostaza,” she said.
    Visibly frustrated, Foley turned to Bridget.
    She gave him a little smile and spoke to the woman in Spanish. The young mother broke into a grin and nodded. She took three sandwiches from Foley, said, “ Gracias mucho ,” then put them on her children’s trays and her own. She moved down the line, and she and Bridget spoke to each other in Spanish. All the while, Foley stared at them with his lip curled.
    “What was her problem?” he asked indignantly—once the young mother and her children moved on.
    “She just asked if there was mustard on the sandwich, because her son is allergic to mustard,” Bridget said. “I told her there wasn’t.”
    “What about just now when she was talking with you?”
    “Oh, she was thanking me. She also asked if I was with you. And I told her no, I wasn’t with you at all.”
    She thought Foley might laugh. Instead, he gave her an icy, imperious look and went back to handing out sandwiches. “Hi, Jim Foley, God bless you . . .”
    There were still people in line when Foley glanced at his wristwatch, consulted his men in the business suits, then took off his apron. He tracked down Roseann and had his cameramen get it on film as he shook her hand. Then he hugged her. Roseann looked a bit startled.
    Foley’s cameramen started filing out, but he and his two friends in the business suits turned and approached Bridget. “I just wanted to say, it was nice to meet you, Bridget,” he said, shaking her hand.
    “You too, Jim,” she said, relieved he didn’t hug her too. “It was fun working alongside you.”
    He stepped up closer to her. “I can see why they’re saying you’re Brad’s secret weapon. Talking in Spanish to so many of these good people. Very impressive. You’re a smart girl, aren’t you? And pretty. You’re almost too good to be true—just like your brother.”
    “Thank you, Jim.” She reached