The Book of Fate

18

You know they lied to you. You keep covering for them and you’re just gonna be someone who needs a lawyer.”

“Here you go, sir.”

“Thanks,” Wes’s voice said, coming through the small speaker on the edge of the short metal file cabinet. “Wait up… I’ll walk out with you.”

Adjusting the volume, The Roman turned the knob slightly, his thick, steely hands almost too big for the job. When he was little, he only fit into his grandfather’s gloves. But after years of tying lures onto fishing string, he’d mastered the art of a soft touch.

“Have a wonderful day, Mr. Holloway,” a voice squawked through the speaker.

Getting a small enough microphone was the easy part. So was getting a transmitter that ran on a satellite signal so it would broadcast halfway across the country. Protecting the President was the Secret Service’s specialty, but with jurisdiction over counterfeiting and financial crimes, their Intelligence Division had one of the most formidable surveillance operations in the world. Indeed, the only hard part was figuring out a place to hide it. And someone to put it there.

The phone rang on the corner of his desk, and The Roman glanced down at caller ID. Dark digital letters read Offices of Leland Manning. The Roman smiled to himself, brushing his black hair from his chalky skin. If only the bass were this predictable.

“Any problems?” The Roman asked as he picked up the phone.

“Not a one. I did it first thing this morning. Put it in that lapel pin just like you said.”

“So I gathered from his last two hours of conversation.”

Reaching down, The Roman tugged open the bottom drawer of the file cabinet, and his fingertips tap-danced to the last file in back. The only unmarked one in there.

“Wes say anything interesting yet?” his associate asked.

“He’s getting there,” The Roman replied, flipping open the file on his desk and revealing a small stack of black-and-white photos.

“What about you? If your investigation’s so vital… I thought you were coming down here.”

“I’ll be there,” The Roman said as he stared down at the pictures. Graying from age, all of them were from the day at the speedway. One of Nico with the Service tackling him to the ground, one of the President being shoved inside his limo, and of course, one of Boyle, in mid-clap moments before he was shot. The smile on Boyle’s face looked unbreakable… his cheeks frozen, teeth gleaming. The Roman couldn’t take his eyes off it. “I just have to take care of one thing first.”