Conspiracy

63

Lia paced around the hotel room, unable to sleep though it was going on 1:00 a.m. After meeting with Mandarin, she’d spent the day and much of the night with an FBI agent who was checking on three different disgruntled constituents of McSweeney’s, in and around New York City and Westchester. The only thing she’d learned was that FBI agents had a particularly poor sense of direction.

More and more, the whole thing seemed like a wild-goose chase.

Then again, what Deep Black assignment hadn’t?

Maybe tomorrow would be better. Lia had an appointment with the doctor who’d examined Forester’s body the night he was found.

She sank into the chair at the side of the room and flipped on the television. The volume blared, even though she had her finger on mute.

The person in the next room banged on the wall.

“Sorry,” Lia said, turning it down.

Lia trolled through the channels. There was nothing on that interested her. She left it playing and went to the window, staring out at the stars, thinking of Charlie Dean.

Vietnam was eleven hours ahead — it’d be around noon.

“Hope you’re doing better than I am, Charlie,” she whispered to the night.