Guilty Minds by Joseph Finder Page A

guy had punched in a speed-dial sequence of digits but hadn’t had a chance to hit Send. The saved number he was about to call was identified as Home Base. As in “base of operations.” He was checking in with his boss, his controller.
    Which meant that I now had his boss’s phone number. Which was a potentially significant piece of intelligence. Whoever was watching her—either to check up on where she went, because she was unreliable, or to protect her—was a phone call away.
    Now at least I understood why Kayla had seemed so scared: she was being followed, openly and obviously. In a way meant to menace.
    I pocketed the phone to use later and examined the guy’s wallet. His name was Curtis Schmidt, and he was a Maryland resident with about ahundred dollars in twenties, a small sheaf of credit cards, a health-plan card, and a state of Maryland license to carry Class A large capacity firearms.
    Then I found something extremely interesting.
    It was an ID card issued by the District of Columbia Metropolitan Police with a red stripe on it. It said that Curtis Schmidt was a police sergeant, retired.
    Kayla was being followed by an ex-cop.
    I thought about Kayla some more. I’ve learned to trust my instincts at reading people. She was lying, that seemed a certainty. But what was especially intriguing was how smoothly she was lying. Her lies were plausible, well thought out and well studied and expertly memorized. Her lies were built to withstand media scrutiny. She had been well prepared.
    Figuring that the bald guy was out of commission for a while, I stayed in Panera and made a few calls on my new iPhone.
    I glanced at my watch. Twenty-two hours remained. Time was slipping away.
    Unfortunately, I had a lot of questions and not much time to answer them.
    Who was behind Slander Sheet
?
Who owned it? If I could find out who owned Slander Sheet
,
I’d be closer to finding out who was spearheading the effort to destroy Claflin.
    I still had sources in Washington, including a senator I’d done work for previously, and confidentially, when I lived here. Senator James Patrick Brennan had become a friend. He was precisely the kind of guy who knew where the bodies were buried. He knew a lot about the internal workings of Washington. He was savvy and connected and he’d been around the Capitol for several decades. He might know about Slander Sheet. If he’d see me. He was a busy man.
    I called Pat Brennan’s chief of staff, Kelly Packowski. Kelly had beennew in Pat Brennan’s office when I lived in DC. Lovely and elegant and ferociously smart. She was still there, fortunately, and she picked right up. “Nick Heller!” she said. “How the hell are you?”
    We chatted for a few seconds—she disliked small talk as much as I did, so it was pretty much pro forma—and then she said, “I have a feeling you’re calling for the senator.”
    “I need to talk to him. In person would be best.” I thought, but didn’t say, that earlier in the day would be a lot better than later. Pat Brennan was a drinker—that was an open secret in Washington—and late in the day, after many bourbons, he became less than coherent. But it was already late afternoon. I’d see him when he could see me. If he could see me.
    “It’s a tough day, Nick.”
    “Isn’t it always?”
    She sighed. “Today’s even worse than usual. Right now he’s in a meeting, but let me check in with him when he’s out and see what I can do.”
    I gave her my cell phone number and hung up. Then I called Dorothy.
    She answered without preface: “I think I got something on the call girl.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Right. Her sister’s had three meth arrests. One more time and she’s facing life without parole.”
    “But does Kayla have a criminal record herself?”
    “Not that I can find. Her father’s dead and her mother’s in a nursing home. She did two years at Cornelius College, which is a woman’s college in Virginia, but it looks like she dropped out. How