I, Alex Cross

over — more up than down, given Sampson’s height.
    "This is my partner, Detective Sampson. You can just pretend he’s not here. He fits right in, doesn’t he? We both do. Maybe as caddies."
    Yarrow snorted at me and waved to someone waiting under the porte cochere in front of the club. "Mike, I’ll see you inside. Order me an espresso, would you?"
    I realized after the fact that the other man had been Michael Hart, a senator from North Carolina, and a Democrat to Yarrow’s Republican.
    "Would you rather talk in my car?" I asked him. "Or maybe in yours?"
    "Do I look like I want to get in a car with you, Detective Cross?" I was surprised he remembered my name.
    He stepped back out of sight then, between his own SUV and the other giant boat parked next to it, a brand-new Hummer H3T. With the likely hundred-thousand-dollar joining fee at this place, I guess no one was too worried about gas prices.
    "I won’t keep you long, Senator," I said, "but I thought you’d want to know, we’re a little short on leads here. The only next step I can see is to start releasing the recordings from Tony Nicholson’s club."
    Yarrow’s eyes flitted over to Sampson; I think he was wondering if both of us had seen him in action, or just me. His hands tightened over the head cover of the TaylorMade driver in his bag.
    "So unless you’ve got some other meaningful direction we might go in —"
    "Why would I?" he said, still cool.
    "Just a gut feeling I had. Something about all those missed appointments."
    He took a deep breath and ran a hand over the weekend stubble around his chin. "Well, obviously I’ve got to run all this by my attorney."
    "That’s probably a good idea," I said. "But just so you know, this is a working Saturday for us. We need to get one thing or another done today."
    I almost felt bad for Yarrow, he looked so uncomfortable. There were no good options left, and he knew it. When I’m lucky, that brings people right to the truth.
    "Just for the sake of argument," he said, "what could you offer me by way of immunity?"
    "Nothing right now. That’s up to the DA."
    "Right, ’cause you people never wheel and deal, is that it?"
    "Here’s what I can offer you," I said. "You tell us what you know, and then when the Secret Service comes looking for you, and they will, it won’t be about obstruction of justice and conspiracy to cover up a string of murders."
    I could only imagine how much Yarrow was hating me right now. Without ever taking his eyes off mine, he said, "Tell me something, Detective Sampson. Would you say your partner here is a vindictive man?"
    Sampson laid a big hand on the roof of Yarrow’s car. "Vindictive? Nah, that’s not Alex. I’d say more like
realistic
. Might be a good word for you to consider about now."
    At first, I thought Senator Yarrow was going to walk, or maybe even go postal with one of those TaylorMade irons of his. Instead, he reached into his pocket, and the doors on the Lincoln chirped open.
    "Just get in the car."

Chapter 95

    YARROW’S CAR’S LEATHER interior reeked of coffee and cigarettes. I would have pegged him more as a cigar smoker.
    "Let me get a few things out of the way," I said first. "You were a paying client of that club, yes or no?"
    "Next question."
    "You were aware that escorts connected to the club had died."
    "No. That’s not true," he said. "I’d just started to suspect something was wrong before all this fuss happened."
    "And what did you plan to do with that information? Your suspicions."
    Yarrow turned suddenly and pointed a finger in my face. "Don’t interrogate me, Cross. I’m a goddamn US senator, not some worthless thug in Southeast DC."
    "Exactly my point, Mr. Yarrow. You’re a US senator and you’re supposed to have a conscience. Now, do you have something for us or not?"
    He took a beat, long enough to pull a pack of Marlboro Reds out of the console. I noticed that the flame on his gold Senate lighter shook when he used it.
    After a couple long consecutive drags, Yarrow started to talk again, facing the windshield.
    "There’s a man you should check out. His name’s… Remy Williams. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s in this thing deep."
    "Who is he?" I asked.
    "That’s a good question, actually. I believe that he used to be in the Secret Service."
    Those last two words went off in my mind like a Roman candle. "Secret Service? What division?" I asked him.
    "Protective Services."
    "At the White House?"
    Yarrow smoked almost