St Kilda Consulting 01 - Always Time to Die

not to think about how good it would feel to have her mouth all over him.
    “Why are you frowning?” he asked after a few moments. Anything to get her talking instead of him fantasizing about stripping her naked and diving in.
    “I’m trying to see the future Governor Quintrell in that rawboned baboon pouring beer over his primate buddy. The eyes are right but the chin looks off. Must be the stubble. He’s got quite a crop of it. Josh’s eyeteeth are just like the Senator’s—that slight overlap that is more a sexy come-on than a flaw. He must have had them straightened later.”
    “Or else had his mouth redone entirely when he hit forty,” Dan said. “A lot of politicians do. In America, bad teeth are equated with poverty and moral turpitude.” He took the magnifying glass and studied the photo. “You’ve got a good eye, Carolina May. That chin isn’t as impressive as Josh’s is today. Gotta love implants and plastic surgeons.”
    “At least he let his hair go gray. A lot of them don’t.”
    “Them?”
    “Anyone, man or woman, who spends time in front of cameras.”
    “Gray is distinguished, haven’t you heard?” Dan said, smiling slightly.
    “Tell that to an anchorman who has someone thirty years younger leaving footprints up his spine. You, of course, would be exempt.”
    He glanced at her. “I would?”
    “Yes. You’re going to be like your mother, dark except for one extraordinary silver streak over your left temple.”
    “I already have the streak.”
    “If five hairs make up a streak, sure.”
    “I have more than that.”
    She pretended to count the gray hairs above his left temple and gasped. “Omigod. Seven! You’re definitely headed for the downhill slide into Viagra-land.”
    Dan was tempted to stand up and show Carly just how wrong she was about the sex pill but didn’t. People were still moving around the storage area above them. At any moment a reporter could come down to the basement to research past newspaper articles. Dan didn’t want Carly embarrassed or inhibited when they made love, biting her lip when she wanted to groan or scream.
    Overhead, someone dragged the tarp aside, lifted the door, and called down. “Dan? You in there?”
    Go away, Gus. “C’mon down, Gus.”
    “How long have you been down there?”
    Too long. Not long enough. “Since breakfast. Why?” Dan said.
    “Then you haven’t heard the news.”
    “What news?”
    Gus appeared on the bottom step. “Sylvia Quintrell finally died.”

NEW HAMPSHIRE
NOON, THURSDAY
33
    GOVERNOR JOSH QUINTRELL SHIFTED ON THE METAL FOLDING CHAIR . HIS EXPRESSION was engaged, interested. Behind the façade, he devoutly wished he was anywhere but in a gently shabby hall full of veterans of foreign wars trying to digest the indigestible, and reminiscing about wars nobody else gave a damn about anymore. Josh would use his service record and purple hearts to reassure voters, especially veterans, but did he talk about it every chance he had? Hell, no. He’d rather dye his hair pink and wear a tutu. Ninety-seven percent of the people in the dining hall hadn’t been shot at, hadn’t been tortured, hadn’t killed; the three percent who had didn’t want to talk about it.
    The chicken salad lunch was truly incredible. They should pass out medals for eating it.
    I’m going to get a doggie bag for my campaign manager, Josh thought as he clapped mightily for a speech that had left most of the hall comatose. Why should he miss all the fun he signed me up for?
    His cell phone vibrated against his waist. He glanced at the call window, saw that it didn’t list a number, and went to the message function. No voice message, just text. He punched in commands and wondered what had been so urgent that it had to break in to his campaign time.
    Words scrolled across the tiny window: THE SENATOR HAD SECRETS WORTH KILLING TO KEEP . STOP INVESTIGATING CHARITIES .
    Josh thought about it.
    He thought about it some more. As the second speaker was talking about our brave boys overseas he decided to stop investigating charities on the ranch end.
    Then he’d light a fire under the New York accountant’s ass and wait to see what crawled out from under the rocks.

QUINTRELL RANCH
THURSDAY EVENING
34
    THANKS TO BAD WEATHER IN NEW HAMPSHIRE , THE GOVERNOR ’ S PLANE HAD BEEN late landing in Santa Fe. Sylvia Quintrell’s memorial service would be delayed until the governor’s helicopter arrived.
    Carly didn’t mind. Over Dan’s