Page 2 of Filthy Liar
I set my glass on a tray carried by a passing waiter and head for the door. I’m done here, anyway. Every so often I get lucky, because here’s the thing: big decisions are made in backroom deals, yeah, but sometimes those back rooms are actually the corner of a party. Power brokers huddled in plain sight.
Not tonight, though. It’s not a complete bust. Halfway across the room, I catch the tail end of a discreet conversation that I file away. If I’m free tomorrow night, I might be able to make an appearance at the Kennedy Center tomorrow and make a new friend.
A lot of my job is knowing the right—or wrong—person at the right time. I keep my eyes and ears open and take nothing at face value. Everyone is lying, to themselves or others, and when I can use what I know to get what I want, it’s a beautiful thing.
A beautiful, twisted, broken thing, but that’s my life.
The how and why of what I do as a crisis management specialist—a fixer, one of Washington’s best—that’s not important. What matters is that I get results.
Thanks to a generous tip, the valet staff have my car close at hand. I slide behind the wheel, and as soon as the door is closed, I hit play on the audio file waiting on my phone. It’s the start of a dossier, read in a cool, electronic voice programmed by Wilson Carter, our resident hacker.
Our client, it turns out, is Jeff Mayfair.
Billionaire, philanthropist, and the older brother of a former SEAL buddy who has done some work with us—Scott Mayfair, who married Cole Parker’s youngest sister-in-law.
Fucking hell.
“Mr. Mayfair has no criminal charges in his background, either domestically or according to Interpol. He is a dual citizen of the United States and the United Kingdom. He has extensive holdings in both countries, recently divested from the parent company, Mayfair Enterprises…”
There’s nothing in the dossier that is a surprise to me. There’s also nothing there to hint at what his reasons for hiring The Horus Group might be, either.
By the time I pull into the parking garage beneath our building, I know one thing for sure. Our client has almost certainly been lying, somewhere and for some reason, and now it’s come back to bite him in the ass.
This is why my firm exists—to get the rich and powerful out of the trouble they should have avoided in the first place.
But we’re all human. I don’t judge anyone, as long as they pay their bill promptly.
Upstairs, I find Cole waiting in the boardroom with Jeff. Wilson is on one of the screens on the wall, video conferencing in from his home in some secret location in the Pacific Northwest.
Our fourth partner, Tag Browning, arrives just as we’re doing introductions. Seven years ago, Tag was a disillusioned DC cop going through a divorce. I used that to my advantage and laid the facts on the table for him. We were going to make a real difference in the world.
Nights like this, I sometimes wonder if we’ve done enough in that regard.
“Jeff, this is Jason Evans, our president,” Cole starts.
“We’ve met in passing,” I say. “I’m a big fan of your brothers.” In addition to Scott, they have another brother who is a pilot in Air Force.
“As am I.” Jeff sighs. “If any of this touches them, I’ll be damn sorry.”
“Why don’t you start by telling us what this is?” Tag gives him a big, disarming grin. It’s an act, and one he’s very good at.
“I’m being blackmailed.”
Ah, that old chestnut. None of us look surprised. I take a seat at the table—not the head, but one of the seats along the side.
Cole sets our standard non-disclosure agreement in front of our new client. “Tell us everything. Whatever you leave out will be the nail in your coffin.”
“There are photos of me with girls—underage girls—on Gerome Lively’s plane.” Jeff pauses as Cole loses his calm mask.
Well, no fucking shit my partner is unimpressed. Lively kidnapped his wife. But none of us are on Team Defend Predators.
“I’m sorry,” I say with all the chill in my voice. “We don’t work on that kind of case.”
But Jeff doesn’t move. He doesn’t get mad, he just keeps going. “The photos aren’t real,” he says levelly. “And I can prove it.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“The proof is classified. I’m willing to risk sharing it with you behind that NDA, but I can’t make it public. Not without risking jail time and losing contracts worth billions of dollars that would put my employees out of work.”
