His relationship with Ogden Bush went back more than a decade. In those days, Bush was a newcomer. Smart, ambitious, but young and untested. When the 12th District incumbent dropped dead that year, Bush bucked the party establishment by helping a far-left state senator win the primary. He did it by trashing Walter’s own hand-picked candidate, but Walter didn’t hold grudges. He respected brass-knuckle tactics and people who took risks. Bush would have been a pariah if his candidate had lost, and they both knew it. Instead, Labor Day happened, and Bush hung the Liberty Empire Alliance like an albatross around Chuck Warren’s neck. The Dem won. Bush became a star.

Even so, Walter knew that Bush’s arrogance would catch up with him sooner or later. Two years ago, Bush backed a black Senate candidate who was forced out of the race over allegations of cocaine use. Bush called it racism, and his accusations split the party and cost them the election. Party leaders excommunicated him. His business dried up.

Walter knew how badly Bush wanted to get back inside the party after two years in the wilderness. That gave him leverage. When Bush wormed his way into Diane’s campaign, Walter approached him with a deal he couldn’t refuse: Become a spy. Pass along dirt they could use against Diane. If the Governor won, Walter would make sure that Bush got taken off the party shit list. If Diane won anyway, Bush could grab credit for steering the campaign.

Politics.

‘What’s their plan for Chayla?’ Walter asked.

‘Lay low. Ride out the storm. They’ll have Diane show up at Red Cross sites and hand out soup and cookies. Lots of photographs. It’ll be a wait-and-see thing on the government response. If things go smoothly, they’ll congratulate the Governor – you know, this is no time for partisan divisions. If things go badly, they’ll let surrogates roast him for incompetence.’

Walter nodded. He’d expected all of that.

The back door of the Tahoe opened. Curtis Ritchie climbed inside, carrying an order of spicy shrimp, which he peeled awkwardly with one hand. He leaned between the front seats, carrying an aroma of garlic and cayenne, mixed with the cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes.

‘Shit, these are good. I wanted a taco, but the girls said these were better.’

Walter twisted far enough to see the detective’s face. Ritchie carried a heavy load of blond stubble, and his unruly hair looked as if it hadn’t been washed in a couple days. ‘You want to flirt with teenagers, Curtis, do it on someone else’s time.’

‘I’m divorced. I’m a free man again. I like to shop around.’

Walter snorted. ‘Like those chicas would give you the time of day.’