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Back Vortex Save as PDF
Chapters (61)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. Epilogue
  57. Epilogue
  58. Acknowledgments
  59. About the Author
  60. Also by Catherine Coulter
  61. About the Publisher

They took the escalator back down, walked through a cloud of perfume spritzed on a customer by a saleswoman in towering heels and bright red lipstick. They stepped out into the frigid cold and walked quickly toward Gay’s Honda. Nearly there, and Savich stopped cold, felt around his neck, looked chagrined. He raised his voice. “Olivia, I left my scarf in the store. Get in the car and lock it, turn on the heater, I’ll be right back.” He looked around the parking lot again, nodded, saw the two men in the Chrysler had slid down so the van looked empty. He whispered to Olivia, “Showtime,” turned, and headed back toward Macy’s at a fast trot.

41

Alex and Kent

East Sixty-Seventh Street

New York City

Thursday evening

Alex opened his front door, frowned at Kent, looked down at his Piaget watch. “What’s going on with you? Why did you call? You know I’m busy with the campaign. What is it?”

Kent stepped in, forcing Alex back. “We need to talk. Now. I wasn’t about to do it over the phone.”

Alex had never seen Kent look so upset. “All right, I can guess what this is about. It’s that bitch reporter, isn’t it? What did she do now?”

Kent followed Alex numbly into his newly redecorated black-and-white living room. It was signature Pamela, the walls stark white to match the carpet, the furniture all black, the only splashes of color a single blood-red pillow on the black leather sofa and the orange flames shooting up in the hearth. Even the paintings on the walls were lined up like soldiers, all of them white with a single black streak across the middle that lined up perfectly with the next canvas. Kent couldn’t look at them, they made him mildly nauseated. Alex claimed he liked the new look, but Kent didn’t believe him. Standing in this room Kent felt like the life was being leached out of him. He took off his coat, tossed it over the back of the sofa, and sat down. He picked up the red pillow, began fretting with the fringe. He managed to say calmly enough, “Not only the reporter. I couldn’t believe it, Alex. She brought Juliet to my office. Juliet!”

Alex eyed him. Kent looked pale, shaky. “Juliet? You’ve got to be kidding me. What did she want?”

Kent sat forward, squeezed the pillow between his hands. “They know, Alex, they know everything. They even claimed there was an FBI agent waiting outside.”