“I’m meeting someone here,” he said.
He scanned the restaurant for Thurman, whose breakfast habit was well documented by Washington media. Perhaps it was the drudgery of covering politics every waking moment of their lives, but reporters seemed obsessed with noting where every senator and representative dined.
Hawk finally spotted Thurman, who sat alone in a corner booth at the back of the restaurant while perusing a copy of The Washington Post. He seemed more engrossed in the article than the platter piled high with bacon, eggs, and hash browns.
Hawk didn’t say a word as he eased onto the seat across from Thurman. After a few seconds, Thurman looked up before his eyes widened.
“Can I help you?” Thurman asked.
“I’m Brady Hawk, sir. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”
Thurman scowled and leaned forward across the table.
“Did you take care of it?” he asked in a whisper.
“We’re working on it, but I don’t like to act so hastily in a situation like this.”
“Situation like this?” Thurman said. “What are you talking about? A man—my son—was murdered. Justice needs to be harsh and swift.”
Hawk glanced around the restaurant to see if anyone was paying attention to his conversation with the senator. All the patrons he observed seemed enthralled with their newspaper, phones, or their own conversations with their breakfast companions.
Hawk held his hands up, gesturing for Thurman to calm down. “We’re going to handle it, but this man can lead to an even greater treasure trove of intel for us. You don’t just dispose of a guy like that simply because justice needs to be served. Besides, don’t we always say that the wheels of justice turn slowly?”
“You aren’t part of the American legal system. You’re a damn assassin.”
Hawk shot Thurman a look, one that was easily interpreted. Feeling the fixated stare of the diner across the aisle, Hawk cut his eyes toward the man and scowled. The man looked back at his plate of food and returned to eating.
“Watch it,” Hawk said.
Thurman bristled at the rebuke and took a sip of his coffee.
“Now, we’re working as fast as we can to determine who’s behind the hit that was ordered for your son.”
“Who cares at this point? He wasn’t actually some paragon of virtue.”
“Meaning?”
“He was involved with a Russian woman. And knowing Thaxton, he probably attempted to exploit that relationship in some way.”
“So you think she’s the one who had him killed?”
Thurman shrugged. “Maybe. It really doesn’t matter. We just need to make the killer go away for good and serve justice.”
“Assassins are just delivery people, trying to send a message that someone else intended to be received for one reason or another.”
“Message received,” Thurman said. “Now, let’s send one back.”
“Why are you so anxious for me to handle this guy?” Hawk asked. “I’m starting to wonder if there’s something else you’re not telling me.”
Thurman looked down at his newspaper but didn’t say a word.
“Is there?” Hawk asked again.
Thurman sighed. “Okay, I know this doesn’t sound great, but I have to make a confession.”
Hawk furrowed his brow. “Why do I feel like I’m about to be blindsided?”
“I know who murdered my son.”
“You what?” Hawk asked, his eyes widening.
“I know who the assassin is.”
“And you conveniently left that little piece of information out? Are you going to tell me how you knew? Or am I going to have to ferret out that information on my own?”
Thurman glanced around the room before returning his gaze back toward Hawk. “I was having an affair with a Russian woman.”
Hawk stared at Thurman, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “And?”
“A Russian woman who was the wife of the assassin.”
Hawk leaned back in his seat. “Are you out of your mind? Let’s set aside the moral implications of what you did for a moment and focus on the fact that you’re opening yourself up to be blackmailed or compromised in some way. How could you be so reckless?”
Thurman shrugged. “I don’t know. I just met her at a party. She didn’t have a discernible accent, so I thought she was just another lobbyist and—”
“A lobbyist? Do you even hear yourself right now? The notion that you thought she was probably a lobbyist and you were still trying to bed her is unbelievable.”
“Where have you been?” Thurman asked. “This is Washington. It’s just how things are in this city.”
“Senators going to bed with lobbyists? That’s a common everyday occurrence?”
Thurman nodded.
Hawk closed his eyes and shook his head subtly. “No wonder everyone loathes politicians.”
Thurman narrowed his eyes. “Don’t act like you have some moral high ground here. You go around murdering people in cold blood.”
“Don’t try to lump me in with your ilk,” Hawk said. “I’m at least smart enough to know not to put myself in compromising situations if I can help it.”
“Don’t lecture me. Just do your damn job.”
Hawk eyed Thurman closely. “So how did you figure it out?”
“I hired a private investigator to follow her. That’s when I learned who she really was—and who her husband was. A friend at the CIA gave me the full rundown on who Nikolay Minsky is and why they suspected that he was working for the FSB.”
“And how did you know that Minsky was the one who shot your son?”
“My son was scheming to leverage some information he had on a Russian oligarch into a big payday, an oligarch who has ties to one of the companies Minsky consults with. This guy leases land to the U.S.-based oil corps all across Russia and other countries around the world. And if Thaxton was planning to blackmail this guy, he wouldn’t hesitate to have my son murdered.”
“So you were playing a hunch?”
“I knew what Thaxton was up to. I had another PI
