The kitchen at Kir’s brownstone has become a war room.
Jillian’s laptop sits open on the marble island, the cursor blinking inside a half-drafted email to a contact at ProPublica. A second screen on the dining table, hooked up via HDMI, displays a printable PDF of the DeMaris ledger with the most suspect rows highlighted in yellow. Afon is at the window, smoking out into the courtyard against Jillian’s wishes, his back to us.
I’ve been on my feet for ninety minutes straight. Plan A, as it stands, looks like this: tomorrow night, there’s a fundraiser at the Lotte Palace for DeMaris’s reelection committee, a swanky affair that’s costing its attendees thirty grand a plate. I’ll be on the guest list courtesy of an obliging hedge fund client who owes me a favor.
By hook or by crook, I’ll get
