Soft Targets by John Gilstrap Read Free Book Online Page A

face remained locked in a scowl. “Uh-huh,” she said. “Well, drive carefully on your way home.” To Jonathan: “You remember to be a gentleman, young man.” As she walked away, Jonathan closed the door behind her.
    Returning to his chair, the redness in Jonathan’s cheeks hadn’t dimmed completely. “Mama was our housekeeper when I was growing up. My mom died when I was little, so Mama pretty much raised me.” He gestured with open arms. “This is her house now.”
    Whoa, that’s not what Irene had been expecting. “Excuse me?”
    Jonathan dipped his head as he clarified. “Well, it actually belongs to St. Kate’s now, but on the condition that Mama and her daughter get to live here in perpetuity.”
    “What does a church want with a mansion?” Irene asked.
    “They’re going to turn it into a school,” Jonathan explained, “exclusively for the children of incarcerated parents. We’re going to call it Resurrection House. Care to guess who the chief psychologist is going to be?”
    “Dom.” Just from the way he’d stated the question there could only be one answer.
    “Bingo.” Jonathan cleared his throat and crossed his legs. “To the business at hand,” he said, changing the subject. “I think we need to rock Jennings’s world. Knock him completely off balance. That will give us the edge when it comes time to questioning him.”
    “I’m not sure what you mean by that,” Irene said. In fact, she had stopped understanding the narrative of her life about thirty minutes ago.
    “You will,” he said. “You must be hungry. When was the last time you ate?”
    Good Lord, this guy could whipsaw a conversation. She started to answer, but stopped when she realized the truth of it. “I don’t know. It’s been a while.”
    Jonathan stood. “Go get some food,” he said. “Go to the end of the walk, turn left and walk to the bottom of the hill, to the river. You’ll see Jimmy’s Tavern. They’ve got better food than you think they will, and an excellent selection of single malts. Go with the Tavern Burger. Enough protein in that to keep you going for the rest of the day.”
    “I shouldn’t,” Irene said. “If I’m going to be a part of this, I want to be part of the planning.”
    “And you will be,” Jonathan said. “I promise. I just want to put together a little show-and-tell is all. Give me an hour. Even forty-five minutes will do.”
    This wasn’t right. At so many levels, it wasn’t right. “I don’t want to leave you with all the legwork. I can do—”
    Jonathan cut her off. “Irene. I don’t want you to see the details of what’s coming next. When you see those details, you’ll understand exactly why I don’t want you to see where they came from.”
    There it was. She stood. “Okay, then. See you in an hour.”
    As Jonathan walked her to the door, she was again taken by the sheer majesty of the place. Where did anybody get this much money? And once born into this much money, who in their right mind would walk away from it in favor of a fifty-thousand-dollar paycheck from Uncle Sam?
    “I’m sorry for the mysteriosity,” Jonathan said as he opened the door. A flash in his eyes told her that the made-up word was a joke.
    “I understand,” Irene said. “Trust is a journey. We’re just on the first step.” And of the two of us, I’m the only one who’s fully exposed, she didn’t say.
    “Tell Jimmy that Digger sent you,” Jonathan said. “That’ll either get you a few dollars off the bill or get you thrown through the window.” Again, his eyes sold the humor. In a rugged nonglamorous way, Jonathan Digger Grave may well have been the most handsome man she’d ever met. Good Lord, those eyes!
    As she navigated Jonathan’s directions to the sidewalk and then down the hill toward the Potomac River, Irene marveled at the charm of Fisherman’s Cove—a place she’d never heard of before Dom had announced that he would be moving there. It appeared that the