she asked, once they were out in the hallway. “To Senator Sherman’s office,” the aide said. “Why?” “I wouldn’t know, ma’am.” He ushered her into an elevator and pushed the down button. “I was just sent to retrieve you.” He made her sound as if she were a bone someone had thrown to a dog. Feeling like a student called before the principal’s office for some misbehavior, Kirby was racking her brain, going through everything she’d done since arriving in the city, when she had a lightbulb moment, remembering Rachel’s relationship to Sherman. Obviously, the senator was merely eager for news about his goddaughter. The suite of offices was smaller than Kirby would have expected, given his stature in the senate. One wall was covered with the requisite “grip and grin” photo ops, showing him with movie stars, others she took to be famous people, some she didn’t recognize, others—such as the Dalai Lama—she did, and various world leaders, including Vasquez, who had, Kirby noticed, worn his dress white uniform for the photograph.
