Review
“Deliciously rife with power, sleaze, and treachery.”
–Chicago magazine

“First-time novelist Benson concocts a well thought-out story composed of equal parts political thriller, . . . romance, and upscale urban mystery taken right out of today’s headlines. . . . The denouement is shocking.”
–Black Issues Book Review


“[A] FAST-PACED POLITICAL THRILLER . . . The hallmark of any good suspense novel is that it keeps you guessing. And Benson doesn’t disappoint. When readers reach the surprise ending . . . they’ll be eager for the next installment in this series.”
–Jet magazine

“HIS TIMELY PLOT AND WELL-DRAWN CHARACTERS BODE WELL FOR FUTURE ENDEAVORS.”
–ForeWord magazine


Review
?Deliciously rife with power, sleaze, and treachery.?
?Chicago magazine

?First-time novelist Benson concocts a well thought-out story composed of equal parts political thriller, . . . romance, and upscale urban mystery taken right out of today?s headlines. . . . The denouement is shocking.?
?Black Issues Book Review


?[A] FAST-PACED POLITICAL THRILLER . . . The hallmark of any good suspense novel is that it keeps you guessing. And Benson doesn?t disappoint. When readers reach the surprise ending . . . they?ll be eager for the next installment in this series.?
?Jet magazine

?HIS TIMELY PLOT AND WELL-DRAWN CHARACTERS BODE WELL FOR FUTURE ENDEAVORS.?
?ForeWord magazine


Book Description
Veronica Sutton came to Washington to do good–but she did even better. Tall, smart, beautiful, and Black, Veronica parlayed her brains, looks, and college activism into a top-notch, million-dollar consulting firm that greased the wheels of Washington politics–without regard to race, creed, or political ideology. For Veronica, it was a long way from Chicago’s South Side. But when she is found dead in her posh town house, only a woman who knew the real Ronnie Sutton can find out how she died–and why.

Reporter Angela McKenzie chose a different path from her old friend’s, but now their lives are entwined again. Retracing Ronnie’s final weeks and days, Angela steps into a political maze of power, sex, secrets, and special interests. When people connected to Angela’s investigation begin to die, she knows she’s close: to a few astounding answers, to one more deadly question, and to a conspiracy that will rock Washington’s foundations– and kill anyone in its way. . . .

From the Inside Flap
Veronica Sutton came to Washington to do good–but she did even better. Tall, smart, beautiful, and Black, Veronica parlayed her brains, looks, and college activism into a top-notch, million-dollar consulting firm that greased the wheels of Washington politics–without regard to race, creed, or political ideology. For Veronica, it was a long way from Chicago’s South Side. But when she is found dead in her posh town house, only a woman who knew the real Ronnie Sutton can find out how she died–and why.

Reporter Angela McKenzie chose a different path from her old friend’s, but now their lives are entwined again. Retracing Ronnie’s final weeks and days, Angela steps into a political maze of power, sex, secrets, and special interests. When people connected to Angela’s investigation begin to die, she knows she’s close: to a few astounding answers, to one more deadly question, and to a conspiracy that will rock Washington’s foundations– and kill anyone in its way. . . .

From the Back Cover
“Deliciously rife with power, sleaze, and treachery.”
–Chicago magazine

“First-time novelist Benson concocts a well thought-out story composed of equal parts political thriller, . . . romance, and upscale urban mystery taken right out of today’s headlines. . . . The denouement is shocking.”
–Black Issues Book Review


“[A] FAST-PACED POLITICAL THRILLER . . . The hallmark of any good suspense novel is that it keeps you guessing. And Benson doesn’t disappoint. When readers reach the surprise ending . . . they’ll be eager for the next installment in this series.”
–Jet magazine

“HIS TIMELY PLOT AND WELL-DRAWN CHARACTERS BODE WELL FOR FUTURE

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
One

Washington Examiner, Tuesday, February 23, 1999, 3:50 p.m.

Angela stared at the pulsing cursor as if she was reading her own vital signs on the monitor. She was struggling to revive a withering thought, trying to breathe life into a story that was fading fast. She focused on the screen, tried to shut out the chaos of the late afternoon newsroom.

The place was going crazy. Always like that around this time of day in the paper’s crowded Metro Section—the “ghetto”—where most Black reporters got their start at the Examiner. There were the frantic phone calls, reporters checking last-minute details on breaking stories. There was the rapid-fire clicking of computer keyboards in nearby cubicles. There was the cynical talk, the cutthroat joking, the staccato laughter that swirled all around. Back in the day, there also might have been a cloud of cigarette smoke hovering over Angela’s desk. But the Examiner Building had been declared a smoke-free workplace. Sign of the times. The burning cigarettes had been replaced by Starbucks, Evian and Coca-Cola. Fuel for a new age.

Angela reached for the Coke can that sat on top of some file folders next to her Reporter’s Notebook and a half-eaten turkey sandwich. She took a sip, sighed. Nearly finished with the story, she couldn’t go on for some reason. She had been through much tougher assignments. Pulled them off. No problem. Like that warehouse fire. She had gotten there ahead of the crowd and had beaten the competition by phoning in her story on the only phone available—the one inside the burning building. “Hotshot reporter” was the name they had given her. Angela was like that, always ready to turn a problem into an opportunity. Her life was defined by what was next, the blank page waiting to be filled. A risk taker from jump, she never feared what was just over the edge. Every fiber of her sleek, five-foot-seven frame was primed for the challenge. But the pressure was murder. The pressure to get it right, and to get it right on time. The pressure to prove something to her editors, show the White boys they didn’t have a monopoly on intelligence and talent. The pressure to break out of the Metro ghetto, make her mark as a star writer, and to do it all before she turned 35. She only had two more years to go.

Then there was the pressure to prove something to herself, beat back the demons from Peoria. She had come to Washington—a destination market for journalists—looking for the big story. Looking to rewrite her own. She was carrying some heavy baggage. It seemed that the only thing standing in her way was what she thought she had put behind her. And now she was losing her focus, on deadline. A killer deadline. Angela sat there, staring at the monitor, then at her opened notebook, then back at her monitor where she could see her faint reflection over the words on the screen. Her smooth, caramel skin, and soft round face framed by her short curly black hair. Freshly cut. Her appearance, like her life, was in transition.

The silver rings on her thumb and fingers flashed across the screen as she raised her hand to her chin. In the other hand, a pencil tapping, that intense nervous thing she always did at times like this. Drove her mother crazy. Could have been a Ritalin kid with all that energy. But her practical Midwest parents wouldn’t hear of such a thing. Instead, her mother would just give her a whack on the leg. “Be still,” she’d say. But Angela never could. Now, she was tapping and shifting in her chair, narrowing her large dark brown eyes, trying to coax herself through the mental block, resist the pull of Peoria. No one here could possibly know anything about that. Right? She was a tough, smart professional who had made one tiny, okay, one huge mistake. But she had to trust herself again, even if she could never trust a single source, or a White country club editor for that matter. She couldn’t let what happened there pull her back. She had to stay focused. So Angela turned to her notebook again, thumbed the pages. Scenes of the day’s event began to replay in her head as the chants of the demonstrators crowded out the other memories.

They had come to Washington 30,000 strong. Tobacco workers, mostly from nearby Virginia and North Carolina, bused in, some believed, at the expense of the cigarette companies. They demonstrated on the Capitol grounds while a Senate Commerce Subcommittee held hearings. The workers were not going to sit still for any government efforts to restrict or regulate the use of cigarettes. For them, it was a matter of life and death. Their livelihood was on the line and they vowed to continue their protest outside until the lawmakers on the inside heard their angry voices, voices that now were reduced to so many scratches and scribbles in Angela’s notebook.

A voice. “My daddy grew tobacco, and my daddy’s daddy. Only thing we’ve ever known. Now they want to regulate us out of work.”

Another voice. “Yep, it’s politics, pure and simple. If the tobacco companies had given more money to the Democrats, we wouldn’t be having this problem.”

Another. “I’d rather see a kid smoking a cigarette than smoking a joint. Why don’t they do better at regulating hard drugs?”

Quotes practically leapt from the notebook pages as Angela began writing again, punching the keys, hard and fast. She had found the segue to the rest of her story. She was back on track.

Until the phone rang. So loud it made Angela jump, lose her line of thought. She fumbled through the press releases, file folders and half-eaten sandwich to answer it.

“Examiner Metro, Angela McKenzie.” Her voice, crisp and melodic, smoothed over her annoyance at the interruption.

“How long do I have to wait for you to return my calls?” It was Michael, again.

“Come on Michael, you know what I’m dealing with here. Besides, I’ve got an early deadline, and—”

“So, what else is new?”

She sighed, slumped back in her chair. “What is it, Michael?”

“What do you mean, ‘What is it?’ I mean, what’s with this ‘What is it shit all of a sudden?”

“Oh, come on.” Angela looked around her, down the aisle of a half-dozen cubicles, as if she thought the other reporters could really overhear the yelling on the other end of the line. “Look, I have work to do, okay?”

“Course you do. Now that you got what you needed. Had plenty of time to talk when I was tipping you off about the—”

“Michael, please,” she hissed. “I thought we had been through this already. You know I appreciate what you did.” She turned again to look down the aisle and saw Greg Carter, another Black Metro reporter, headed her way. He carried a telephone message slip in his hand, a smirk on his face.

“Yeah, I can see how much you appreciate me risking my neck.” Michael was still trippin’ on the other end. “You know what’ll happen to my Black ass if they find out I’m the one who leaked—”

“Wait, just hold on a second...” Angela looked up at Greg, who was now standing at her cubicle. She knew he would stay there—stubborn, rude or just plain nosy—waiting for her conversation to end. No matter how long it took. He had time, since he didn’t seem to be doing much in the newsroom these days.

“That’s the problem.” Michael wasn’t holding back. “Ever since you’ve been here, what, six, seven months, all I do is wait.”

“Look, let me get back to you, okay?” Angela spoke into the phone, but was looking up at Greg.

“When?” Michael pressed on.

“Later.”

“What time, Angie?” How come he always said her name like he was talking to a child?

“About six-thirty, seven.” She looked at her watch. It was four o’clock. “I should be home by seven,” she said, writing a Post-it reminder, sticking it on her computer. When did this start? Memory aids to call Michael? “Seven o’clock, unless I stay later to work on my magazine piece.”

“All right.” Then his voice lowered a few notes. “Maybe I can come over later.”

“Well...” Why was she hesitating? And why was Greg still looming over her? With the nerve to look impatient. “Let’s talk first,” Angela said.

“Cool. Now, you made sure my name wasn’t mentioned,” he said.

“Right. No mention—”

“And nothing about the Department of Revenue, you know, to like connect me up to it?”

“No. It’s going in as ‘an administration source.’ No quotes.” She turned back into her cubicle, away from Greg. “So, you’re sure about what you told me.”

“Absolutely.”

She held a beat, then let it go. “Okay. You’re not identified, so don’t worry.”

“All right. Look, let’s make sure we get together, okay? I mean, I love you, Baby, and—”

“Okay, me, too. I’ll call you later. Bye, bye.” Angela hung up so quickly she sent several folders flying.

“Me, too?” Greg had a mocking tone. Nothing unusual about that. “Yeah I can tell that was a business call. ‘Yes, Miss McKenzie,’” he said, aping a White dignitary. “‘I am definitely in favor of that proposal and, oh yes, by the way, of course, this is off the record, deep background, if you know what I mean, but, well, gosh, I love you Miss McKenzie.’ ‘Me, too, Senator.’”

“Greg, please,” Angela said, swiveling in her chair, shooting him a hard look. Michael was annoying enough with his anxiety, his clinging and his growing insecurity about their relationship. This was not the time for another man to hassle her. Besides, she was on deadline. “Is that for me?” She pointed to the message slip.

“You might say that.” Greg slapped the paper against the palm of his free hand. “But, the real question is, why did I have to pick it up for you when it’s been sitting out front at the message center since this morning? I mean, if you’re not going to turn on your voice mail, at least you could check—”

“Oh, God, I’ve been so busy I completely forgot.”

“Lesson One,” Greg said, handing over the message. “If you want to win friends and influence folk in this town, don’t start out by keeping people like Veronica Sutton waiting all day for a call-back.”

“Ronnie?”

“Oh, it’s Ronnie, is it? Didn’t know you all were so tight.”

Angela looked down at the slip in her hand. “We were roommates in college.”

“No shit.” For once, it seemed, Greg was impressed. Or maybe just surprised. “You and Veronica Sutton? Roomies?” “Yeah.”

“The Veronica Sutton?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“The lobbyist? Young, gifted, Black and all that?”

“Right.” Angela looked up again at Greg. “We were real close. Been trying to get together since I moved here. Something always seems to come up. Anyway, she was helping me, you know, on the phone, to hook up this story I’m working on.” She turned again to look down at the message.

“Oh yeah? Well, maybe you could hook me up.”

“Hmm?” Angela was only half listening to Greg as she read the message. “Please call ASAP.” The telephone number was written below and, at top, the time of the call, “9:30 a.m.” Angela had been covering the demonstration at that time.

“I mean, like, I just might be able to pencil her into my busy social schedule,” Greg said. “What was that?” The joke was lost on Angela, still distracted.

“I mean, Veronica Sutton is a major-league fox,” he continued. “We’re talking drop-dead-and-come-back-to-life fine.”