Bonereapers Read Online Free Page A

she lined them up on a rack with scores of others, slid her cold feet into a pair of the hotel’s clunky clogs, and scuffed into the lobby. The huge stone fireplace drew her like a magnet. She stood with her back to the fire for a few minutes and took in the ambience—modern, nicely furnished in the bland style of most hotels, and brilliantly lit. The Blu Polar could have been located anywhere in the world except for another sign that was posted on the wall above the front desk.
    To all our guests, the risk of polar bears
in the restaurant isn’t very big
    So can you please hang your weapons
in the weapons cabinet?
    (Rifles, guns, revolvers)
    The Secret Service wouldn’t have surrendered their guns. In fact, Dinah would be surprised if they hadn’t confiscated every other gun on the premises. The agents had already checked her in and the hotel staff had stowed her suitcase in her room. She accepted her key card from a smiling blond receptionist, burrowed her feet more firmly into the clogs, and scuffed off toward the elevator.
    As the doors pinged opened, Tipton Teilhard III bustled out while typing something on his iPad and nearly knocked her over. Dinah had almost forgotten the intern’s presence among the senators’ entourage. He had an irrepressible cowlick and an air of hectic breathlessness.
    “Oh, sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. I’m on the way to the kitchen to get Senator Keyes a sandwich.”
    “Couldn’t he order one from room service?”
    “Oh, he’s got far more important things to think about, the weight of the world on his mind, really. I know what he likes and it’s my duty to look after his day-to-day needs. It’s more a privilege than a duty. He’s an absolute political genius, a true statesman. I wish he were the one challenging Obama in the fall. He has a perfect resumé—successful businessman, two-term senator, member of the Foreign Relations Committee, philanthropist. But Whitney’s more of a policy wonk and behind-the-scenes kingmaker. I couldn’t have asked for a better mentor.”
    “Do you plan to run for office one day, Tipton?”
    “Oh, yes. I’ll start with the House, the way Senator Sheridan did. During the second term of the Sheridan Administration after I’ve got four years of insider knowledge under my belt. It’s all about relationship management and leveraging one’s social capital. My mother was Ambassador to Lithuania under Bush Two and she serves on the Board of the American Council for the Arts with Cynthia Keyes and Portia Warren.”
    “With so many social assets, it sounds like you’ll be a shoo-in.”
    “Oh, thank you, Dinah.” He beamed, seemingly deaf to sarcasm.
    Tipton bustled on and Dinah rode up to the second floor. She had her doubts about the prospects of a twerp who started every sentence with “oh,” regardless of his social assets. But his slavish devotion to Whitney Keyes and his work for the Sheridan campaign would probably pay off in the long run.
    Her room was at the end of the hall on the second floor and the bright interior lifted her spirits. The walls were splashed with colorful murals of Viking ships and crenellated castles and, most importantly, a plush down comforter covered the bed. Before she took off her coat, she bumped the thermostat to high and went to the bathroom and ran a tub of hot water.
    While her bath was filling, she scouted out the mini-bar. She wanted something to take the cloying taste of aquavit out of her mouth. There was a selection of beers she’d never heard of, but Russian vodka predominated. She found a can of tomato juice and mixed herself a Bloody Mary, no rocks. Drink in hand, she opened her suitcase and grabbed an insulating silk turtleneck, a pair of wool socks, and a flannel shirt and repaired to the bathroom. She dumped a bottle of gardenia scented bath gel into the water and tested the temperature with a finger. Perfect. She set her drink and her book of Norse myths on a