The phone rang on a dreary day in DC. The man behind the desk massaged his slightly graying temples.
Only a handful of people knew his private number.
"Warren?"
A female voice.
"Of course," Warren Shapiro answered.
"I think we might have a problem. Miriam's in trouble."
Warren leaned back in his chair. He signaled for his secretary to leave. She closed the door behind her.
"Go ahead, Florence."
She took a breath. "You heard about her friend being murdered. God, right in the next room. Scares me, Warren."
"I took care of the situation. She's not been charged."
"There have been a few more things."
"Tell me." He rubbed the back of his neck, waiting.
With the election only weeks away, he didn't have time for this.
"Someone vandalized her office. Next her car was broken into. These
