I glanced back at Chandler. “How many reporters travel with their lawyers?”
He gave Gabriel another once-over. “I’m still trying to decide if you’re joking about that.”
“We’re not here to grill you on your activities with the CIA,” Gabriel said. “At the time, the general public might have taken a prurient interest in Ivy League academics whose forays into understanding human behavior included watching through peepholes in whorehouses. But today it seems more like the premise for a reality television show, and a dull one at that.”
“He does sound like a lawyer,” Chandler said to me. “Before we go further, then, may I know who I’m addressing?”
“I don’t believe that’s necessary,” Gabriel said.
Chandler sighed. “Definitely a lawyer.” He looked over at his bodyguard, sulking on a porch chair. “Take note, Anderson. Size and martial ability do not need to come with a correlating decrease in intelligence.” Back to us. “If you aren’t interested in these stories you’ve heard about Will Evans, what is your interest?”
“The fact that Dr. Evans worked for the CIA is a matter of public record,” Gabriel said. “It is also a matter of public record that he resigned to pursue private practice. However, we have reason to believe his leave-taking was not absolute.”
“That he continued with the CIA? He did not.”
“You sound very certain of that. I wasn’t aware the CIA was such a small agency.”
Annoyance flickered in Chandler’s expression. He covered it with a nonchalant shrug. “I knew Will very well at the time. If he’d returned to the CIA, I would have known it.”
“But you said that you have been out of touch for years.”
A tight smile. “Will may not be as old as I am, but he’s past retirement age. I doubt he would have returned to the CIA since we last spoke.”
“And if he had done so before that, he would have told you. Even if it was a classified project.”
“I’m sure he would have.”
“Perhaps.” Gabriel took a slow step forward, making the bodyguard tense. “But I think you’re telling the truth—that Evans did not return to the CIA. I think you know this with certainty because, as brilliant as he was, holding down three jobs was more than he could handle.”
“Three?”
“His new practice, the CIA, and his work for you.”
“My work was for the CIA—”
“Until 1982, when you quit to look after your own company. One that you began in 1970, and is the source of the income that requires you to hire a bodyguard.”
“I retired in 1982, young man, and I have no other business—”
“Bryson Pharmaceutical.”
“I invested in Bryson Pharmaceutical. I certainly do not own it. If you’ve found any evidence to suggest otherwise, you need to employ better researchers.”
Chandler gestured to his bodyguard. “Anderson? Please escort these young people off my property. If they persist in staying, I will have them know that I contacted the police before we came out, and they may wish to leave before the authorities arrive.” To Gabriel, “This sort of behavior could result in disbarment.”
“Hardly. It’s simple trespass, and as we came with the purpose of interviewing you for a case, our late timing is merely rude. I suspect I’m as well versed in how to avoid losing my license as you are in how to avoid being named as the owner of a pharmaceutical company.”
With that, Gabriel waved for me to lead the way and we left.
Chapter Fifty-eight
“Okay,” I said when we got into the car. “Did you forget to tell me that Edgar Chandler owns a pharmaceutical company? Or that it’s where you believe Evans went to work after he quit the CIA?”
He peeled from the curb. I twisted to peer into the night.
“I don’t see the cops, Gabriel. You can slow down.”
“I’m hardly concerned about the police. Chandler didn’t call them. I’m sure he did phone someone, but likely only to say to send reinforcements if he didn’t check back within the hour.”
“So why’d we leave?”
“Because I’d accomplished what I came for.”
“Dare I ask what that was? Because apparently I wasn’t privy to the grand plan.”
“I didn’t tell you about Chandler because I wanted to confront him myself. I’m better suited to such tactics.”
“If you mean physical intimidation, I’ll agree that’s your thing, not mine. But if you’d told me your reasoning, I’d have let you handle him.”
A pause, then a nod, as if this possibility hadn’t occurred to him.
“You’re going to be so glad when this is over and you can fly solo again, aren’t you?”
He made a noise, impossible to make out, but which I’m sure meant “Hell, yes.”
“On the topic of partnerships,” he said after a moment. “Thank you for covering me with Chandler. Almost allowing Anderson to get the drop on me was an inexcusable error. Had you not been there, I might have had quite a hole through me. Your reflexes are excellent.”
“Too many Dirty Harry movies. At least I didn’t dare him to make my day. So, what exactly did we just accomplish?”
“I confirmed, by his reaction, my suspicion about the drug company. I had no evidence on that.”
“So Evans quits the CIA, using his son’s birth as an excuse, and covertly works for Chandler’s drug company. Why the secrecy? What do they manufacture?”
“Nothing you could find on the shelves of your local pharmacy. Bryson Pharmaceutical is an export business. Their primary clients are foreign regimes with civil rights laws far laxer than ours.”
“Continuing the work from MKULTRA, not for the greater good but for profit.”
“Far more sensible, don’t you think?”
I shook my head and settled in for the long trip to Cainsville.
The problem with MKULTRA—well, there were lots of problems, morally and ethically—but from a practical standpoint, the problem was that after all that expense and all the risks taken and all the lives altered, the CIA never did achieve its goals. Perhaps there is a lesson in its failure—a testament to the human mind that should come as a relief to anyone who ever worries about things like brainwashing and mind control. In the end, their scientists discovered there was no way to influence human behavior in a reliable fashion.
There were those who believed the answers were still out there, that as many liberties as the CIA took, it was still hamstrung by basic ethics. Had Chandler and Evans seen hints of a breakthrough in their work with MKULTRA? A breakthrough they could better pursue from the private sector? Where they might be able to develop and sell products in countries unfettered by the restrictions of testing and using such products on American citizens?
“So what’s the next step?” I asked as we reached the highway.
“To get some sleep. If I recall correctly, your apartment has a sofa.”
“It does.”
“Then I’ll ask you to allow me to stay there tonight, not simply for convenience, but because we have revealed ourselves to Chandler. We didn’t identify ourselves, but I suspect he has the means to discover who we are.”
“Fine by me. I have tomorrow off, too.”
Apparently my sofa turned into a bed. I’d heard of such things, but never seen the marvel of engineering for myself.
“I think the cat likes you,” I said as I brought my backup sheets into the living room and found Gabriel sitting on the pulled-out sofa, locking gazes with the cat.
“Come on,” I said. “Back to bed, TC.”
One brow lifted. “I thought you weren’t naming him.”
“I didn’t. TC. The Cat. It’s an acronym.”
His lips twitched. “I see.” He pulled a .45 from the back of his waistband, then tucked it under the couch.
“You swiped Chandler’s gun?” I said.
“No, I merely failed to return it.”
I laughed, said good night, and
headed to my room.
Before I got into bed, I checked under the mattress, just as I had the night before. I didn’t expect to see anything, but I couldn’t go to sleep until I checked. When I saw a piece of folded paper beside the bed, I practically dove to snatch it up.
It was the note Ricky had given me earlier today, his number written on what looked like lecture notes. I started to ball up the page to throw it out. Then I stopped and flipped it over. The biker. The MBA student. Two halves of the whole. His parents were hardly serial killers, but I felt some inkling of kinship there. He’d grown up in gang life. He could escape it if he wanted. He was handsome, charming, obviously intelligent. Yet I didn’t get the feeling his MBA was an escape route. He was getting it to secure his position as gang leader. That interested me. He interested me.
I fingered the page for another minute, considering. Then I folded it neatly, put it in my wallet, and got ready for bed.
A Matter of Trust
Gabriel opened the living room window, then closed it again and double-checked the lock. He could have sworn he’d felt a draft coming through earlier, but it seemed fine. He checked the other window. Same thing.
Still, he wasn’t satisfied. Olivia’s apartment was only three floors up. Easy to scale and break in. He’d done it himself many times, when he’d been younger and much smaller.
She should get a security system. She’d say she couldn’t afford it, but he could call in favors, get one for not much more than she’d paid for the gun. He just needed to persuade her that the added security was necessary.
Was it? There were few places safer than Cainsville, if you were the right kind of person. That’s what his aunt always said. As for what exactly constituted “the right kind,” she was vague on that. It seemed unlikely that Rose would qualify. Even less that he would. But they did. Now Olivia did, too, which should mean she was safe, but…
He checked the front door for the third time since she’d gone to bed. It was locked. He knew that. So what was he checking for? He had no idea, only that he felt unsettled. As if something was amiss, and the only way he knew how to deal with that was to keep prowling and listening and checking.
He’d said earlier that he’d feel guilty if something happened to her. He shouldn’t—participating in this investigation was entirely her choice. Yet he felt responsible for her and it left him … unsettled.
Of course, he had a very good reason for protecting her. A monetary incentive. At the thought, though, he found himself walking faster, pacing the living room, a tickle of something dangerously close to guilt prodding him on. It was like the damned cookies. He hadn’t done anything wrong. So why was it bothering him?
It didn’t help that the cat kept staring at him.
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” he murmured as he lowered himself to the armchair.
The cat, surprisingly, did not respond. Gabriel let out a low growl and leaned back. The cat leapt onto the coffee table, sitting right in front of him, staring.
He stared back. He wasn’t going to feel guilty about this. James Morgan was the fool who’d made the offer. Look after Olivia. Keep her safe. Which is exactly what Gabriel would have done anyway—she was his client—so there was nothing wrong with accepting money for it.
Morgan had come to him, simmering with the kind of shallow, manufactured fury that can only be expressed by someone who’s never had any reason to be truly furious about anything. He’d read Lores’s article. Clearly Gabriel was taking advantage of his innocent, befuddled fiancée. Gabriel had told him the truth and opined that Morgan should really allow Olivia to pursue this investigation. That she needed answers, and if he truly cared about her, he’d step back and not interfere.
He’d fully expected Morgan to explode. In Olivia, James Morgan would see only a suitable wife. He didn’t truly understand her. He certainly didn’t love her. Yet Morgan had called a day later and agreed to stay away. He asked only two things of Gabriel, which he would pay for, of course. One, that he look after her. Two, that he lobby on Morgan’s behalf, which meant pushing Morgan’s suit and telling her that James was there, waiting, whenever she wished to speak to him.
Gabriel had ignored the second part. He wasn’t a matchmaking service. He hadn’t actually refused the task, but he wouldn’t accept payment for it. That was only fair.
So he was taking money for protecting her, yet he wasn’t only protecting her because he was taking money for it. Therefore, there was nothing to feel guilty about. Except for the small matter that he and Olivia had that very morning resolved a similar issue over Lores.
If she found out about this…
Damn it, why did she need to be so unreasonable? She’d helped him hide a body, for God’s sake. She understood necessity. She understood that ethics were in most cases a burden that could be reasonably ignored in pursuit of necessity. She should understand that there was nothing wrong with accepting money for doing something that needed to be done, like getting unbiased media coverage for her or protecting her from harm.
But it wasn’t the fact that he’d made the deal with Lores that upset her. It was that he hadn’t told her. A silly distinction. Why should she need to know?
Because it was a sign of respect.
He wanted to finish this investigation with Olivia. He might even want to continue their working relationship beyond that. It was still a nascent idea, born when she’d joked earlier that he’d be happy to be rid of her. He wouldn’t be.
If she found out about his deal with Morgan, though, their partnership would end. And he had a feeling persistence and concessions wouldn’t fix it this time.
He should tell her.
Gabriel looked across the living room at her bedroom door. It could wait. It should—
He rose and walked over. Though there wasn’t any light coming from under the door, that didn’t mean she was asleep yet. As he leaned in to listen, he accidentally brushed the door and it clicked open.
He put his fingertips against the door as he leaned closer for a better listen. It opened an inch. He reached for the handle to close it, but took a quick look first, to see if she was awake.
She was in bed, sound asleep, covers pulled away. She was facing the other direction, hair fanning over the pillow. She wore an oversized T-shirt and it had bunched up around her thighs, her feet bare, legs bare, and that’s when he realized that he wasn’t looking through the crack anymore. He was standing in her bedroom, a step past the door.
He backtracked fast. Once outside, he pulled the door shut and retreated to the sofa bed. As he sat on the edge, he felt the cat’s stare and looked up to see it on the couch arm.
“I didn’t do anything,” he murmured.
Nor would he. That was one crime no one could ever accuse him of. He’d never even chased a reluctant conquest. It would be like finding a handful of pennies scattered on the sidewalk and deciding you really must have the one wedged in the crack. Willing partners were plentiful. Besides, seduction might suggest he wanted more than an hour of a woman’s time, which he decidedly did not.
He looked back at Olivia’s bedroom door. Seduction hadn’t been his intention anyway. This was a business relationship. She was a client.
He’d only wanted to talk to her. But the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced such a discussion wasn’t necessary—or wise. What if confessing wasn’t enough, despite what she claimed?
He should never have agreed to Morgan’s offer. While there was—he still believed—nothing wrong with what he’d done, the hassle wasn’t worth the payment. Taking care of Olivia was easy enough. She didn’t need it, if he was being honest. But working with Morgan? A pain in the ass. The man had left five messages in the last few days, panicked over some newspaper photo of him with another woman. He blamed his mother. Gabriel hadn’t bothered getting the details. Obviously Morgan had screwed around, been caught, and now he’d say anything to clear his name.
James Morgan was an idiot. If Gabriel had any do
ubts on the matter, working with him had erased them. Morgan lost Olivia through his own cowardice and stupidity, and he didn’t deserve to get her back. Gabriel had done the right thing. Olivia was better off without him, and given her flirting with Ricky, she knew it.
But there was the possibility she wouldn’t see it that way.
He should tell her.
Gabriel stood. Then he sat down again.
Yes, he’d tell her—later. After he’d ended his arrangement with Morgan. That’s how he’d fix this. He’d call Morgan in the morning and say he’d changed his mind and wire back his money. Olivia would accept this better if he’d already quit and refunded the retainer. She might not truly understand what it took for him to return money he’d rightfully earned, but she would still appreciate the gesture. It would cement his sincerity, and she would forgive him.
Everything would be fine. He just needed to be patient and handle this properly.
Ignoring the cat, he stripped off his shirt and crawled onto the sofa bed.
Chapter Fifty-nine
At 5:30 a.m., I was awakened by a buzzing. I leapt up thinking there were bees in my room, which meant I’d have a visitor—and if I killed the bee, the visit would not be pleasant. It was not, however, an omen, but only my cell phone. Which, I suppose, is a “visit” of sorts.
I picked it up, muttering, “Gabriel,” then glowered at the screen, saw Will Evans’s number, and remembered that Gabriel was presumably in my living room.
I answered.
“Olivia.” My name came out on a sigh of relief. “I am terribly sorry to call you at this hour. I’ve been trying to wait for a more reasonable one, but I simply couldn’t hold out any longer.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s come to my attention that you’re working with Gabriel Walsh again.”
Damn. That was fast.
I moved to the bedroom door to tell Gabriel to keep quiet if he was awake. He wasn’t.
He was still on the sofa bed, sprawled on his stomach, head turned to the side. He’d taken off his shirt, but left his pants on, and the sheet was twisted around him as if he’d had a hard time getting comfortable. He was comfortable now, though, and deeply asleep. Also? Very nice to look at in that particular pose, muscular arms and back bare, wavy black hair tousled, long inky lashes against his cheek. Damned nice.
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