In the Company of Liars (27 page)

A
llison puts on her coat and goes outside, to avoid having to watch them scour her house. The warrant is limited to a search for a gold statuette with a marble base, an award given to Samuel Dillon by the Midwest Manufacturers' Association two years ago.

At least they were specific
, she thinks.

They've been in there almost three hours. She sat in the kitchen but finally couldn't bare it. She's second-guessing herself, given the weather today. It's teeth-chatteringly cold outside, single digits. She wishes to God they could have had the decency to conduct this search last week, when the temps were north of freezing. She can see them turning over chair cushions, going through all the cabinets in the kitchen, removing all the china—God, she hopes they don't break anything—even looking through the freezer.

Someone finally got a good look at the empty spot on Sam's mantel and had the sense to ask,
What used to be here?

She wonders what other surprises lay in store for her. She senses that Roger Ogren is not to be underestimated. He suffered a rather embarrassing loss in a big trial a few years back, a trial in which Paul represented the accused. She assumes Ogren will be especially teed-up to have another shot at one of Paul Riley's clients.

She remembers the trophy—the
award
, Sam called it. The MMA puts more money into lobbyists' coffers than any single contributor. It was an award that said that Sam Dillon was the best at what he does. She remembers reaching for it on the mantel, commenting on it, Sam's nonchalance, but she knew that he was appreciative. Sam didn't advertise his success like others in his business—like Mat, for one. He had more of an aw-shucks demeanor, confident but humble, which Allison assumed played well with politicians. Let them be the center of attention, Sam will stay behind the scenes. Sam had already had his time in the spotlight as a three-term state senator. Now he was making four times as much and working less.

Sam was almost awkward with her at first. Maybe that was because she had been married to a colleague. Maybe. But she sensed a gentle quality in Sam in matters personal, and she liked it. Preferred it. She'll take shy and sincere over smooth any day of the week.

This is when it hurts the most. When things move slowly, when she's not working on her case or worrying about her family. It's just sinking in. It's only now, three weeks after his death, that she is beginning to truly comprehend that she will never see him again.

It's awkward, the whole thing. She only really dated him for two, two-and-a-half months, and it was a covert courtship, at her insistence. She has never met Sam's daughter, Julia, a television producer in Los Angeles. She didn't even attend his funeral.

So she has been forced to mourn in secret. In a perverse way, that almost makes it easier, as if the whole thing never
happened because it hasn't been publicly acknowledged. But that's just mind games. The rush of adrenaline is gone. The searing, utter joy as his image played through her mind, the hope that he brought to her life are washed away now as she struggles to hold the pieces together.

If he had just told her. Oh, if he had just said the words in those phone calls.

S
he could sense it in his voice immediately. Something was different, wrong.

Sam sighed through the phone. “It's something I'm going to have to—I guess you could say I'm having an ethical dilemma.” That was all he would say, and she let him keep that distance.

A week passed. Sam had told her he would be down at the capital most of that week and might not even have time to call. It was agony to Allison, not even speaking to this man who had swept into her life; she felt like a schoolgirl with a crush, waiting by the phone just on the chance he might call. She was filled with insecurity, despite Sam's mention of an ethical problem. Sam was distant for the first time in their admittedly short relationship, and it burned inside her.

He called, that Wednesday, the Wednesday before his death, the day before the cocktail party at his firm. Her caller identification told her that he was calling from the city.

“You're in town,” she said to him.

“I'm—what?”

“I have caller ID, Sam. You're in the city.”

She heard him sigh. She felt her heart drum. Why was he being secretive? Why hide the fact that he was in the city?

Was there someone else? Had this relationship been more one-sided than she had imagined? Had she pushed him too hard, too fast?

“Okay, I'm in town.”

It didn't make sense. The legislature was in session. Why wasn't he down there?

“I just wanted to say hi,” he said. “I—I can't explain what's going on, Allison.”

“This is that ‘ethical dilemma' you were talking about?”

“I really—I can't talk to you about it.”

“Something's going on,” she said.

“Yes. You're right. And when the time comes, I'll tell you. Not now.”

“I'm worried about you.”

“Listen, I—we can't talk about this now. I just wanted to hear your voice. I'm not up for twenty questions.”

It was like a kick to her stomach. She didn't know what to make of this.

“I'll see you tomorrow at the cocktail party?” she asked.

“Yeah. But we can't—y'know—Jessica'll be there. All the staff will be.”

“Right.” She could hardly protest. It had been her idea, not his, to travel below the radar for the time being.

“I'll be here when you need me,” she told him.

R
oger, it's Jane McCoy.”

“Well, Agent McCoy!” Roger Ogren's voice, over the phone, is heavy on the sarcasm. He has a thing for that sing-song voice, like it's endearing or something, and McCoy doesn't have to struggle for reasons why this guy strikes out with the ladies.

“It's Jane, Roger.”

“To what do I owe this wonderful surprise?”

McCoy rolls her eyes at Harrick, who smiles.

“I think I know what your murder weapon is,” she says.

Through the phone, McCoy hears feet coming off a table. She has gotten his attention. “I'm all ears, Jane.”

“I was looking at the crime-scene photos you sent over,” she explains. “I see something missing.”

“Missing,” Ogren repeats. “You've been to Dillon's house.”

“Just once.” McCoy looks at Harrick. “There was something—”

“Something on the mantel,” Ogren interrupts. “There's a dust pattern. Front and center. Something's missing. You know what it is?”

McCoy takes a breath. “About two years ago, Sam Dillon received an award from the Midwest Manufacturers' Association. It's an annual award for representing their interests or whatever. Sam was their lobbyist. It looks like some Academy Award or something—it's a long, gold thing shaped like some old-fashioned machinery. The base is square, and marble.”

“That's our murder weapon,” he says, an accusatory tone to his voice.

“I don't know if it is or it isn't, Roger, but it's not in the pictures you sent me.”

“It's not in our inventory at all.” Ogren is leafing through some papers. “It wasn't anywhere in the house. She must have taken it with her.”

“Could be.”

“Was his name on it?” Ogren asks.

“Don't know. Don't remember. Why?”

“Because if the award didn't say ‘Sam Dillon' on it, we might not have noticed it in our search. When we flipped her house. We could have gone right past it.”

“You think Pagone has it at her home?” McCoy asks.

“Don't know, but I'm not taking any chances.”

“You're going to search her house again.”

“Damn straight.”

“Roger?” McCoy says, her voice turned up a notch. “Not a word about our bug, right?”

Roger Ogren sighs with disgust. “I'm not going to mess with your device,” he promises. “Hell, don't take
my
word for it—you'll be able to listen in the whole time we're there.”

McCoy laughs.

“Thanks, Agent McCoy. You've been a real princess.”

“It's Jane, Roger.” She hangs up the phone and looks at her partner.

Owen Harrick is watching her. “Remind me never to cross you, Jane,” he says.

They wanted him to go to America. Not Washington, D.C., or New York, the obvious spots, but to a large city in the Midwest. It was Ram Haroon who had suggested this city. One of the biggest in the Midwest, two solid universities in town with international-economics programs, good highway access to other cities, if that was where the mission took him.

The mission. They were vague, as Haroon would expect. If put under interrogation, he would not be able to say anything concrete. He did not know how long he would be in the States, though he suspected that the matter would be completed within two years, the time it would take him to complete his degree.

His first year in the States was uneventful. He enjoyed his classes. Liked most of the people he met. Met a couple of women, one of whom was American. It was not until November, last year, that he was approached.

“There will be an American,” they told him. They
showed him a picture, told Ram the man would go by the name of “Larry Evans.” They gave Ram no background on Evans. He was working with a scientist at a company called Flanagan-Maxx Pharmaceuticals with its principal headquarters just outside the city. He was working on obtaining a formula for a drug. When the assignment was completed, Larry Evans would hand Ram a piece of paper and maybe a couple of samples of the product. They told Ram nothing more.

But Larry Evans told Ram much more, because he assumed Ram already knew. The drug, Ram learned, would appear to be baby aspirin but would, in fact, contain a deadly ingredient that would ultimately kill—ultimately, not immediately, and that was the point. If children all over Western Europe began falling simultaneously, there would be an outcry. This drug, Larry promised, would kill slowly over months, attacking children's immune systems, while other children were taking it as well.

The drug could be made rather quickly. Anyone could make a poison. What would take time, Evans explained, was masking the product so that the chemical could not be detected by regulatory agencies.

Ram listened to Evans, noted the lack of any emotional reaction as he described the devastation that these drugs would cause. He was clearly not Islamic, and Ram didn't know if Evans was anti-Western at all. This was not about idealism. This was about twenty-five million dollars.

For some reason, Evans wanted to explain the details to Ram. From the outset, he wanted Ram's approval. “This guy, he's one of their top scientists. He's got a problem, though. More than one. He likes cocaine and he likes to gamble. He was into a bookie for over fifteen thousand dollars. Now he's into me for it. I bought the book. I bought this doctor's debt. Now he owes me. And I'm cutting him in on the prize money, too.”

“You're sure he can be trusted?” Ram asked.

“I'm sure. He needs me. I'm supplying him cocaine. I give it to him, in moderation. He'll never get caught, because I won't let him. And the pharmaceutical company—he's a top scientist. They have no idea. This guy is testing this stuff, developing this formula, without anyone's knowledge.”

“And this is not a matter of conscience for this scientist?”

“He doesn't think we're killing anyone,” Evans said, laughing. “He thinks this is for preventive research. It's illegal, yeah, he knows that. He thinks I'm working for a foreign government. But he doesn't think I'm selling it to you.” Larry tapped Ram's arm. “I'm telling him what he wants to hear,” he said. “He's so caught up in drugs and trying to keep his head above water, he'll believe what I tell him.”

“I am not entirely satisfied,” Ram said.

“Look—this guy's life got turned upside down. His wife left him, he got in a bad way with drugs. I'm telling him to develop something for me that won't be used to kill anyone—it will be used to save lives—and he'll get a couple million dollars in a foreign bank account when it's over. He can retire, move somewhere, start a new life. This guy's not going anywhere. And you know what he really wants? He wants me to bring him more free cocaine. Every day.”

Ram shook his head.

“You think
I
want to get caught?” Larry Evans asked. “If I get the first inkling that this guy is turning, I'll be out of the country before you are. Believe me.”

C
lass dismissed. The twelve students in his seminar on international human rights rise almost simultaneously. Two of them go to chat with the professor, which Ram Haroon has done as well from time to time, in line with his instructions to be in the middle of the pack in everything he does.

Ram walks out of the classroom and heads upstairs to the school's library. He walks over to a set of carrels reserved for audio recordings. Most of the lectures are recorded now, and many research materials—especially many from foreign sources—are on audio only. Ram walks past the carrels and fakes a cough. He sees Larry Evans, sitting in one of the carrels with headphones on. Ram walks to a water fountain and takes a quick drink, then turns around and walks to the carrel where Larry Evans sat only moments ago.

Evans is gone. Ram pulls the chair out and finds a scribbled note taped under the seat.

Everything looks good. It seems clear that Dillon knew nothing about this. There was something else going on at the company, something not even remotely close to this. It was related to the company bribing state lawmakers to get a prescription-drug bill passed. No one will ever connect it to us. The good doctor has been assured. He is back at work. We are back in business.

I will still keep an eye out. I'll let you know, but the bottom line is, don't worry. If she knows something, I'll find out.

Ram Haroon looks around. There have been unexpected, unwelcome developments. A man named Dillon is dead, a man who might have known.
How
he could have known about this is anyone's guess. It's hard to believe, and Ram does not believe, in his heart, that Sam Dillon knew anything. Which means that Allison Pagone does not, either. But he must be clear with Evans. He will have to insist, at some point, on his terms, that Allison Pagone be eliminated. He must insist that no chances be taken. No more mistakes can be made.