The Dead Man (7 page)

My ex-wife, Joy, divorced me after twenty-eight years of marriage. I didn't blame her. When our young son, Kevin, was murdered, she anesthetized her pain with booze and I buried mine with work, each of us blaming the other for our daughter Wendy's problems. Twenty-plus years after Kevin died, she came out of her fog and realized that it was time for both of us to move on. I didn't argue. We'd done enough of that.

Some people keep the war going after they split up. Joy and I went the other way. At first, she blamed me for what happened to Wendy, but in time she let that go too, shouldering more of the responsibility than was right. We had what I called an easy peace, both of us reconciled to what we had had and what we had lost.

I met Kate Scranton while I was married, lying to myself that my crush on her was merely the admiration of one professional for another. She was a forensic psychologist and jury consultant, blessed or cursed depending on the moment, with a unique ability to diagnose involuntary microfacial expressions that she claimed were the true windows into our hearts, minds, and souls. Together with her father, Henry, and ex-husband, Alan, both also psychologists, she had built a successful jury consulting practice, reading jurors with uncanny accuracy.

I justified our long lunches as networking, denying Joy's allegations that I was cheating even though our marriage had been dead by any definition of intimacy for a long time. I didn't know what an emotional affair was until Wendy called me on it.

Kate gave me a second chance after the divorce. She was ten years younger, a difference that peeled years off me without aging her. Tall and slender with shimmering black hair and blue eyes to get lost in, she had the sleek, confident beauty that caught other men's stares but stopped my heart. That she wanted me was an enduring mystery I didn't try to solve.

Reality chilled our fantasy of love lost and found. There were reasons we were both divorced. She could be unyielding and just because my body did contortions didn't mean that I was flexible. She could read me when I didn't want to be read and, more to the point, she couldn't help it.

Her teenage son, Brian, was struggling to find his place in a world of divided loyalties where I was one more competitor for his mother's affection. Alan wanted her back and Henry was rooting for him. She didn't want to leave their firm, didn't want to encourage Alan, and didn't want to alienate him for fear of how that would affect Brian. Both told her I was a bad bet.

She said that I cared too much whether people thought my movement disorder was real or bad enough to cost me my career since I didn't shake all the time or whether people thought it was all in my head, making me a crazy freak instead of just a freak. I worried that my world was too small for her, that she would come to resent that I couldn't do all the things that she was used to doing and enjoyed, the travel, the nights out at the theater, the symphony, or the ball park. We weren't there yet, she said, and besides, it was her life and that decision was up to her.

We navigated our way around these land mines, stepping on a few, staying together because what we had was so much better than what we'd come from and we knew too well what it was like to be alone, both of us struggling with being in love.

Kate had been on the road the last few weeks pitching prospective corporate clients, so busy we'd not seen each other or said more than good night or good morning over the phone. I was glad to see her when she picked me up for dinner at seven Saturday evening. I preferred not to drive at night when I was more likely to spasm and contort my way into a plaintiff's lawyer's payday.

"I made a reservation at Axios," she said when I got in her car.

"That place off of Fifty-fifth and Brookside?"

"Yes. It's French. Fine dining encourages two things we haven't had enough of lately—quiet conversation and intimacy."

"We can talk all you want but they better have a hell of a dessert menu because I prefer my intimacy served at your place or mine."

"Brian is with his father this weekend so you might get lucky if you clean your plate."

We sipped the wine, lingered through dinner, and talked. It was quiet and intimate. I led off, telling her about Lucy Trent, Ammara Iverson, and the envelope from Wendy.

"What do you think was in the envelope?" she asked.

"I've got no idea. Could have been anything from a card to a confession."

"I'm sure Ammara will tell you if they find it."

I nodded. "Trouble is, she'll wait until it's all over before she tells me."

"And you don't like being shut out in the meantime."

"Not so much."

"But you have to accept that because the FBI has the people and resources to do the job and you don't and you don't need the stress."

"Not so much," I said with a grin that she didn't reciprocate. "Okay, yes."

"I know it's hard, but it will be easier on you if you let Ammara handle it."

Her concern was legitimate and genuine but that didn't make it welcome. It was another reminder of limitations I resented more than I accepted. There was no point in having this argument since we both knew that I couldn't and wouldn't sit on the sidelines. I decided to change the subject before telling her about my job for Milo Harper.

"How's Brian?"

She let out a long sigh. "His grades are down and his barriers are up. I want him to see a therapist but his father says to give him time to figure things out on his own. I'm the disciplinarian and Alan is the laid back retro-hippy. Guess which one of us Brian prefers?"

"No contest, but take it from me, you can't make a teenager do anything. Any luck on your trip?"

"No. Our business went into the tank six months ago and isn't getting any better. I've spent the last three weeks smiling while being turned down."

"The economy catching up to you?"

"Maybe. We've reduced our salaries and laid off some staff but if things don't get better soon, I don't know how long we can keep the doors open."

"What would you do if you didn't have the firm?" I asked her.

She reached across the table, taking my hand in hers, caressing my fingers like worry beads. "I don't know. Teach, probably, or do what I've been doing only on a smaller scale, work from home. Neuromarketing is a hot new field. It's all about how the brain influences decision making. My skills are transferable to that field. I might put out some feelers."

"You could talk to Milo Harper, take his offer."

"I'd rather starve."

"Why? He seems okay."

She withdrew her hand. "And you know that how?"

I told her about my conversation with Simon, my meeting with Harper, and that I had accepted Harper's job offer.

She folded her arms across her chest. "When were you going to get around to telling me?"

"I thought I'd wait until we finished your list."

She frowned. "Sorry. I'm whining."

"Nope. Not your nature. You worry, argue, and dissect but you don't whine. So why is working for Harper worse than roaming the streets rummaging through trash cans?"

She parked her elbows on the table, locked her fingers together, and rested her chin on her hands and studied me. I knew her well enough to know that she was thinking about more than her answer. She was anticipating the conversation that would follow, mapping it out in her mind.

"I don't trust him."

"You've told me that before. Why not?"

She took a deep breath. "He is not an honorable man."

"That's two conclusions and zero facts. Convince me," I said.

"I saw it in his face when he tried to recruit me."

"You didn't like his involuntary facial expressions? What did he do, flash a secret smirk or stick his tongue out at you?"

She wadded her linen napkin and threw it onto the table. "Don't demean what I do, Jack."

"I'm not demeaning it one bit. I know your track record but you're not infallible. Give the guy a chance."

"That's the point. I gave him a chance when there was nothing on the line. He told me about his vision for the institute, how the brain is the last frontier and how he needed someone with my expertise."

"And you thought he was blowing smoke?"

"No, I'm sure he believes every word."

"Then what?"

"He asked me what it would take for me to come work for him. I told him there was nothing he could do because I was happy with my firm. He asked whether I would reconsider if there were no firm. I told him that we were doing quite well and I couldn't imagine that happening. That's when he told me that life is uncertain and that he could imagine anything happening. When he said that, he revealed part of his hidden self. His expression was ravenous, like a wild animal."

"He's a billionaire, for Christ's sake. They're all ravenous. That's how they got so rich."

"He's a billionaire who sits on the boards of three of our biggest clients—all of whom quit using us after I turned Harper down. That was six months ago."

"I thought you said it was the economy."

"That's what the general counsels of each company told me. Then I found out that they hired our competition."

"You think Harper is sabotaging your practice so you'll accept his job offer? C'mon."

She ran her fingers through her hair. "I think he's sabotaging my practice because I didn't accept his offer. You can work for him if you like, but I won't."

I leaned back in my chair. Kate was right more often than she was wrong but this was thin.

"I need this job," I said.

She grabbed the edge of the table with both hands. "Why? So you'll feel useful and validated? So you won't feel disabled? Jack, you're so much more than that. You can't spend the rest of your life trying to go back to who you used to be. You've got to be who you are now."

"That's not enough," I said, the words catching in my throat as the shakes claimed me.

Kate took my hand, waiting for the tremors to fade. "I think we can both use some dessert. Let's go. My place."

Lucy was on the couch when I came home Sunday morning, reading the newspaper. Ruby raced in from the kitchen, trailed by another cockapoo, this one dirty white with a faint honey stripe down her back, both of their snouts frosted with snow. The dogs barreled into me, leaping on me until I kneeled to the floor, letting them lick my hands and nip at my nose.

"I've no idea where the white one came from," Lucy said. "Ruby went outside this morning and brought her back."

"Her name is Roxy. She belongs to my ex-wife, Joy. Roxy stays here when Joy goes out of town. I forgot that she was leaving today for a week. Joy left Roxy in the backyard, figuring she'd come in through the doggie door."

"Bad marriage, worse divorce?"

"Bad marriage, good divorce. She knew it was time even if I was late to the party. She's a good person who deserved better than she got from me."

"That's noble. Did you deserve better than you got from her?"

I took my time, not because I didn't know the answer but because I was surprised Lucy would ask the question and that I was okay with telling her.

"Yeah, we both deserved better."

"And you each got a dog in the property settlement?"

"Nope. We each got our own dog after the divorce unbeknown to the other. Go figure. We take better care of them than we did our kids."

"The dogs always go crazy like that when you come home?"

"They do that whenever anyone comes in the door. They are trained to quit jumping up as soon as they are too tired."

"Looks like you had a nice time last night," Lucy said.

I'd told her I was having dinner with a friend and that she could use my car if she wanted to go out.

"I did."

Lucy sat cross-legged on the sofa, patting the cushion next to her, inviting me sit. "So? Who is she? What's the story?"

I joined her. "What are your plans now that you're back in Kansas City?"

"No dish, huh?"

"No dish."

"Well, I need a car and I need a job. I haven't gotten any further than that. How about you? What do you do?"

"I do some security consulting."

"For who?"

"Right now. The Harper Institute of the Mind."

"What kind of security does a place like that need?"

"The confidential kind."

"You left that binder in the car Friday night. It didn't say top secret so I checked it out yesterday. I took another look this morning and saw those incident reports. The suicide looks sketchy. You think he was murdered? Can't tell about the other one. But since they were both involved at your institute, if the guy was killed, you'll have to take another look at the woman. Need any help?"

"No, and next time you find something lying around this house that doesn't have your name on it, leave it alone."

"I'll try but I can't make any promises. Let me ask you a question. How long have you had this gig?"

"I start on Monday."

She rolled her eyes. "I've got another one. When was the last time you worked a full day without shaking?"

I didn't answer.

"When was the last time you were scared to get behind the wheel because you were shaking so bad, not counting Friday night?"

I didn't answer.

"And, last but not least, how are you going to shake and bake your way through a new job at the same time you investigate whatever it is your friend at the FBI won't let you in on? And don't tell me that's not what you are going to do. I was a cop and I saw the look on your face when I asked you what was in that envelope."

Lucy reminded me too much of Wendy. She was smart, funny, and tough and afflicted with a bad judgment gene that had sent her off the rails once and would likely do so again. Landlord or not, I didn't want to sign on for the ride.