Joel Goldman - The Dead Man

"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.

"What kind of car are you looking to buy?"

She leaned into the sofa. "You don't give anything up, do you? I'm trying here. I really am, but you're not working with me."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you need a place to live and I need your rent money. You need help and I'm willing and able but you won't give me a chance. We're stuck with each other. I'm trying to make lemonade out of this and you won't even admit we've got lemons."

"We may have problems, but they aren't the same ones. You can borrow my car on Monday after you drop me off at the institute."

The Harper Institute of the Mind sits on ten acres that was once home to a hospital. Harper tore the hospital down and built a 600,000-square foot facility for three hundred million dollars. It dominates the landscape, dwarfing any of the buildings on the nearby campus of the University of Missouri at Kansas City. The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art stands in the near distance to the north, its closest architectural rival.

Lucy dropped me off in the circle entrance beneath a roof sheltering a courtyard and a fountain that had been turned off in deference to the freezing weather. I walked inside, stopping to admire a twenty-foot transparent sculpture of the human brain that hung suspended from the four-story ceiling. The surrounding circular walls were painted in varying shades of aquatic blues and greens, lighter colors ascending toward the ceiling, catching the natural light pouring through glass walls, creating an image of a vast sea.

On the far wall, etched beneath the institute's name, was a rhetorical question that joined the images of water and brain. How Deep Is Your Ocean? The metaphor made clear Milo Harper's vision of the institute. Understanding our minds required plumbing our depths. If the question was meant to be a guide to the perplexed, it was a success, inducing a sudden sensation that I was in over my head.

A stout, middle-aged woman wearing a name tag identifying her as Nancy Klemp sat behind a high round desk at the rear of the lobby, the elevators visible over her shoulder. Anyone wanting to go farther had to get past her. One of the best ways to secure a place like the institute is to staff the entrance with someone who will demand your firstborn male child as the price of admission. Nancy struck me as such a person. She wore a dark brown, nondenominational uniform that commanded attention without any obvious rank or authority. Her straight-backed, steely-eyed appraisal of me as I approached evoked all the authority she required. I liked her already.

"May I help you?"

"I'm Jack Davis. I work here but I don't know where. Today is my first day."

She picked up a phone and announced my presence to whoever answered.

"Ms. Fritzshall will be down in a moment."

"Thanks, Nancy. By the way, I'm the new director of security. I like the way you handle yourself."

If she was flattered, she kept it quiet. "I know who you are. Ms. Fritzshall told me to call her when you arrived."

"And who is Ms. Fritzshall?"

"Sherry Fritzshall. Vice president and general counsel," she said, her mouth twisting as if she'd swallowed sour milk.

"Mind if I ask, Nancy, how long have you been here?"

"Since we opened, two years ago."

"You're at this desk every day?"

"Eight in the morning until five in the afternoon. Every day."

"I'll bet someone in your job sees and hears a lot, more than most people realize."

She raised her eyebrows, uncertain of my intent. "I do my job. I pay attention."

"I have no doubt about that, Nancy, none at all. I look forward to working with you."

I reached across the desk and offered my hand. She hesitated for a moment and then took mine. Her grip was firm, her hand warm even though a smile was not part of her uniform.

"Yes, sir."

One of the six elevator doors opened. A woman emerged wearing a charcoal gray suit, her black hair pulled tight against her head, her fingers manipulating a Bluetooth earpiece. She shared Milo Harper's long, lean look, the resemblance most apparent in her sleek nose and intense, feverish eyes. She swept around Nancy's desk and looked me over like she was comparing my appearance to a wanted poster.

"Mr. Davis?"

"Still."

"Come with me."

I glanced at Nancy whose attention was fixed on something in the distance. I turned around, following her line of sight across the lobby, through the front doors, and onto the circle drive where Lucy stood, arms folded on the roof of the car. She nodded, got in, and drove away. Nancy looked at me for an explanation.

"My mom. She thinks it's my first day of school."

Nancy ducked her head, hiding a giggle. I really liked her.

As I followed Sherry Fritzshall toward the elevator, I heard Nancy mutter a fragment of the Twenty-third Psalm, yea tho I walk in the valley of the shadow.

Riding in the elevator, Sherry Fritzshall welcomed me to the institute with a perfunctory recitation of its history while she fiddled with her earpiece, stamping her foot at its poor reception. She was a disinterested docent, making certain I knew that she had better things to do than escort me. Once we reached the eighth and highest floor, she deposited me in my office and promised to come back, saying it in such a way as to make it clear I wasn't to leave until she returned.

A young man dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt brought me a cup of coffee and said his name was Leonard and that he had been assigned to me, which was handy because his desk was right outside, and to let him know if I needed anything. He gave me a directory of institute personnel with office locations and telephone extensions and a sealed envelope that he said contained my user ID and password for the computer on my desk, making me promise to shred the contents after I memorized them.

Moments later, a young woman wearing wool slacks, a sweater set, and an institute ID badge hanging from a gold chain around her neck appeared at my door sporting a cheerful grin. She had piano player hands, her fingers long and delicate, a diamond engagement ring sparkling on her left hand.

"I'm Anne from HR," she said.

"That's some last name."

She giggled. "My last name is Kendall but everyone calls me Anne from HR."