Joel Goldman - The Dead Man

"That's where you underestimate me. I grant that you have expertise that I lack. It's obvious that you lack what I have to offer, which is an encyclopedic knowledge of this place and my brother's complete trust. If Milo wants you to direct security, then direct it you shall, but you will not shut me out and you will not succeed without my help."

"Why do you think Milo hired me?"

She stiffened in her chair and straightened the papers in front of her. "He's afraid of Jason Bolt. We had to pay him off once before and he's worried we'll have to do it again."

"Have you read the police reports on Delaney and Blair?"

"Detective McNair showed them to my brother and me."

"That's not the same as reading them."

"I'm sure I did but I didn't memorize them," she said, shuffling her just straightened papers.

"Anything jump out at you in the Delaney report?"

She raised one eyebrow. "Apart from the fact that it was suicide?"

"Suicide is a conclusion, not a fact. That report is full of facts that support another conclusion-that Delaney was murdered. And if he was murdered in a way to make it look like his nightmare came true, I've got another conclusion for you. The killer may be someone who works for you and your brother. If I'm right, Jason Bolt is the least of your worries. Thanks for lunch."

I left Sherry picking her chin off the linen tablecloth. I'd tell her about the missing videos and Walter Enoch after I had a better idea where she fit in this universe.

I closed the door to my office, making it to my chair as the shakes claimed me. My back arched and my neck hyperextended over the top of the seat, giving me plenty of time to count the ceiling tiles if my eyes had been open. I gripped the armrests while my abs convulsed, crunching me forward then back, grunting like I was chasing Dante through the Inferno. The tremors eased, my choppy breath catching up and slowing down. I had made it through the day without shucking and jiving in front of Agents Dolan and Kent and, now, Sherry Fritzshall but I'd wound the spring so tight something had to give.

Leonard burst through my door. "What the hell was that? You okay?"

"Never better. I shake sometimes. That's all."

"Are you kidding me? You sounded like a remake of Halloween ."

"I'll try to keep it down. I'm okay."

"Next time, give me some notice. I'll sell tickets."

People don't know whether to laugh, hide their eyes, or call 911 the first time they are exposed to my physical and vocal contortions; the more profound my outburst, the more intense their discomfort. Leonard's permasmile was upside down and his eyes were wide with concern that felt real. His joke harbored none of Agent Kent's malice. I returned his smile and waved him away.

"As long as I get ten percent of the gate."

"I'm cool with that," he said and left me alone.

In the old days, I would have spent the rest of the afternoon and evening knocking on doors, catching the project directors off guard, digging up what I could, stirring up the rest until I could sift it out. I wouldn't have started with Anthony Corliss and Maggie Brennan because I didn't want them to think I was focused on them. I would work my way around to them, letting word of my interrogations filter through the hallways, goosing the anxiety that might make them slip-if there was reason for them to slip.

These weren't the old days. I couldn't make it through a day with this much in-your-face face time without getting wobbly and I didn't want to take someone on when the brain fog was rolling in. It wasn't three o'clock and I was done, frustrated that I couldn't even keep banker's hours. Lucy was right. I needed help from someone who knew how to ask the right questions and could go the distance. I left her a message on her cell phone to come and get me.

My body settled and the synapses in my brain reopened for business while I waited, giving me time to make a mental to-do list. My ex-brothers and sisters in the FBI were building a murder case against me constructed out of fear and loathing. All I had to do to exonerate myself was give them the five million dollars they thought Wendy stole while convincing them that I'd known where the money was all along so they would believe that I had no reason to kill Walter Enoch. At least they wouldn't charge me with murder.

None of this made much sense, and some of it wouldn't make sense even when it was all over. That was the trouble with murder. It made things weird.

Milo Harper opened my door without knocking, the interruption finishing my to-do list. His sweater hung tentlike from rounded shoulders, his cargo pants sagged from his waist to the floor. He had a slight sheen on his forehead as if he'd ran up three flights of stairs but his gray pallor made it more likely that he was fighting a fever.

"Busy?" he asked.

"Not for you."

He took a seat across from my desk. "You look like you've taken a punch that you didn't see coming."

I laughed. "It's the shaking and it doesn't matter if I see it coming. You don't look so good yourself."

He sighed. "Three hours of sleep will do that to you after a while."

"So dial it back. You must have people who have people who can do whatever it is you're doing between midnight and six A.M."

He ran one hand through his hair. "Actually, I've got more people than that but none of them are on my clock. You know what I see everyday when I look in the mirror? I see the light in my brain getting dimmer. I'm not going to waste any of the time I have left before it goes dark."

"I've got to say it again. You don't look or act like anyone I've ever seen with Alzheimer's. You don't miss a trick."

"I can still navigate but I know what's coming and I'm not going there. I won't end up lying in bed, weighing eighty-five pounds with a feeding tube waiting for a nurse to wipe my butt not knowing who or what I am. I'll check out on my own terms long before then."

I had no answer to that and no idea why he was in my office. I waited for him to tell me.

"Sherry came to see me."

"I was late for lunch. She didn't like that."

"No, she wouldn't like that. She says you think one of our people murdered Tom Delaney. Is that true?"

"It's possible," I said, running through the anomalies in the Delaney report.

"You've got to go to the police with this."

"I did that. McNair likes his closed cases to stay closed."

"Go over his head. I'll call the chief of police."

"He'll back up his people unless we've got something better. Plus, Jason Bolt will scream cover-up if he finds out you pressured the department."

"So what do we do?"

"You do your job and I'll do mine."

"I can do mine a lot better if Sherry isn't in my office every five minutes complaining about you. Do me a favor, work with her."

"I can do that as long as I know where she fits in."

"She's my older sister. Practically raised me. She's smarter than me and she's my eyes and ears. When you have as much money as I do, someone always wants something. She keeps all that away from me."

"But, you didn't tell her that you've got Alzheimer's. Why not?"

He grinned. "Because she would drive me absolutely, fucking nuts. She'd make me go to every doctor on the planet who could spell Alzheimer's."

"I never had a big sister but I get the picture. It's not because you don't trust her?"

"Hell, I love her but that doesn't mean I trust her with everything in my life. The first lesson in the billionaire's manual is to know what to give up and to who and what to keep to yourself."

"What's the second lesson?"

"Do what has to be done. Don't look back and don't second-guess. You've been on the job half a day. What else have you got for me?"

"I logged onto the dream project to look at the videos of Tom Delaney and Regina Blair describing their nightmares. Their videos are missing and their names don't show up on the list of participants. It looks like they've been erased from the project records."