Jeff Abbott - Fear

The exercise calmed him, but he couldn’t shake Sorenson out of his thoughts. The man had seemed ready to take a swing at Miles; he didn’t carry the soothing air of a psychiatrist easing a startled patient. Miles played the odd session back in his head. Just springing another therapist on him was wrong, dead wrong, not the sort of thing Allison did. A therapist wasn’t supposed to do the unexpected. Life rattled his cage enough most days.

Right now the gallery beckoned as his refuge.

Miles had had only two job interviews in his whole life. He’d always worked for his dad at Kendrick Investigation Services, in its strip-mall office between a pawnshop and a vintage-clothing store in a Miami neighborhood. When Andy brought Miles to meet the Barradas two days after his father’s funeral, his first job interview had been decidedly one-sided: Your dad owed us three hundred thousand off greyhounds and ponies, Miles, and he put up the agency as collateral. So we could take your business right this minute. But thanks to your buddy Andy, we’re offering you a deal. We need a man to be our own personal spy, Miles. We need you to steal information for us. Get the incriminating evidence on other rings – find out who their dealers are, their suppliers, where they’re stashing and cleaning their money. We have that, we take them down, we take over their business. You can give us leverage, give us a competitive advantage. Mr. Barrada enjoyed reading the latest business-book best sellers and adapting their ideas to mob life. You do that for us when we ask for the next two years, our debt’s settled. And, scared to the bone, he’d had no choice but to say yes.

The interview with Joy Garrison had been equally difficult. He’d walked through the gallery, his Witness Security inspector contemplating the paintings and their high price tags, and followed Joy upstairs to her private office. She was a petite woman, fiftyish, attractive, and at first he thought she was the stereotypical Santa Fe hippy-dippy, in her billowy pants and her silver-and-turquoise jewelry. But as soon as he sat across from her he recognized a toughness in her eyes that rivaled that of Mr. Barrada.

She studied him for an agonizing minute. He forced himself not to fidget in the chair.

Finally she said, ‘You really want this job.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘But you don’t know shit about art, do you, honey?’

‘Not much, ma’am. But I-’ And he stopped because Andy stood in the corner, arms crossed.

‘What’s the matter? But what?’

‘I wanted to go to art school. Learn photography. I didn’t get the chance.’

‘Parents disapproved?’

‘Yes, ma’am. Said they wouldn’t pay for a waste of money.’

‘My parents said the same thing. They were right, I couldn’t draw a straight line. But being an artist and selling art are two different skill sets.’ She laughed. ‘This gallery pays for Mama and Daddy to be in a real nice retirement village.’

‘I’m a hard worker, ma’am. I can move the art for you, lots of those paintings and sculptures must be pretty heavy.’

‘I need brain more than brawn. Inspector Pitts says you’re handy with computers. I sell to collectors all over the country but my Web site’s crap – I need a much more effective one. I also need help tracking inventory.’

‘Yes, ma’am. I can build you a database, build or manage a Web site, run and fix your computers, make your systems more secure, whatever you need.’ He didn’t want to see Andy, so he kept his gaze locked on his lap. ‘You tell me how to sell art, I’ll sell art. I’ll do whatever you need.’

‘Hon, look at me when you talk to me.’

He looked up.

‘We’ll go slow on you selling, until you can look people in the eye.’

He swallowed. ‘That’s probably a good idea.’

‘You’re not my first federal witness to hire. They sent me an embezzler two years ago. She did just fine for two months, then she stole five thousand from my ex-husband.’ Joy shrugged. ‘Better him than me.’

‘I won’t steal.’

‘You understand I’m the only one here who knows you’re a witness. Inspector Pitts didn’t tell me your real name, or where you’re originally from. Just your new name, and your criminal record and your past work skills as reported to WITSEC.’

‘I don’t have a record, ma’am.’

‘That’s why you have the job, honey.’

He remembered to breathe. ‘Thank you. You won’t be sorry.’

She leaned forward. ‘I can imagine you’ve been through a real ordeal, walking away from your life. I want you to know, Michael, that you can trust me. No one else at the gallery will know you’re in the witness protection program. I will never, ever betray that trust.’

‘Thank you. I hope to earn your trust, Mrs. Garrison.’

‘Call me Joy. You start tomorrow.’

She stood and he stood and shook her hand, and he’d loved the job for the past two months.

The door to the Joy Garrison Gallery jangled as he opened and closed it. The gallery represented fourteen artists who were growing in repute among collectors. Most of the paintings and sculptures were priced at two thousand dollars or more, and Miles wished he could have made a living creating calm beauty on canvas. Miles nodded at Joy and her son Cinco as he stepped into the back office where he and the staff worked. She sat at a sales rep’s desk, jotting on a sticky note. She raised an eyebrow; Cinco stayed on the phone with a New York collector, praising a new painting as a must-have.

‘You’re not scheduled today, hon,’ Joy said.

‘No, ma’am, I’m not. I just wanted to catch up on my work for a couple of hours. You don’t have to pay me.’ His voice stayed steady, his hands didn’t tremble.

‘Are you okay, hon?’

‘I just need to keep busy.’

‘Well, if you’re so eager to be of use, could you call and find out when that new computer’s arriving? You can see the way I’ve been replacing e-mails today.’ She held up the sticky-note pad. ‘And I need a bunch of photos taken of the new Krause sculptures and posted on the Web. Then I need you to update the Web site with a new price list.’

‘No problem.’

‘You make me look bad, Michael,’ Cinco said, hanging up the phone. ‘Don’t you need days off?’

‘I get bored easy.’

Two women who were friends of Joy’s were now at the door, bearing lattes and gossip, and Joy laughed and called to them, and they headed to Joy’s office, upstairs at the back of the gallery. Miles carried a small painting Joy wanted to show them.

He came downstairs; two tourists browsed in the front, and Cinco answered their questions about a sculpture of a leaping ram. Miles refilled his coffee mug and decided to call his WITSEC inspector to ask for a vetting on Sorenson so he could join the treatment program if he wanted. But he stepped into the back office and found Blaine the Pain sitting at his desk, drumming fingers. From the office doorway Miles shot Cinco a desperate frown; which Cinco answered with a grin that said, Sorry-you’re-screwed, I got customers, he’s your problem.

‘Hi, Mr. Blaine.’

‘Don’t hi me, Michael. Are you rotating paintings today?’

‘Tomorrow, sir.’

‘Is Emilia Stands in the Sun ’ – his most recent work, a beautifully shaded portrait of a young Latina among high grasses – ‘getting shoved to a back corner?’ Emilia had worked the walls for four months but remained unsold.

‘No, sir, I don’t think so.’

‘Because if Emilia doesn’t get prime wall space, well’ – and he issued his favorite threat – ‘I’ll bolt to another gallery. I have offers. Constantly.’

‘You bolting would break our hearts, Mr. Blaine. I promise you we’re trying our best to find the right buyer.’