Kelley Armstrong - Omens

“He’s not my bodyguard. He’s my lawyer.”

Chandler took another look at Gabriel. “Impressive. May I ask, then, sir…” He gestured at Anderson.

Gabriel took his foot off Anderson, gun still pointed at the man. “Go sit on the porch while we speak to your boss.” He looked at Chandler. “I haven’t met many retired psychiatrists who feel the need for a live-in bodyguard.”

Chandler shrugged. “Old age does not accommodate vanity well. With Anderson, I have someone here at all times without the humiliation of requiring a permanent nursemaid.”

“Which explains why you met us with guns,” I said.

“I’m an elderly man of some means, despite my modest living arrangements. It would not be the first time someone has sought to take advantage of that. I’m presuming, though, that breaking and entering isn’t your intent, unless you bring a lawyer in tow, should you be caught.” He pursed his lips. “That could be convenient.”

“We want to talk about Will Evans.”

He blinked, as if caught off guard.

“Dr. William Evans,” I said. “He was your—”

“Yes, yes, I know who you mean. I’m simply surprised because I haven’t heard that name in a very long time.”

“We know you worked for the CIA with Evans—on a classified Chicago-based branch of Operation Midnight Climax.”

“Ah. Let me guess your occupation then, my dear. Reporter. Or journalist, as I believe they prefer to be called these days. A young investigative reporter hoping to launch her career by unveiling a secret, sordid part of Chicago’s past. May I give you some advice? It’s been almost fifty years. No one cares. At best, you’d have a historical interest piece on the city pages. And, in return, you would make enemies you might prefer to avoid.”

I turned to Gabriel. “That sounded like a threat.”

“Noted.” His face was impassive, but a growl escaped in his voice.

I glanced back at Chandler. “How many reporters travel with their lawyers?”

He gave Gabriel another once-over. “I’m still trying to decide if you’re joking about that.”

“We’re not here to grill you on your activities with the CIA,” Gabriel said. “At the time, the general public might have taken a prurient interest in Ivy League academics whose forays into understanding human behavior included watching through peepholes in whorehouses. But today it seems more like the premise for a reality television show, and a dull one at that.”

“He does sound like a lawyer,” Chandler said to me. “Before we go further, then, may I know who I’m addressing?”

“I don’t believe that’s necessary,” Gabriel said.

Chandler sighed. “Definitely a lawyer.” He looked over at his bodyguard, sulking on a porch chair. “Take note, Anderson. Size and martial ability do not need to come with a correlating decrease in intelligence.” Back to us. “If you aren’t interested in these stories you’ve heard about Will Evans, what is your interest?”

“The fact that Dr. Evans worked for the CIA is a matter of public record,” Gabriel said. “It is also a matter of public record that he resigned to pursue private practice. However, we have reason to believe his leave-taking was not absolute.”

“That he continued with the CIA? He did not.”

“You sound very certain of that. I wasn’t aware the CIA was such a small agency.”

Annoyance flickered in Chandler’s expression. He covered it with a nonchalant shrug. “I knew Will very well at the time. If he’d returned to the CIA, I would have known it.”

“But you said that you have been out of touch for years.”

A tight smile. “Will may not be as old as I am, but he’s past retirement age. I doubt he would have returned to the CIA since we last spoke.”

“And if he had done so before that, he would have told you. Even if it was a classified project.”

“I’m sure he would have.”

“Perhaps.” Gabriel took a slow step forward, making the bodyguard tense. “But I think you’re telling the truth—that Evans did not return to the CIA. I think you know this with certainty because, as brilliant as he was, holding down three jobs was more than he could handle.”

“Three?”

“His new practice, the CIA, and his work for you.”

“My work was for the CIA—”

“Until 1982, when you quit to look after your own company. One that you began in 1970, and is the source of the income that requires you to hire a bodyguard.”

“I retired in 1982, young man, and I have no other business—”

“Bryson Pharmaceutical.”

“I invested in Bryson Pharmaceutical. I certainly do not own it. If you’ve found any evidence to suggest otherwise, you need to employ better researchers.”

Chandler gestured to his bodyguard. “Anderson? Please escort these young people off my property. If they persist in staying, I will have them know that I contacted the police before we came out, and they may wish to leave before the authorities arrive.” To Gabriel, “This sort of behavior could result in disbarment.”

“Hardly. It’s simple trespass, and as we came with the purpose of interviewing you for a case, our late timing is merely rude. I suspect I’m as well versed in how to avoid losing my license as you are in how to avoid being named as the owner of a pharmaceutical company.”

With that, Gabriel waved for me to lead the way and we left.

“Okay,” I said when we got into the car. “Did you forget to tell me that Edgar Chandler owns a pharmaceutical company? Or that it’s where you believe Evans went to work after he quit the CIA?”

He peeled from the curb. I twisted to peer into the night.

“I don’t see the cops, Gabriel. You can slow down.”

“I’m hardly concerned about the police. Chandler didn’t call them. I’m sure he did phone someone, but likely only to say to send reinforcements if he didn’t check back within the hour.”

“So why’d we leave?”

“Because I’d accomplished what I came for.”

“Dare I ask what that was? Because apparently I wasn’t privy to the grand plan.”

“I didn’t tell you about Chandler because I wanted to confront him myself. I’m better suited to such tactics.”

“If you mean physical intimidation, I’ll agree that’s your thing, not mine. But if you’d told me your reasoning, I’d have let you handle him.”

A pause, then a nod, as if this possibility hadn’t occurred to him.

“You’re going to be so glad when this is over and you can fly solo again, aren’t you?”

He made a noise, impossible to make out, but which I’m sure meant “Hell, yes.”

“On the topic of partnerships,” he said after a moment. “Thank you for covering me with Chandler. Almost allowing Anderson to get the drop on me was an inexcusable error. Had you not been there, I might have had quite a hole through me. Your reflexes are excellent.”

“Too many Dirty Harry movies. At least I didn’t dare him to make my day. So, what exactly did we just accomplish?”

“I confirmed, by his reaction, my suspicion about the drug company. I had no evidence on that.”

“So Evans quits the CIA, using his son’s birth as an excuse, and covertly works for Chandler’s drug company. Why the secrecy? What do they manufacture?”

“Nothing you could find on the shelves of your local pharmacy. Bryson Pharmaceutical is an export business. Their primary clients are foreign regimes with civil rights laws far laxer than ours.”

“Continuing the work from MKULTRA, not for the greater good but for profit.”

“Far more sensible, don’t you think?”

I shook my head and settled in for the long trip to Cainsville.