Eric Lustbader - Blood Trust

Instead of returning behind his desk, he led her to the far more informal seating area, which was comprised of an ultramodern sofa, two matching chairs, and a low coffee table made of a thick slab of white granite.

As they settled themselves, he said, “I assume, Ms. Wilde, that your visit concerns the death of one of my men, and the attack on two others.”

She nodded. “That’s right.”

He shook his head. “Well, then, I’m at a loss to understand the involvement of the Secret Service.”

“The prime suspect is the First Daughter.”

“Ah, Henry Holt Carson’s niece.”

“That’s right.”

His serious expression deepened. The frown made him look like a caricature of himself, as if he wasn’t used to frowning. “With all due respect, I find the notion that this young girl could have overpowered three of my men inconceivable.”

“Nevertheless, Mr. Gunn, that is very well what might have happened.”

He spread his hands. “Surely there must be another explanation.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I, but perhaps together we can find out.” She took out a small memo pad. “Mr. Carson came to you directly?”

“Yes, that’s right.” The phone rang, but Gunn ignored it. “Hank and I are old friends.”

“So you and Mr. Carson have done business before.”

“I said we’re friends.”

Naomi glanced up, trying to discern whether Gunn’s mood had changed. “Has he had occasion to avail himself of your services before?”

“Once.”

Only Naomi’s training allowed her to pick up on the minuscule hesitation. “And when was that?”

Gunn unfolded his lanky frame again and walked over to his desk. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Thanks, no.”

“We have our own barista.”

She laughed. “A double macchiato, then.”

“That’s the spirit!” Using the intercom, he ordered a double macchiato and triple espresso, then returned to the sitting area.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Naomi said.

“I’d rather not, Ms. Wilde.”

“And I’d rather not get a federal order, but I will,” she said. “I take this investigation very seriously.”

Gunn nodded in that grave way presidents of corporations sometimes do. Naomi often wondered whether they taught that at Wharton. The young man who had escorted her opened the door and, crossing the room, set down a tray with two small cups, and bowls of two different sugars and packets of Splenda.

“I appreciate your grit, Ms. Wilde.” Leaning over, he handed her a cup and saucer, then took a sip of his espresso.

Suddenly impatient, Naomi said, “Your friend Mr. Carson has pulled one of his many strings. I now report to him.”

“Ah. Well then.” Gunn sighed and, leaning back, stared up at the ceiling. “Hank called me about six years ago, maybe seven. He was unhappy with his then wife’s behavior.”

“She was cheating on him.”

“Sadly for her, as it turned out.”

Naomi put aside her macchiato and scribbled on her pad. “I didn’t think Fortress did PI work.”

“We don’t,” Gunn said. “Normally.”

“But Mr. Carson wanted a level of discretion only you could provide.”

He clapped his hands. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“And nothing after that incident until he hired you to guard Alli Carson.”

He took another sip, a deeper one this time, savoring the espresso in his mouth before swallowing. “That’s right.”

Naomi glanced up again. “Did Mr. Carson request specific personnel?”

Gunn lowered his cup and stared fixedly at her. “Hank doesn’t know my personnel.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Gunn, but I hardly think Mr. Carson would allow men to guard his niece without personally signing off on their dossiers.”

“Hank trusts me.”

The phone rang again, more insistently this time. Then the intercom buzzed.

“Excuse me a moment,” Gunn said.

He rose, went behind his desk, and picked up the phone. He spoke for several minutes in a tone so low Naomi could not hear a word. While he was occupied, she took a look around the office. It was spacious, but not the vast, palatial room she had been expecting. But then nothing about Andrew Gunn was what she had expected. He didn’t have the typical chip-on-the-shoulder attitude of his compatriots, the burning desire to bilk the federal government out of every possible dollar. Why not? After all, the Mint just printed up more greenbacks to pay the security firms’ exorbitant fees. No, Gunn was erudite, urbane, and charming, even while being secretive as hell. Though she had been expecting to dislike him, she found it impossible to do so. Still, while she had a moment she continued the deep drilling on the Web investigation she had begun while at the crime scene behind Henry Carson’s house.

When Gunn returned, sitting in precisely the same spot he had vacated, he smiled at her benignly. “Where were we?”

“I wonder,” Naomi said, putting aside her phone and taking up her cup, “whether Mr. Carson’s trust in you stems from the fact that you’re a major investor in his primary company, InterPublic Bancorp?”

MCKINSEY FOLLOWED Naomi all the way into the building housing Fortress Securities. He watched her step into the elevator, watched the numbers flicker until they stopped at Fortress’s floor. Then he entered the next car and took it up to the fourth floor. Turning left, he walked down the hallway, knocked on the fifth door on his right, even though there was a clearly marked button. Then he walked to the next door down, arriving just as a buzzer opened the door.

He entered a small, grubby anteroom stacked with cartons, some opened, some not. A cheap desk stood to the left. On it was a multiline corded telephone, a Rolodex, and a cup full of pencils. No one sat in the chair behind the desk, and, McKinsey knew, no one ever had.

Passing the desk, he went down a bare, narrow corridor that stank of wet shoes, burnt coffee, and stale sweat. There were all of three rooms, including a windowless kitchenette, where the burnt coffee stink was so palpable it became an entity unto itself. Crossing the threshold of the cubicle opposite, he came upon Willowicz sitting behind a green metal desk that looked like a castoff, and probably was. He was leaning back in an adjustable office chair, his brogue-shod feet, crossed at the ankles, up on the desk. Both shoes were severely run-down at the heel. Willowicz was talking on his cell phone.

“I don’t care what it takes,” he said. “Get it done and get it done now.”

He grinned at McKinsey, beckoning him in. “Laws? What laws?” he said into the phone. “I don’t give a shit about laws. If you do, you’re in the wrong business. If you like, I’ll bring in … No, I thought not.”

He severed the connection, said, “It’s the same all over, good help is scarcer than a toad with balls.” His grin widened. “How goes it on the inside?”

“Fine and dandy,” McKinsey said.

There was nothing at all on the dented metal of the desktop, save a small plaque in the center of which was a bronze bas relief of a Greek warrior’s helmet.

ELEVEN

GUNN REGARDED Naomi with a vaguely ironic smile. “It’s public knowledge that I’m an investor in InterPublic.”

Naomi didn’t like that smile. “A major investor.”

“What can I say? I have a facility for making money.”

“Uh-huh. And what other things have you and Mr. Carson cooked up?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Naomi shrugged. “Maybe InterPublic isn’t the extent of your dealings together. Maybe there are deals that aren’t public knowledge.”