Time to Live: Part Five (10 page)

Ethan scowled. “Why would someone do that for me?”

Culligan matched the angle of the kid’s head exactly. “Well, if it’s important, and you really need to know, she won’t do it for you. She’ll do it for me.”

“Why?”

Culligan waited for it.

“Oh. You two are . . . friends.”

Culligan let it go. “So, are we good? You’ll talk with Doctor Wendy when she shows up?”

A shrug, the ultimate gesture of noncommitment. “Sure.”

“Good. One last thing. The Commonwealth is likely to send a shrink of their own to evaluate you. Don’t know who it’s going to be, but whoever it is, they’ll give you some line about being on your side, and about being off the record, but don’t believe it.”

“The cops can lie to me in here and it’ll stand up in court?”

“Absolutely,” Culligan said. “Cops, guards, lawyers, psychologists, every one of them can lie, and everything you say will still be held against you.” He felt a pang of guilt and backed up a little. “Well, okay, the prosecution’s psychologist won’t reveal the specific things you say, but what they will do is report to the court whether or not, in their professional opinion, you are competent to stand trial.” He leaned in closer. “Hint: Everybody is always competent to stand trial in their eyes. And then that shrink will work with the prosecution on ways to counter everything and anything we try to put together for your defense.”

“So, what am I supposed to say?”

“You answer the questions that anyone else would answer, but if the shrink starts sniffing around the details of your past, or the kidnapping you allege, I need you to lock up and tell them you want to see your lawyer before you answer any questions.”

“And they’ll do that?”

“Yes. Well, they might sniff around your answer a couple of times, but once you invoke your right to speak to your lawyer, they’ll stop.”

“But you said they can lie.”

“Not about this.” Culligan smiled. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “It gets confusing.”

* * *

Jonathan Grave loved his office atop the converted firehouse in Fisherman’s Cove, Virginia. Featuring dark woods and leather furniture, it had the feel and the look of a gentlemen’s club. The windows looked out on the marina, where the masts of pleasure boats seemed to be engaged in a slow-motion sword fight. Down to the right, maybe four blocks from the front door, crews of commercial fishing vessels and dock workers toiled to keep the residents of Virginia’s Northern Neck—and parts beyond—stocked with seafood. Jonathan wished sometimes that he was more of a boat person than he was. It seemed wasteful to possess such a view yet enjoy so little of the activities. He found peace in the rhythms of the waves and the masts and in the foreverness of the horizon.

Much as he enjoyed the view of the world through the windows behind him, he desperately hated the view of the piles of papers that cluttered his desk. As president of Security Solutions, a major player in the world of high-end private investigations, he had to stay at least reasonably versed in the various ongoing investigations, and he most certainly had to sign all the checks, though even that was something of a formality.

While most of the administrative matters were handled by Venice Alexander, and most of the standard investigatory issues were expertly managed by Gail Bonneville—his one-time nemesis and subsequent lover (until they broke up—no awkwardness there!)— Jonathan had learned from his father a long time ago that one should never cede control of one’s money to a third party. It was one thing to write the checks—any bookkeeper could do that—but it was something else entirely to sign them. He kept that duty for himself.

And there were
a lot
of checks to be signed. Between the 0300 mission to rescue the Johnson girl, and an op right before that to separate a Mexican banker from some mean-spirited drug lords, he’d been away from the office for ten days, and he was shocked by the speed with which administrivia could stack. The good news was that Venice and Gail both had arranged their respective stacks of paper more or less in the order of their importance.

Security Solutions was in every sense a legitimate private investigation firm, providing confidential services to some of the world’s most recognizable companies, none of which knew anything about the covert side of the business which interested Jonathan infinitely more. The firm’s name was not well known to the private investigations industry, but it was known among the quarters where it mattered. Security Solutions specialized in obtaining the most sensitive kinds of information through means that were always successful and rarely discussed. That meant the kinds of fees that allowed him to pay his employees very, very well.

Jonathan’s office resided in a corner suite that he called The Cave. He shared the space with Venice and Boxers, the latter of whom rarely spent much time in the office. Of everyone on the payroll, Boxers was the most . . . action-oriented.

A light rapping on his open office door pulled his eyes from his papers, happy for some relief. Venice stood in the doorway with Dom D’Angelo. “Have you got a minute?” Venice asked.

He didn’t like the expression on her face. “What’s wrong?”

“We need to talk,” Dom said.

“Uh-oh.” Jonathan had known Venice since he was a teenager and she was a little girl with a crush. Her mother—Mama Alexander—had officially been Jonathan’s family housekeeper, but in reality became Jonathan’s surrogate mother after his own mom died when he was very young. He’d known Venice long enough to translate her facial expressions into emotions, and she was upset. Dom had been Jonathan’s roommate through college, and close friend ever since.

They started for the guest chairs in front of his desk, but he stood and diverted them to the conversation group in front of the fireplace. “Let’s get comfortable,” he said. “My back’s beginning to ache anyway.” That’s what happened when you spent a career jumping out of perfectly good airplanes. His chair of choice was a wooden Hitchcock rocker marked with the Seal of the College of William and Mary in Virginia, his and Dom’s alma mater. He swung it around a few degrees so he could face them as they sat next to each other on the green leather love seat.

“Who died?” Jonathan asked. Sometimes, the quickest, most merciful way to the point was to steal the punchline.

They seemed startled. “No one,” Venice said. “It’s not like that.”

“Well, sort of,” Dom corrected. As was his habit when off duty, Dom wore a regular collared shirt and jeans.

“Someone is sort of dead?”

“I mean that’s not the point,” Venice said.

“Then how ’bout you get to the point,” Jonathan said.

“Do you remember Ethan Falk?” Venice asked.

Jonathan looked to Dom and scowled. “Why does that name ring such a loud bell?”

“He was the precious cargo on a rescue mission about ten, eleven years ago.”

Jonathan winced, feeling busted. He’d made it a point over the years not to think much about the people he rescued. They were all just PCs—precious cargo—the points of the missions for which he would risk his life. To get too close was to lose perspective, and getting distracted was the surest way to come home dead.

“James Stepahin,” Dom said.

And that did it. Jonathan rarely forgot a bad guy. “Kid-toucher, right? Sold boys into slavery?”

“That’s the guy,” Dom confirmed.

“And Ethan was the PC we snatched.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay. What about him?”

“James Stepahin was killed yesterday,” Venice explained.

“Good,” Jonathan said. The details of the operation were coming back to him. “He and his buddies were sick sons of bitches. I think we toasted one of them and one got away. That was Stepahin, right?”

“Two were killed and one got away,” Venice corrected. Jonathan knew that she had just pulled that detail from memory.

“So, why the long faces? Where’s the Champagne?” Jonathan shot an uncomfortable glance toward Dom. “Meaning no disrespect, but I think we can agree that Stepahin won’t be impacting Saint Peter’s day.”

“This is where Ethan Falk comes in,” Venice said. “He’s the one who killed him.”

Jonathan laughed. “Really? Well, good for him. Justice the way it’s supposed to be done.”

“The kid is being charged with murder,” Dom said.

Something snagged in Jonathan’s gut. He said nothing, choosing instead for them to play the rest of their hand.

“He’s trying to claim self-defense,” Venice explained. “He told the police about his kidnapping and his rescue, but no one’s listening.”

Jonathan brought both hands to his head and pulled his hair back from his forehead. “Because there’s no record,” he said.

The others nodded in unison.

“Well, shit,” Jonathan said