True Evil (50 page)

When the doors opened, he smelled sawdust. Several walls had been knocked out on this floor, where a remodel was in progress. Hoping to find some privacy, he marched Thora down the hall, but a guy with a ponytail was patching drywall in the area he'd hoped to use. Looking around, Rusk saw that Ponytail was the only workman in the area. He dug out his wallet, handed a C-note to the workman, and said he needed twenty minutes with the lady. Ponytail grinned and headed for the elevator.

Rusk walked over exposed concrete to a tall window, then turned and spoke to Thora with all the pent-up frustration of the past hours.

"What the hell has gotten into you, lady? Have you lost what little mind you have?"

"Fuck you!"
Thora shouted, shaking her forefinger in his face. "You told me this was safe! You told me nothing could go wrong. You remember that, you cocky bastard? But something
has
gone wrong. Chris knows everything!"

"That's impossible."

Her eyes blazed. "You think so? He
called
me, you stupid prick. He said, ‘I might be dead in a year, but you're dead, too.' He also said I'd never see Ben again, because I'd be in prison. How does that make you feel, Andy? Does that wipe the smirk off your face?"

Rusk tried not to show how deeply her words had disturbed him.

"You have to call it off," Thora insisted. "That's the only option."

He started to explain why he couldn't do that, then stopped himself. He couldn't tell this woman that he had zero control over Eldon Tarver. "You're right," he said. "Of course we'll stop it."

She burst into tears. "I can't believe this. Any of it. What am I going to do? What can I possibly tell Chris?"

"Nothing." Rusk stepped closer to her. "He can't prove anything. He's getting all this from an FBI agent who's already been fired. It's going to be okay, Thora."

"You think I believe that? What the hell do you know about marriage, anyway?"

A lot more than most people,
Rusk thought wearily.

"I have to tell him something!"

Rusk shook his head with deliberation. "You're not going to tell him anything. You're not going to tell anyone anything."

Thora's despair reverted to fury in a heartbeat. "Don't tell me what I'm going to do! I'll do whatever the hell I decide to do. I was crazy ever to listen to you."

"That's not what you said after Red Simmons died and made you a multimillionaire."

She looked like she wanted to cut his throat. "That's ancient history. We're talking about Chris now. Listen to me. I'm telling you to call whatever scumbag does this stuff for you and cancel my contract. Right now! You're not going to get another cent from me anyway."

Rusk grabbed her arms and let her glimpse the fear behind his eyes. "Before you start making threats, you should know a couple of things. First, you can't hurt me without hurting yourself. But that's really not the point. The person who handles these jobs is an extremely dangerous man. He has no conscience as you know it, no compassion. You should think of him as a very efficient machine. And if you upset that machine by doing something as insane as refusing to pay his fee, you will incur his wrath. Now…" Rusk tried to get hold of himself. "If your husband really suspects the truth, I'll do what I can to stop what's been set in motion. But
you
will do nothing. If my partner had witnessed your behavior today, you would already be dead. No one would ever find your body, Thora. The only mother Ben would ever know would be the next woman Chris marries."

She stared wildly at him, seemingly torn between the tangible fear of having her sins discovered and the theoretical fear of being murdered herself.

"When you look at me," Rusk said softly, "don't see me—see
him.
Do that, and you just might live through this."

Thora's eyes jinked back and forth like a strung-out addict's. But after a time, she started blinking like a woman coming out of a seizure. "What am I supposed to do?" she whimpered. "Where can I
go
?"

"You can stay in my office for now. But you can't say one word about any of this within those walls. My office may be bugged. Break that rule, and I'll hand you over to my partner. Are we clear?"

Thora wiped her mascara-stained cheeks. "I don't want to stay here. I want to see my son."

"You can't. Not yet."

"Bullshit! I haven't broken any law."

Rusk gasped in amazement. "You hired someone to kill your husband!
Twice!
"

She laughed like a child discovering a lie that would get her out of trouble with her parents. "I consulted a divorce lawyer. No one can prove I did anything else."

"You've already paid me a million dollars!"

Cool arrogance descended like a curtain over her eyes. "I followed the investment advice you gave me. That put a million dollars under your control. If anyone looks at that deal, it'll look like you stole the money. Stole it and bought rough diamonds."

Rusk was speechless.

"You're like every other goddamn contractor I deal with, Andrew. It's easy to guarantee your work. What's tough is
honoring
your guarantee."

He looked past her to make sure that Ponytail hadn't returned. If anyone heard this conversation…

"Now," Thora said, her voice utterly composed, "I'm going to ride downstairs and go back to my old life.
You
are going to make sure that nothing happens to my husband. But if something should—or if even one policeman rings my doorbell—I will hang your ass out to dry, Andrew. Are we clear?"

Rusk's mind was spinning. This woman had no clue to the reality of the situation. There was no going back to her previous life—not for her or anyone else. Thora Shepard was one of those beauties who had slid through life without any mud sticking to her, no matter what sins she committed. She thought she could do the same thing now. But sooner or later—probably sooner, given the escalation of surveillance by the FBI—someone would lock her in a small room and turn up the heat. And she would crack like a china doll.

"You need to see something," he said.
You delusional bitch,
he added silently. He stepped around a pile of Sheetrock lying across three sawhorses. "Let me show you why you can't just go back to your old life." He nodded toward the window, then offered to escort her with his arm. She looked contemptuously at the arm, but she did walk to the window.

"Do you see those men down there?" he asked, stepping over Ponytail's toolbox.

"Where?"

"There, on the corner. And on the steps across the street. See him?"

Thora splayed her hands on the window. "The guy reading the newspaper?"

"Yep. FBI. The woman, too. The jogger."

Thora's mouth opened. "How do you know?"

Rusk looked over his shoulder, back through the metal studs of the new office. "I have contacts at the Bureau."

"But why are they here? How much do they know?"

"I don't know yet. Do you see any other likely agents?"

As Thora stood on tiptoe, he bent and lifted a claw hammer out of Ponytail's toolbox. Something shifted in the box as he rose, and Thora turned at the sound, but by then Rusk was already swinging. The head of the hammer smashed through her skull above the ear, deeply enough that he had to yank hard to free it. She tottered on her feet, then fell, blindly trying to shield her face. With all the repressed terror of being caught coursing through his arm, Rusk swung the hammer as though chopping firewood. This spoiled bitch had threatened everything he'd worked five years to build…but had he backed off and called for help? No. He'd stepped up to the fucking plate. Never again would Eldon Tarver see him as a gutless middleman afraid to get his hands dirty. Rusk stopped swinging and stood over the bloody corpse, breathing the way he had on that first day at base camp on Everest. Never had he felt such elemental power. He only wished his father were here to see it.

Will was waiting for Alex when she arrived at the park behind the Governor's Mansion. She got out of the Corolla, locked it, and climbed into the passenger seat of his Explorer.

"What's the deal with this clinic?" Will asked.

"It's owned by a doctor from UMC. Eldon Tarver. I got a funny feeling when I talked to him."

Will's eyes crinkled with interest. "What kind of feeling?"

"You know what kind."

"I gotcha."

"Tarver's wife died of cancer years ago, and he inherited a lot of money. He opened up this place in memory of her. He treats a lot of poor people for AIDS, herpes, stuff like that. But I think he might be doing more. He's a cancer specialist, and this would be a perfect front for him. He could give those patients any kind of virus or toxin he wanted to, then monitor them when they come back for free medicine."

"A freako, then."

"Maybe." Alex bit her bottom lip. "Or maybe he's just a Good Samaritan."

Will barked a mocking laugh. "Haven't met too many of those in my time. They may look like angels, but they're usually getting something out of what they're doing, some way or other."

"We're about to find out, I hope. Let's go."

Will put the Explorer in gear and started driving. "I wish I knew what kind of car he drives."

"Kaiser should be able to tell us soon. I already gave him Tarver's name."

"I'll do my own check, just in case. Nothing against the FBI, you understand. Spell the name."

Alex did.

"Got it," said Will, jotting in the small notebook he carried at all times. "Hey, where's Dr. Shepard?"

"The Cabot Lodge."

Kilmer's eyes asked a silent question.

She laid her hand on the detective's arm. "He's sick, Will. Bad. But it's not your fault, okay?"

"Bullshit, it ain't. Goddamn it. Sleeping at my post. They used to shoot us for that."

"You were drugged. All three of you. Now, let go of that and get your mind on the game. I need you."

Will rubbed his wrinkled face between both hands and sighed. "You taking your piece in with you?"

She shook her head. "Not this time."

"Shit." Will reached into the glove box and brought out a short-barreled .357 magnum. "I'm gonna be close, then."

"That's where I like you, partner."

The renovated Pullo's restaurant possessed little of its former personality. The only things Alex recognized were some curiously shaped light fixtures hanging above where the old buffet used to stand. Apart from these, the building had been gutted.

Just inside the door sat a receptionist, her coffee-colored elbows resting on a scarred metal desk. To her right was a large group of chairs, several of which were occupied by emaciated men who smelled of alcohol, cigarettes, and body odor. A narrow corridor led deeper into the building, but Alex learned nothing by glancing down it. An opaque window looked onto the waiting room from the back wall, and Alex got the feeling it was used to covertly study the patients.

"Can I help you?" asked the receptionist.

"I hope so. I was just speaking to Dr. Tarver over at the medical center. He asked me something I didn't know the answer to, but now I've found out for him. I wanted to tell him in person."

The receptionist eyed Alex up and down, trying to read her. Well-dressed Caucasian women were clearly not usual visitors at the clinic.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Alexandra Morse."

"Well, the doctor's not here. But let me go back and talk to somebody. He may be coming in soon."

"Thank you. I'd appreciate it."

The woman got up as though she were doing Alex a huge favor and walked slowly down the corridor. Alex stepped closer to the desk and read everything she could off its surface. There were bills addressed to the Tarver Free Clinic, and one to Eldon Tarver, MD. A half-hidden magazine lay open under the appointment book:
Jet.
Written on a lined pad in an almost illegible scrawl were the words
Entergy bill late—Noel D. Traver, DVM.
Beneath this was a number:
09365974.
Alex was memorizing the number when the receptionist returned.

"He ain't coming in today," she said, giving Alex a territorial glare.

"Not at all?"

"That's what I said."

The receptionist sat down and opened her magazine, as though she had done her duty and now intended to forget that Alex existed. Alex started to ask her to take a message, then thought better of it. Turning to leave, Alex almost bumped into a man wearing what had to be a $2,000 business suit.

"Excuse me," she said. "I'm sorry."

The newcomer had close-cropped gray hair and steel-blue eyes. His face triggered something in her mind. But what? He reminded her of some senior Bureau agents who had entered the FBI after leaving the army CID or the navy JAG corps.

"Not a problem, miss," the man said with the slightest of smiles.

He stepped wide for her to pass, and Alex did, despite a desire to ask what the hell the guy was doing in a dump like this. Maybe he thought it was still a restaurant. In its heyday, Pullo's had drawn some very rich men for breakfast.

Outside, Alex looked back and saw the stranger in conversation with the receptionist. He seemed to be having about as much luck as she had. Scanning the street for Will, she walked past a dark sedan that had parked in front of the clinic, then strode down to Will's Explorer and got into the passenger seat. A moment later, Will climbed behind the wheel.

"Any luck?" he asked.

"Nothing good."

He nodded. "You see that guy who just went in?"

"Yeah. You know him?"

"I know his type. Soldier."

"That's the vibe I got, too."

"Good girl. And check this out." Will pulled into the street and let the Explorer idle forward. With the slightest inclination of his head, he prompted Alex to look to her left. When she did, she saw a young man wearing an army uniform sitting behind the wheel of the sedan she had just walked past. She registered sergeant's stripes on his shoulder, and then they were past him.

"He drove the sharp-dressed guy here?"

"Yep. Did you see the door?"