Omens

Chapter Fifty-seven

We decided to drive to Fort Wayne, Indiana, to see Edgar Chandler, Evans’s former thesis adviser, and his boss during his years with the CIA.

“Does it do any good to suggest I drop you in Cainsville?” Gabriel asked.

“No.”

“May I find a hotel for you in Fort Wayne?”

“No.” I glanced over at his profile, dim in the gathering darkness. “Chandler is eighty-six years old. I’m not too worried.”

“He’s a former CIA agent in possession of potentially damaging information. Someone killed Joshua Gray, and while I’m not convinced the same someone killed Peter Evans and Jan Gunderson, I do believe Gray’s death is connected to what Peter told him.”

“But you don’t think Chandler himself killed Gray. That’s why you insisted on getting his contact information. Because he’s an old man and you plan to surprise him at night before he has a chance to retreat or get backup.”

“That doesn’t mean I think the excursion is without risk.”

A few more minutes in silence. Then he said, “I’m going to stop by my condo. I should change my clothing.”

“Sure. I wouldn’t mind a few minutes in a bathroom, if that’s okay. Past time to run a brush through my hair.”

A pause. A long one.

“Or if you don’t want me using your bathroom…”

“No, no. I was just thinking, we’re close to the highway. My apartment is out of the way. I don’t really need to change.”

“Go. I’ll stay in the car.”

He shook his head. “I’m fine. If we leave now, we’ll be there before midnight, which is preferable.”

So Gabriel didn’t want me seeing his apartment. Not the inside, at least, since he’d seemed willing to take me as far as the building, meaning he wasn’t secretly bankrupt and living in his Jag. Maybe the place was a mess. Hell, given how little I knew of Gabriel’s personal life, he could have a wife and kids there. I doubted it, but you never knew. None of my business, though I would have liked to clean up.

Edgar Chandler’s house was just outside the Fort Wayne city limits. It wasn’t easy to find, and it was past eleven before Gabriel located the long, dark drive with a dimly lit house at the distant end.

There was no way to “sneak” up that lane with the car, so he parked it a quarter mile away. I had my door open and feet on the ground before I realized he hadn’t turned off the ignition.

“I should have left you in Cainsville,” he said.

I sighed.

“If you were any other client, I would have come alone.”

“If I was any other client, I wouldn’t be investigating with you in the first place.”

“True. However…” He stared out into the night. “When I agreed to let you join me, I thought your enthusiasm would end with the first pointless interview. It didn’t. That impressed me and might have led me to allow and even encourage your participation when I should not have.” He nodded toward the distant house. “Case in point.”

“Because I’m the client, so you feel responsible for my safety.”

“If something were to happen to you on this investigation, I would feel … guilty.”

“I know the risks.”

“Do you?”

I met his gaze. “Yes. Maybe you should have left me in Cainsville, for your own peace of mind. But I’m here now and you know there’s no sense leaving me in the car because I won’t stay.”

More staring into the night, then without glancing over, he said, “Do you have your gun?”

“Of course. It’s in my purse.”

“Put it in your pocket.”

He opened the door and climbed out.

As we neared the lane, Gabriel caught my shoulder and pointed to the lampposts flanking the drive. The lights were turned off and I couldn’t see what was worrying him until he whispered “security cameras.” When I squinted, I made out pinpoints of red light just under the lanterns. I followed him across the lawn instead.

Edgar Chandler lived alone. He’d been married, but divorced his wife a half century ago. Two of his three children had predeceased him. The youngest lived in Tucson. Our research suggested Chandler employed a housekeeper/cook, but she lived in the city. He was a man who valued his privacy, even past the age when it was wise to live alone.

The porch lights had been left on, along with one interior light, which illuminated the drawn curtains on a huge bay window. The rest of the house was dark.

Before we reached the porch, Gabriel took out his cell. He would phone Chandler, tell him why we were here, and ask for ten minutes of his time. Yes, Chandler could call for backup, but it would take more than ten minutes for anyone to arrive.

Gabriel began to dial. Then his chin shot up, eyes narrowing.

“What—?”

I barely got the word out before a shadow lunged from the bushes behind Gabriel. I pulled out my gun and started to shout a warning, but Gabriel had the guy on the ground before I could.

I swung my gun behind me. I don’t know why. It was as if I’d heard something and reacted before I could process the sound. And on the other end of the barrel? An old man in a housecoat, with a gun aimed at Gabriel.

“Drop the gun now!” I barked.

When he didn’t move, I fired into the roses beside him.

“I said, drop it!”

“Oh my,” he said. There was no panic in his voice. No fear. “I do believe you mean it. I’m putting my weapon on the ground.”

He laid the gun on the porch slowly, as if the movement took effort. I readjusted my grip on the weapon, but my hands were dry and steady. Shock, I think, more than nerves of steel. I probably looked a little ridiculous, poised there like a badass movie cop. No one was laughing, though. Not the old man, straightening now. Not the big guy lying facedown in the grass, his own weapon pointed at the back of his head, a foot on his back. And not the bigger guy pointing that weapon at him.

“Now kick the gun over to me,” I said to the old man.

“My dear, I’m eighty-six years old. I cannot ‘kick’ anything without landing on my posterior and breaking a hip.”

“Back away then.”

He did. I retrieved the gun. It was a monster—at least .45 caliber. Even I’d fall on my ass if I fired it. I handed the gun to Gabriel and got a curt nod.

“You can consider yourself fired, Anderson,” Chandler said to the man on the ground. “I can’t have a bodyguard who gets himself thrown ambushing a trespasser.”

“I told ya I wanted to get a better look at them first,” the man whined. “I couldn’t see nothing in the dark.”

Chandler turned to me. “As we are now disarmed, I’ll ask that your bodyguard releases mine, and allows him to regain some semblance of dignity before I send him slinking into the night.”

“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.