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  all a concoction of lies. Thankfully, Michelle agreed to admit herself. She also signed a release that allowed Sean to be informed of her treatment and progress. Now all Horatio Barnes had to do was work his mental magic.

  “But don’t expect miracles overnight,” the psychologist told Sean the next day at a coffee shop. “These things take time. And she has a fragile personality.”

  “She never struck me as being fragile.”

  “On the outside, no. On the inside, I believe it’s a whole different dynamic going on. She’s a classic overachiever with clear obsessive instincts. She told me she used to work out for hours every day. Is that true?”

  Sean nodded. “An annoying habit, but one that I actually miss seeing right now.”

  “Is she also obsessively neat? She wouldn’t really address that question.”

  Sean almost spit out the coffee he had just put in his mouth. “You wouldn’t need to ask that question if you’d ever seen the inside of her truck. She’s the world’s biggest slob and she never saw a pile of junk she couldn’t add something to.”

  “And she’s the youngest of five and the only daughter?”

  Sean nodded. “And her dad was a chief of police in Tennessee and her brothers are all cops.”

  “That’s a lot to live up to, Sean. Maybe too much. If I were in that family I would’ve been busted about twenty times before I graduated from college.”

  Sean smiled. “A felony machine, were you?”

  “Hey, man, it was the Sixties. Everybody under thirty was a felony machine.”

  “I haven’t contacted her parents yet. I didn’t want them to know about this.”

  “Where are they?”

  Sean said, “Her mom and dad are in Hawaii on a second honeymoon. I did talk to her oldest brother, Bill Maxwell. He’s a state trooper in Florida. I told him some of what happened. He wanted to come up, but I told him to hold off.” Sean asked bluntly, “Is she going to get better?”

  “I know what you want to hear, but it’s really up to the lady.”

  Later that day, Sean visited Michelle in her room at the facility. She was dressed in a pair of jeans, sneakers and a floppy sweatshirt with her hair pulled straight back in a ponytail.

  He sat in a chair across from her and took her hand. “You’re going to get better. You’re in the right place to get better.”

  He might have been mistaken but he thought she’d gripped his hand in response. He immediately squeezed back.

  That evening Sean went to an ATM and almost laughed at the insignificant amount in his account. Even the initial private clinic bills were overwhelming and unfortunately not covered by Michelle’s insurance. He’d already dug money out of a retirement account and cashed in an old insurance policy but he hadn’t worked a day since Michelle had gotten hurt and now things were at a crisis point.

  He tried every contact he had but no one had anything of substance to throw his way. The most lucrative investigative work opportunities in D.C. all required high-level security clearances that Sean had once possessed but no longer did. And getting new ones was a time-consuming process. He notched his belt tighter and kept making calls and knocking on doors.

  Finally, out of options, he decided to do something he’d told himself he never would do. He called Joan Dillinger, an ex–Secret Service agent and now a vice president in a big private investigation firm. She was also, unfortunately, his ex-lover.

  Joan took his call and said, “Absolutely, Sean. Let’s have lunch tomorrow. I’m sure I can find something that you and I can do together.”

  He hung up the phone and stared out the window of the crummy motel room he could no longer afford. “I was afraid she was going to say that,” he muttered.

  CHAPTER

  7

  THE WOMAN LOOKED GOOD, Sean had to admit. Good and lethal. Hair and makeup were immaculate. Dress short and tight, heels high and thin yet lifting her petite frame only up to within eight inches of his six-two. Her legs were slender and firm, her chest large but soft and all her own, he knew from experience. Yes, she looked good, actually better than good, terrific, in fact. And he felt absolutely nothing for her.

  Joan Dillinger seemed to sense this and quickly motioned him to sit down on a couch. She sat in a chair beside him and poured out coffee.

  “Long time, no see,” she said pleasantly. “Catch any more mass murderers?”

  “Not this week,” he said, attempting a smile as he spooned sugar in his coffee.

  “How’s that obnoxious little girl you hooked up with? Mildred, was it?”

  “Her name’s Michelle,” he answered. “And she’s fine. Thanks for asking.”

  “And you two are still working together?”

  “We are.”

  “Wow, she’s really good with the cloak-and-dagger thing, because I can’t even see her.”

  Now Sean became suspicious. Had Joan found out about what had happened to Michelle? That would certainly have been in keeping with her control freak personality.

  He said casually, “She’s busy today. As I said on the phone, we just moved back into town, and I was wondering if you had anything you might want to throw our way on a freelance basis.”

  Joan put down her coffee, rose and started walking around the room. Sean didn’t know quite why she did this, but it might have been simply to show off her body some more. A usually complex woman, Joan Dillinger could be oddly transparent when it came to things like sex and personal relationships. In fact, he strongly suspected she used the former in substitution for the latter.

  “So let me get this straight. You want me to throw you some work on a freelance basis although I have a whole company of seasoned investigators to do any assignment that comes in the door? And I haven’t heard from you, in what, over a year?”

  “It just seemed better to keep our distance.”

  Her features hardened. “You’re not making it easy for me to help you here, Sean.”

  “If you didn’t have anything, why meet with me?”

  She perched on her desk and crossed her legs. “I don’t know. Maybe I just like looking at you.”

  He stood and came over to her. “Joan, I really need some work. If you don’t have any to toss my way, fine. I won’t take up any more of your valuable time.” Sean set his coffee down and turned to leave. Only then did Joan seize his arm.

  “Just hold on, big boy. You have to let a girl have her pout. It’s only fair.” Joan sat down behind her desk, all business now as she slid a legal agreement across to him. “Take a few minutes to read this. I know you’re a lawyer after all.”

  “What’s the compensation?”

  “Standard rates for this type of work, a reasonable per diem for expenses and a nice bonus if you crack it.” She ran her gaze over him. “You look like you’ve lost weight.”

  “I’ve been on a diet,” he said absently as he read through the contract. He signed the agreement and slid it back to her. “Can I see the file now?”

  “How about I buy you lunch and we can discuss it? I have some ideas and you have a few other documents to sign. Your partner will have to do the same thing.”

  Sean tensed. “Well, the thing is, she won’t be working with me on this one.”

  Joan tapped a pen against her blotter. “Tied up on something else, is old Mildred?”

  “Yeah, Michelle is.”

  Over lunch at Morton’s Steakhouse, they discussed the case, though Sean focused quite a bit on his meal.

  “Off the diet, are we?” she said, eying his impassioned stabs with the fork.

  He laughed shamefacedly. “Guess I was hungrier than I thought.”

  “If that were only true,” she replied sardonically. “Okay, here’s the case. And it might turn out to be a challenging one. A suspicious death. Man by the name of Monk Turing. He was found on property owned by the CIA near Williamsburg, Virginia. Either a murder or a suicide. You have to find out which, why and, if it was a murder, the all-important who.”


  “Turing worked for the CIA?”

  “No. Ever heard of a place called Babbage Town?”

  He shook his head. “What is it?”

  “It’s been described to me as a sort of quasi–think tank with potentially enormous commercial applications. That’s where Turing worked as a physicist. With the CIA involved and the FBI investigating the homicide because it took place on federal property it’ll take some delicate handling. I have some veterans here I could send down, but I’m not sure any of them are as good as you.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. So who’s our client?”

  “The people at Babbage Town.”

  “And who are they?”

  “You’ll have to find that out too. If you can. You game?”

  “You mentioned a bonus?”

  She smiled and patted his hand. “As in cash or professional services?”

  “Let’s start with the cash.”

  “Our policy is to split the bonus with the principal field agents on a sixty-forty basis.” She cocked her head. “You remember from last time, Sean. Only you refused to take any of the money you were so clearly entitled to and let me keep it all. I never really understood why you did that.”

  “Let’s just say I believed it was safer for both of us. And I thought you were going to use that cash to retire?”

  “Alas, my spending got a little out of control. So I’m still on the treadmill.”

  “So if we solve this how much am I looking at?”

  “That gets complicated because it’s based on certain formulas. But suffice it to say, it’ll be a big nut.” Her gaze ran over him. “You won’t be nearly so thin, I imagine.”

  Sean sat back and took another bite of his mashed potatoes.

  “So, are you interested?” she asked.

  He picked up the bulky file. “Thanks for lunch. And thanks for the work.”

  “I’ll make arrangements for you to go down there. Say in a couple of days?”

  “Fine. I’ll need some time to get stuff in order.”

  “Like saying goodbye to Mildred?”

  Before he could respond she slid an envelope across to him. He looked at her questioningly. “An advance on your expense money. I figured you might need it.”

  He looked at the check before sliding it in his pocket. “I owe you, Joan.”

  “I hope you mean that,” she said to herself as he walked off.

  CHAPTER

  8

  MICHELLE STUDIED THE DOORKNOB of the room she was in, waiting for it to turn, revealing another person who wanted to ask her questions. Every day here was like the one before it. Breakfast, shrink time, lunch, exercise time, then more psychobabble, an hour to herself, then more shrink interaction centered around mastering her emotions, tempering her inner violent core that threatened to destroy her. Then came dinner, a couple of pills if she desired them, which she usually didn’t, and then bed, where she could dream about the next day of this living hell.

  When the knob didn’t budge she slowly rose from her chair and her gaze bounced off all four windowless, brightly painted walls. She rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet and took deep breaths, testing the healing stage of her ribs.

  Michelle hadn’t thought much about that night in the bar. She’d gone there to drink and forget. And then, drunk, she had done her best to kill a man. Well, not her best. Somewhere deep in her mind had she wanted to be hurt, perhaps to die? No, Michelle could not admit that. And yet if that was her intent, she apparently couldn’t even kill herself properly. How did one even chart that level of ineptitude?

  She spun around when the door opened and Horatio Barnes walked in, dressed in his usual faded jeans, sneakers and black T-shirt with a silkscreen of Hendrix on the front smoking the frets. She’d seen him several times since she’d come here, but their conversations had all been general. She had come to think the man was not very smart, or else didn’t really care whether she got better or not. Do I even care?

  He was clutching a tape recorder, and asked Michelle to sit. And she did. She always did what they asked. What else was there to do?

  Horatio sat down across from her and held up the recorder. “Do you mind? I’m afraid dementia’s setting in. I’m lucky I remember where my front door is or I’d never get out anymore.”

  Michelle shrugged. “I don’t care, record away.”

  Horatio took this rebuke in good spirits, turned on the recorder and set it on the table beside her. “And how are we doing today?”

  “We are super. How are you doing today, Dr. Barnes?” Michelle added in a dead-on impression of the man.

  The psychologist smiled. “Just make it Horatio. My old man was the Dr. Barnes in the family.”

  “What kind of a doctor was he?”

  “He was chief of medicine at Harvard Medical School. Dr. Stephen Cawley Barnes. That’s why he was ticked I always called him Stevie.”

  “How come you’re not an M.D.?”

  “My father wanted me to become one. Had my whole life planned out for me. He named me Horatio after some distant relative of ours from colonial times because he thought it would give my life historical weight. Can you believe that? Do you know the shit I took about my name? In high school I was either called ‘whore’ or ‘rat’ just because my old man was an elitist snob. So I went to Yale and became a shrink.”

  “Quite a rebel, were you?”

  “Go big or go home. I see from your chart that you didn’t have a restful night.”

  Michelle took this abrupt segue in stride. “I wasn’t sleepy.”

  “Nightmares apparently,” Horatio said. “They finally had to wake you up.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Well that’s why I’m here. To help you remember.”

  “And why would I want to remember a nightmare?”

  “I find I do my best soul-searching smack in the middle of some kick-ass nightmare.”

  “And if I don’t want to know? Does that count?”

  “Sure. Do you want to know?”

  “Not really.”

  “Gotcha. I’ve mentally checked the nightmare off-limits box. I also see that you asked Dr. Reynolds if he was getting laid enough at home. Mind telling me why you did that?”

  “Because he kept trying to look up my gown every time I crossed my legs. You’ll notice I’m wearing pants now.”

  “Lucky me. Okay, let’s talk about why you went to that bar.”

  “Didn’t we already discuss this?”

  “Humor me. I have to justify my enormous salary somehow.”

  “I went there for a drink. Why do you go to bars?”

  “Let’s just say I have barstools retired in my honor in eleven different states.”

  “Well,” said Michelle, “I went for a drink.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then I got in a bar fight and got my ass kicked. That cover it for you?”

  “And you’d been to that bar before?”

  “No. I like to try new spots. I’m what you’d call daring.”

  “I am too, but picking a bar in the middle of the highest crime area in the District of Columbia at eleven-thirty at night? Think that was a wise choice?”

  She smiled and said politely, “Didn’t turn out to be, did it?”