“You’ve been in a mood since you ran in to your old friend at the gas station,” she said. “Is something on your mind?”
“It’s nothing to do with that,” he lied. “I’ve only been thinking about all the work I’ve got to do today.”
She studied his face. “That’s it, huh? Thinking about work?”
“That’s it. Work, work, work.”
Her brow crinkled. She counseled people for a living, and was alert to the signs of deception. Besides that, she’d known him intimately for a decade, probably could read his body language and moods as easily as a roadside billboard.
But he wasn’t prepared to talk with her about Leon any further. Not right then. Maybe not ever.
She combed her fingers through her hair, shrugged. “Fine, I’ll see you later, then. Have a good day, honey.”
“You, too.”
He reversed out of the driveway and took the smoothly winding road out of the subdivision. The community, quiet at that time of day, was full of homes like theirs: contemporary two-story residences with three-car garages, fussily manicured lawns, and expensive landscaping. The residents were mostly well-scrubbed, corporate-ladder-climbing types with young children and hybrid vehicles; many of the wives were stay-at-home moms who could be found supervising their kids on the neighborhood playground or swimming in the clubhouse pool.
They had moved in to their home seven years ago, faithfully paid their association dues, counted many of their neighbors as genuine friends, and participated in block parties and other community activities-but he suddenly felt as if he didn’t really belong there. As if he were a bad actor playing a role, and that if these people knew the truth about him, they would give him the boot.
A sour taste rising in his throat, he turned out of the subdivision.
Gates-Webb Security Services, LLC, was headquartered in an office building on a bustling length of road that featured dealerships for foreign luxury cars, strip malls, and fast-casual chain restaurants. Corey parked in the shade of a blooming dogwood, grabbed his briefcase off the backseat, and went inside, taking the lobby’s elevator to their reception area on the third floor, where they leased an office suite.
“Morning, Corey,” the receptionist said. A perpetually cheerful, silver-haired lady named Lynn, she sat at an oval mahogany desk, a telephone headset clipped to her ear. She handed him a sheaf of yellow note slips. “Lots of messages for you.”
“Thanks, Lynn. Would you mind holding my calls for an hour or so? I’d like to get caught up on a few things.”
“Sure thing, hon.” She cocked her head. “How’d the appointment go?”
For a moment, he had no idea what the hell she was talking about. Then it hit him-he’d told her about the procedure they were considering for Jada.
“We got the green light,” he said. “Surgery’s scheduled for the end of the month.”
“Good, good. Your little girl’s one smart cookie, I tell ya. She’s gonna zoom her way to some Ivy League school, you just wait and see.”
He smiled. “Let’s hope she does it on a full scholarship, or else we’ll have to take out a second mortgage.”
He strode down the carpeted corridor, past the clusters of cubicles. On an ordinary morning, he stopped and said hello to each of their twelve employees, but that morning he did not slow, though a couple of workers noticed him and waved. He returned the greetings, but kept moving.
Todd Gates, his partner, occupied the large corner office across the hall from Corey’s. Todd’s door was closed, and through the sidelight panel, Corey saw Todd speaking on the phone.
Corey went inside his office and shut the door. He tossed the messages onto his desk and dropped into the leather chair.
Normally, entering his workspace relaxed him. It was spacious and tastefully furnished. Cream carpeting, soft almond walls. Track lighting. Live potted plants Simone had picked out. His bachelor’s and MBA degrees, both from Georgia State University, and both framed, hanging on the wall, next to a laminated feature about Gates-Webb Security that had recently appeared in Entrepreneur magazine. Photographs of Jada and Simone gathered on the edge of his mahogany desk. A crayon drawing Jada had created for him was in a frame on the opposite edge of the desk, the picture a stick-figure representation of Corey in a shirt and tie and a heading that read, “Daddy, CEO” in her careful penmanship.
But as he looked around, he felt out of place there, too, a poseur.
He reminded himself that he’d worked hard to get this far. At the invitation of a family friend, he’d taken a bus to Atlanta with only a hundred dollars in his pocket and a battered suitcase full of clothes. He’d landed an entry-level job as a burglar alarm service technician at a large security company and worked his way up the ranks while going to college at night, eventually earning his MBA and launching his own business with his partner. For over a decade, sixty- and seventy-hour weeks had been de rigueur; vacations infrequent and short. No family connections had opened doors; no trust fund had provided cushioning. He’d earned what he had by the sweat of his brow and the occasional assistance of people kind enough to lend a helping hand.
In spite of all those things, that nagging feeling of being out of place lingered.
He booted up his notebook computer. The machine was linked via a wireless connection to the company network. As it proceeded through the start-up cycle, he methodically cracked his knuckles one finger at a time, a nervous habit of his that drove Simone nuts.
Although a full e-mail in-box surely awaited his attention, the first thing he did was open a Web browser. By default, the browser automatically accessed the Gates-Webb Security home page. He pulled up Google instead.
In the search field, he typed: Leon Sharpe.
He was honest enough with himself to know why he was feeling as if his life were out of joint. His encounter with Leon had freed troubling memories, recollections that made his current life seem like a farce, and he had to know what Leon had been doing since he’d last seen him. He desperately hoped to find nothing at all, or if anything, then something good, such as Leon having done something heroic and selfless like saving an infant from a burning apartment. He knew it was unlikely that he would find such a thing-but for some reason, it was important to him to look, to discover something that might somehow validate the path of his own life.
Google returned several dozen hits. He was expecting to find news stories that would describe how Leon had been convicted of numerous felonies over the years, how he had perhaps served time in a penitentiary or two. That was the Leon he knew. That was the Leon he expected to learn about.
He was not, however, expecting the top search result.
Heart thumping, he clicked on the link.
A page materialized.
“Oh, shit,” he whispered.
FBI TEN MOST WANTED FUGITIVE
UNLAWFUL FLIGHT TO AVOID PROSECUTION-FIRST DEGREE MURDER, ARMED ROBBERY
LEON SHARPE
Aliases: Leo Smith, Leonard Sharpe, Len Starks
DESCRIPTION
D.O.B.s Used: July 23, 1971; January 23, 1971Place of Birth: MichiganHeight:6’0”Weight:160 to 170 poundsBuild: SlenderOccupation: HousepainterHair: BlackEyes: BrownComplexion: DarkSex: MaleRace: BlackNationality: American
Scars and Marks: Prominent gap between front teeth. Several tattoos on forearms.
Remarks: Sharpe is an avid professional sports fan, and enjoys playground basketball. He has been known to frequent sports bars and is a heavy smoker. He has been known to alter his appearance through the use of disguises and has demonstrated a facility for faking a Jamaican accent.