He lied to you.”
Tom VanAllen made a motion with his shoulder that could have been either a shrug of indifference or of concession. “Not outrightly.”
“He deliberately misled you,” Janice said. “What would you call it?”
He would call it lying. But he didn’t want to use that term with Janice to describe how Hamilton had manipulated him. Essentially, he was defending Hamilton’s manipulation, and he hated himself for it. But to admit how gullible he’d been would make him look even more ridiculous to his wife.
He’d come home to help her with Lanny, who’d kept them up most of the night moaning. It was a distress signal they knew well. Those pitiable sounds were his only means of communicating that something was wrong. Sore throat? Earache? Muscle cramp? Headache? He wasn’t running a fever. They checked him daily for bedsores. Because they didn’t know why he was suffering, they couldn’t do anything to relieve it, and, as parents, that was torture.
Maybe he’d only been afraid, and their presence at his bedside had comforted him, because eventually he’d fallen asleep. But it had been a rough night. That, coupled with Tom’s professional crisis, was making both of them feel particularly whipped today.
After tending to Lanny, he’d declined her offer to make lunch, and had instead chosen the den as the room in which to tell her about Hamilton’s trickery. He’d noticed the computer was on, and when he remarked on it, she admitted to having spent several hours that morning investigating the websites of some of the better perpetual care homes within a reasonable distance.
Tom regarded that as a step forward. Of sorts. Paradoxically it was a forward step that led to an end. He was almost relieved to have another crisis diverting his attention from that one.
“How do you know he’s telling the truth now?” Janice asked.
“You mean about Coburn being an undercover agent?”
“That man seems no more like an FBI agent than—”
“Than I do.”
Her stricken expression was as good as an admission that he’d taken the words out of her mouth. She tried to recant. “What I meant was that Coburn sounds like someone who’s cracked. He killed eight people, counting Fred Hawkins.”
“Hamilton claims Coburn didn’t shoot those men in the warehouse.”
“Then who did?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Does he know?”
Tom shrugged.
She exhaled a gust of breath, her annoyance plain. “So he’s still playing head games with you.”
“He’s paranoid.” Hamilton had come right out and accused Tom’s office of being riddled with holes through which information was flowing. Deputy Crawford had groused about the moles in the various law enforcement agencies. “Everyone is paranoid, with reason,” he told Janice.
“Why didn’t Coburn call you for help when all hell broke loose? Why did he run away from the massacre, ransack the Gillette house, and make himself look a criminal?”
“He wanted to maintain his cover for a while longer. Besides, Hamilton is his exclusive go-to guy. Hamilton put him there in Marset’s company, and no one else knew. I wasn’t even Coburn’s fallback contact.”
“Until now.” Janice didn’t even try to disguise her bitterness. “Now that Hamilton’s boy wonder has his back against a wall, he dumps it on you to bring him in. You know what that means, don’t you? It means that if something bad happens, you catch the blame. Not Clint Hamilton, who’s safe and sound up in his carpeted office in D.C.”
She was right, of course, but it irked him to hear his gnawing resentment put into words by his wife. He grumbled, “It may not even happen.”
“What do you mean?”
“First, Hamilton has to contact Coburn, who’s being very coy about staying in touch. Then he has to persuade him to place himself in my custody, and that’s going to be a tough sell.”
“Why wouldn’t he want safety and protection?”
“He doesn’t trust me—the bureau—to provide it. If he did, he would have called me in the first place, like you said. Frankly, he’d be crazy not to be cautious. If Marset was as dirty as alleged, God knows what kind of evidence Coburn has collected. Anyone who did illicit trade with Marset probably has a contract out on Coburn.
“And then there are the personal vendettas. I’m told Doral Hawkins is out for his blood. So is Mrs. Gillette’s father-in-law. The vigilante mindset has Hamilton worried.”
“He wants Coburn alive.”
“He wants the evidence Coburn obtained.” He glanced at his wristwatch and then reached for his suit jacket. “I need to get back. I’ve got to be on hand and ready for whatever happens.”
As he walked past her toward the door, she reached for his hand to detain him. “What if he doesn’t?”
“What if who doesn’t what?”
“What if Coburn doesn’t come in?”
“Status quo for me. I won’t be the hero, but I won’t have a chance to screw up, either.”
“Don’t talk about yourself that way, Tom.” She stood up and clasped his shoulders. “Don’t even think that way. This could be an opportunity for you to prove your mettle.”
Her confidence in him was misplaced, but he appreciated her loyalty. “I’m just pissed off enough to seize that opportunity.”
“Good! Show Hamilton your stuff. And Coburn. And everybody.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Her expression softened. “Whatever you do, be careful.”
“I will.”
“This man may be an FBI agent, but he’s dangerous.”
“I’ll be careful. I promise.”
Before leaving, he stopped in Lanny’s room. The boy’s eyes were open, but he lay still, silent, staring, and Tom almost wished for the agitation he’d exhibited last night. At least that demonstrated that he felt something, that he shared some level of humanness with his father. Any connection would be better than none at all.
“I would do anything for you, Lanny,” he whispered. “Anything. I hope that… that on some level, you know that.” Tom touched his son’s hair, then leaned down and kissed his forehead.
He got as far as the front door before realizing that he’d left his keys in the den. He retraced his steps and was about to reenter the room when he drew up short.
Janice had returned to her seat on the sofa. She had her cell phone in hand, her thumbs furiously tapping the touch screen. In under a minute, he and his problems had been discarded and forgotten. She was totally engrossed in her own world, a world in which he had no part.
He remembered that just a few days ago—or was it yesterday?—he’d caught her similarly absorbed in her telephone.
“Janice?”
She jumped. “Jesus, Tom!” she gasped. “I thought you’d left.”
“Obviously.” He set his briefcase on the end table and walked toward her.
She came to her feet. “Did you forget something?” Her pitch was unnaturally high, her smile unusually bright.
He nodded down at the phone in her hand. “What are you doing?”
“Playing my word game.”
“Let me see.” He extended his hand.
“What? Why?”
“Let me see.”
“You’re interested in my word game?” She posed the question around a phony-sounding laugh. “Since when have you—”
He lunged and snatched the phone from her hand.
“Tom?” she cried in shock.
Then, “Tom!” spoken in a strident tone that matched her gesture when she stuck out her hand, palm up, demanding that he give her cell phone back.
Then, when he didn’t, when he held it out of her reach and read the text message on the small screen, she said his name again, this time with a soft, plaintive, remorseful groan attached.
“I’ve called to put you on alert. Be ready to move at a moment’s notice.”
Diego gave a sarcastic huff. “What? And miss all this fun?”
He’d been at the Garden District mansion before sunrise and had followed Bonnell Wallace when he drove out of its front gate. Now, for hours, he’d been watching the banker’s car where it had remained since 7:35 that morning when Wallace had parked it in its designated slot in the employees’ parking lot of the bank building.