It struck him as the kind of town where nothing much went on. Perhaps a little craziness on Friday night or Saturday, when good ol’ boys got liquored up, along with some wife-bashing from time to time, a few wild young ones on occasion and a fair amount of petty theft, but nothing weird. Much like the quiet towns in old B movies, where the aliens or vampires scored an easy victory with simple, sometimes simpleminded, folk. The kind of town he might have picked to hide in if he had a secret to conceal.
And what of Chelsea Radcliff? Was the lady Ph.D. a conscious part of Daddy’s machinations—whatever they were? She would have been an infant when Eugenix Corporation purchased Thomas Hardy’s corpse, but that did not exempt her from suspicion in more recent incidents.
Slow down.
It was entirely natural—well, at least not unnatural—for children to pursue a parent’s line of work, to some degree. The fact that Chelsea Radcliff went to work in the family business, so to speak, did not necessarily incriminate her, in and of itself. She was protective of her father and the clinic, obviously, but that didn’t mean a damn thing, either.
Not unless he found a way to play connect-the-dots and link her to the contract murders Smith had sent him to investigate.
He went to check Antonio’s a full two hours before his date with Chelsea, drank a Coca-Cola at the bar and used the men’s room, casually checking out entrances and exits.
He could always dazzle them with footwork if it came to that, but he didn’t believe that Chelsea Radcliff would be bringing guns to dinner. Rather, he imagined she would want to feel him out—his mind and motives, anyway—to see if he was leaning toward a straight report on the Family Services Clinic, or angling for a hatchet job.
For Remo, it would be an opportunity to do some feeling of his own. He wore the same maroon T-shirt and tan chinos he had worn out to the clinic. A quarter hour early on his second visit to Antonio’s, he waited in his car until a black Infiniti G20 pulled into the parking lot, with Chelsea Radcliff at the wheel. She parked nose-in against the west side of the building and was climbing out with keys in hand before she noticed Remo standing close beside her.
“God!” She jumped and dropped her keys. “Don’t do that!”
“What?”
“Sneak up on people, dammit!” When she bent down to retrieve the keys, her skirt rode up and offered him a glimpse of golden thigh.
“I’m sorry.”
“Where’d you learn that, in reporter school?”
“The orphanage,” he said. “Stealth was useful, sometimes.”
Chelsea stared at him. “You grew up in an orphanage?”
“Let’s say I came of age.”
“I never actually met someone who— Never mind. I’m sorry,”
“Ancient history,” he told her, meaning it.
“Shall we go in?”
“They don’t have car hops.”
“Ah, a sense of humor.”
Chelsea watched him closely as he held the door to let her pass. “You sound surprised.”
“I never know what to expect,” he said. “New people. To be honest with you, the psychologists I’ve known were pretty humorless.”
“You never, met Bob Newhart, then,” she answered, smiling.
“Not until he changed his name and opened up the inn.”
“A TV fan.”
“My father’s hooked. I get it by osmosis.”
“Father? But you said—”
“Adopted,” Remo told her. “Late in life, you might say.”
“Ah.”
A teenage hostess greeted them and showed them to a small booth in Antonio’s nonsmoking section. Checkered tablecloth, red vinyl on the seats, a stubby candle in some kind of goblet with a plastic net around it, like a fishing buoy: They held the conversation in abeyance while a forty-something waitress took their order—for Remo, some water, and for Chelsea some Chianti—before leaving them to scan the menu.
“I can recommend the veal,” said Chelsea. Remo frowned, Even the thought of eating beef in any stage of development repulsed him. And he certainly wouldn’t choose it—not unless he had no choice. One thing, though, with his body so perfectly attuned now, eating the odd unorthodox meal did not seem to harm him. It was a big difference from his early days of the Sinanju life, and he hadn’t been certain why his body would be more tolerant. But Chiun had laughed at him when he’d asked why.
“That is the world of difference between the glorious East and the rapacious West,” he said, his eyebrows flung high. “Learn a rule, and they never know when to make an exception. Even you, with your smidgen of good blood from Korea.”
When Remo had cocked his head and looked at him askance, the Master of Sinanju held his long-nailed index finger up, like a scolding schoolteacher.
“A superior man, Remo, that is what Sinanju produces, when rightly lived and practiced. But think! How superior is a creature when it can never vary its food? What happens if his environment changes, if the usual foodstuffs become scarce? It dies, Remo, that is what happens. It is not superior, but weak in one aspect.
“So, when you were nearly new to Sinanju your body knew you had to respect the rules—and reminded you when you did not. Now you do it effortlessly, and your body will forgive the occasional lapse because it is not made in wrong-headed error.”
He had looked at Remo, his eyes twinkling, then wagged his finger. “But no corn!”
Remo suppressed a grin at the memory, then looked across the table at Chelsea, waiting to see what he’d choose. “I’m more a duck man, myself,” he said.
“The fetuccini’s always good.”
“Duck,” he said firmly.
Moments later, she had her wine in front of her, he had his water, their orders had been taken and their waitress had retreated to the kitchen.
Remo said, “I’m glad you came.”
“You thought I’d stand you up?”
“Agreed to come, I mean.”
“I’m interested in seeing that the clinic gets a fair shake in your article.”
“We aim to.please.”
“I’m sure.” She didn’t sound convinced. “It is a tabloid, though, am I correct?”
“Of sorts. We don’t run articles about a UFO attacking Moscow or the vampires in Manhattan dropping dead from AIDS.”
“But bad news sells.”
“Of course,” he said. “Just like at NBC, the New York Times, and CNN.”
“You won’t find any scandal at my father’s clinic,” Chelsea said.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Really.” Skepticism heavy in her voice.
“I don’t expect you to believe me,” Remo said, “but trashing total strangers isn’t half the fun it’s advertised to be. I like to tell the truth, from time to time. It helps me sleep at night.”
“A newsman with a heart of gold?” she asked.
“No halos here,” he said. “But I don’t thrive on being sued for libel, either.”
“That should be ho problem, if you always tell the truth.”
“Oh, you can still get sued,” he said. “The plaintiff may not win, but it’s a hassle, either way.”
“You speak from personal experience?”
“I’ve been around,” he said. “Yourself?”
“Lawsuits?” She looked confused as Remo shifted gears.
“Professional experience,” he said. “I’ve tried to guess your age—”
“A lady never tells.”
“—and any way I run the numbers, it appears you joined your father’s clinic shortly after leaving school.”
“That’s true. Before you start in with the nepotism thing, though, I should tell you that I’m fully qualified.”
“I never doubted it,” said Remo.
“Oh?”
“It’s not my field, of course,” explained Remo, “but you sound a little paranoid.”