Victor frowned. ‘First of all. This medicine. Frost. You understand there’s ongoing research in this area – how to minimize the impact of PTSD.’
‘I don’t know much about it.’
‘I keep up with every PTSD research angle being pursued. Most shrinks don’t have the resources to deal with traumatic memory. Dose us with antidepressant meds and pray for mercy. Because PTSD’s a bitch to treat, with a smorgasbord of symptoms, and onset that varies widely after the initial trauma. Rumor has it the Chinese government experimented with beta blockers and memory diminishment, on political prisoners, back in the early nineties and got nowhere. There are highly regarded teams doing legitimate research at Harvard and at UC-Irvine. But if Frost can diminish traumatic memory long after the event takes place, then Frost is much, much further along.’
‘First to market,’ Miles said.
‘It meant millions to Quantrill,’ Groote said, ‘if we’re looking at cold, hard cash.’
Victor nodded. ‘Profits in the billions, if the research is already completed.’
‘So the buyers at this auction Sorenson’s staging will be very serious,’ Celeste said.
‘People will risk a lot for profits that big. Nice how they want to help us, isn’t it?’ Victor gave a low, soft laugh.
‘If Sorenson is ex-Pentagon,’ Miles said, ‘can your connections give us info on him, or where Dodd might have hidden Groote’s daughter?’
‘You understand that the news is saying the Bridalveil shootings was the work of a deranged ex-soldier. Lost his mind. Nobody in the government’s going to own up to your dead friend.’ Victor cleared his throat.
Celeste said, ‘So someone’s already covering up for Dodd and the Pentagon.’
Victor shrugged. ‘I’ll see what I can find, but I make no promises. I’m not a hacker. I’m not doing anything illegal to help you. I can trade on connections, on favors – it’s the grease in Washington – but I may get every door slammed in my face. I’m not a government employee – my power base is dependent on my contractor connections and my fame in advocacy for PTSD patients. So I may get nowhere.’
‘My daughter-’
‘I’ll do everything I can,’ Victor said. ‘But I have to tell you, Dennis, that if I were Dodd, I would have gotten Amanda out of the country on a government flight. To a safe house in Mexico, or in the Caribbean. But off American soil. Finding her will not be easy.’
‘Understood,’ Miles said. ‘Thank you, Victor.’
‘We don’t have a dinner bell, but the quiet tells me that Freddy’s got dinner ready. Let’s eat. Then I’ll start working the phone and the computers and see if I hit any lucky numbers.’
FIFTY-ONE
‘We should rest,’ Celeste said.
‘You’re right.’ Exhaustion seeped into Miles’s whole body. Victor had excused himself into his office, banned them from interrupting him. Groote sat on the quiet of the back porch, watching the moonlight peeking out from the clouds. Miles observed him for a minute – the first time leaving Groote alone – and followed her to the guest bedroom she had claimed, and saw twin beds.
‘Nathan’s sharing with Freddy. They can talk about the war. Groote can sleep upstairs, assuming he’s human and can sleep. You don’t mind, do you?’ she said.
‘Of course not.’
She lay down on one bed and he lay down on the other. They faced each other across the space – a side table, a lamp, separating them.
‘Big risk to trust Groote,’ she said.
‘ Trust is too strong a word. He’s using us, but we’re using him, so it’s okay.’
‘He looks at you,’ Celeste said, ‘in a way I don’t like.’
‘He’s sweet on me.’
‘Don’t joke. He acts as if he still has a score to settle.’
‘He’s a hired gun,’ Miles said, ‘but he’s off the job. Now it’s personal, as they say in the movie trailers. As long as he thinks we can help him get his daughter back, he’ll work with us. I know how to keep him leashed.’
‘I imagine Victor coming to tell us he’s found Amanda, where she is, and then Groote kills us all and goes on his merry way.’
‘I won’t let that happen.’ Miles jostled the bed, trying to get comfortable.
‘You remembered something.’
‘No.’
‘Miles. I don’t know you that well, I suppose, but I can tell. What happened?’
He pulled his jacket close around him, as if cold.
‘It’s warm in here. You could take off your jacket.’
‘No. I’m comfortable.’
‘I noticed you don’t like to take off your jacket.’
‘I get cold.’
‘Don’t lie.’
‘I keep something I meant to give Allison in my jacket.’
‘What?’
He realized he had nothing to lose; he would be leaving Celeste soon enough, probably to never see her again. Truth made for a good parting gift. ‘My confession. Of murdering my best friend.’
The expression on her face didn’t change. ‘Your best friend…’
‘Yeah. Since I was three years old.’
‘Self-defense. You have nothing to confess.’
He closed his eyes.
‘It’s not your fault, Miles.’
‘Yeah, it is.’
‘Do you really know that, in your head, your guts, your heart? Do you?’ she asked.
Andy stood on the far wall, arms crossed, blood on his shoulder, on his throat. Three bullet wounds glistened in the lamplight.
‘It’s not your fault,’ she repeated. ‘It’s not your fault.’
‘He told me I killed him with a word. Then I remembered. On the drive. Talking with Groote about the FBI. How I killed him.’
‘Is Andy here now?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Ask him,’ she said, ‘what he wants. Why does he stay?’
‘He’s not a ghost seeking vengeance,’ Miles said. ‘My head invented him.’
‘Then your head’s trying to tell you information you need to know.’
Miles said, ‘What do you want, Andy?’ He didn’t feel embarrassed or stupid, talking to Andy with Celeste in the room.
Andy put his hands over two of the wounds. ‘I want you to know what you did, Miles. I want you to know what you didn’t do.’
Miles repeated the words to Celeste. She frowned. ‘Show me the confession.’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s my burden to carry.’
‘I’m not offering to carry Andy for you. Just let me see what you remember.’
‘And reading it will, what, make you respect me?’ Thirty seconds of silence passed. ‘I killed my best friend. What kind of person am
I?’
‘I didn’t save my husband. I locked myself in a house for a year. What kind of person am I, Miles?’ She sat up from the bed. She held out her hand. ‘Give me the confession. I can handle it.’
He sat up, pulled the paper from his jacket, handed it to her. She unfolded it and began to read:
Allison:
I killed my best friend. I was working with my dad in Miami – he owned a private investigations firm. Dad died (cancer) and my friend Andy was an accountant for what I believed was an insurance company but the firm was a financial front for the Barrada crime family. Dad lost three hundred thousand on gambling and he owed the money through a Barrada bookie. When he died – I owed the debt. The Barradas threatened to take Dad’s firm, which was all Dad left me, but Andy got me a deal; he told me that I could work it off by doing clandestine work for the Barradas. Andy wanted financial and logistical information on other crime rings: spreadsheets, payments, dealer networks, information on shipments into the country.
I wasn’t a hit man or an enforcer. I was their personal spy and Andy gently told me that if I refused, the Barradas would kill me and he would not be able to stop them. He wept as he told me and I believed him. He was giving me a way out. The Barradas had me conduct eleven covert jobs against their competitors and I succeeded in every one of them. I believed the debt was paid. But they made it clear I couldn’t walk away.