“Probably. Besides,” Annabelle sighed. “If something significant happened with Craig Brandt, shouldn’t we be able to find it in public records somewhere? Like, on micro-fiche or something?”
“Public information will only take you so far,” Jack said. “It won’t give you anything useful.” He crossed his arms over his substantial chest and leaned casually against the door frame. “You’ll get dates and whatever story the powers that be wanted believed at the time. However,” he smiled, “specific details – especially controversial details – will be withheld. In essence, you’ll know squat.”
They were quiet for a moment. Then Annabelle shrugged. “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to know what the public story was. Would it?”
“It might,” Sam said, from the doorway. They turned to face him. “Not a good idea to get your intel mixed up. Go for the truth and call it good.”
Annabelle looked from Sam to Jack. They both stared back at her. It was somewhat unnerving.
She looked away and continued to think. “If the real story of Craig Brandt is somewhere on campus, how do we know for sure that it’ll be found in the Registrar’s office? If it’s hush-hush, wouldn’t it be kept somewhere more… hush-hush-ier?”
The chest in the corner gave a derisive laugh.
Annabelle shot it an evil glance.
“It’ll either be there or in the big-wig’s room,” Cassie supplied after a few moments of thought.
“Who’s the big-wig?” Dylan asked.
Annabelle looked down at the pamphlets in her hands. After a few seconds of reading quietly, she said, “I’m guessing it’s Dr. James Beckman.”
Jack pushed away from the wall and gently took the pamphlets from Annabelle’s hands. He flipped through them for a moment, and then pulled a cell phone from his front pocket. “This Dr. Beckman is the one in charge of who is accepted into the medical school?” he asked, softly.
She looked at the pamphlet in his hands, reading the doctor’s descriptor again, then nodded. “Yep, basically. ‘Executive Vice President for Health and Biomedical Sciences and the Dean of the Faculties of Health Sciences and Medicines.’ I’d guess he has the final say on who gets to enroll and who doesn’t.”
Jack nodded and looked down at the phone in his hand. Annabelle watched as he dialed a number, reading it off of the pamphlet. She frowned. “I thought Reese made you leave your stuff on the front doorstep of the manor in Forest Hills.”
“He did. This is a new phone.” Jack put the device to his ear and waited. “Feel like going to med school, Anderson?” Jack directed the question at Dylan.
Dylan’s eyes widened again and his mouth opened.
Then Jack smiled. “Yes. Hello, Ms. Mason. I need to speak with Dr. Beckman as soon as possible.”
The group waited as Jack listened to someone speak on the other end.
His smile became predatory. “It is pertaining to a sizeable donation, Ms. Mason, and I’m afraid there is a deadline in question. The sooner I can speak with him, the better.”
Jack fell silent again. The group held their collective breaths.
And then Jack’s smile broadened.
“Hello, Dr. Beckman.”
“Wow.” Annabelle gazed at Jack and smiled. “You look… really nice.” Her voice cracked with the last word and she looked away, blushing furiously. He’s a married man, she told herself. He’s a married man. Over and over again, like a mantra. He’s a fucking married fucking man…
“Thanks, luv.” Jack did his best to suppress the rising thrill of delight he felt at Annabelle’s approval. He watched her blush for several moments more and then forced himself to look away. He turned back toward the mirror in front of him and studied the reflection. He had to admit that Beatrice had once more done a very good job hiding his bruises. She’d always been good at that when they were married.
The mirror reflecting his image was hung on the back of the master bathroom door in their temporary hidey-hole, a sixth-floor two-bedroom apartment in upper city Brooklyn. The apartment belonged to Sam and reflected his tastes. There was little décor on the walls but for a giant brass star of Texas and a painting of a native American woman on a hillside in the sunset. Annabelle guessed that professional killers probably had places to hunker down in most of the big cities.
Reese had been left behind on Sam’s boat, along with two of Sam’s “employees,” whom Annabelle preferred to lump under what she considered the far more appropriate title of “thugs.” In a way, she sort of felt sorry for Reese, despite the whole house blowing-up ordeal. She knew the man probably wasn’t going to be treated with the most Geneva Convention type civility.
“Damn,” Cassie muttered from the doorway as she entered the room. Both Jack and Annabelle turned to face her. Her eyes were on Jack. Which, to Annabelle, was perfectly understandable.
“Cor, Jackie, you’re lookin’ mighty fitty.” Beatrice came in right behind Cassie.
Clara was next. “Wow, da’. Nice clobber.”
Jack looked to Annabelle, who was biting her lip to keep from laughing. “Clobber is clothing,” he supplied, and Annabelle nodded, still smiling.
Jack did look good. The suit was Armani. Dark, dark blue pin stripes that brought out the stark sapphire in Jack’s eyes. The tie was a deep blood red and stood out in stark contrast to the snow white shirt beneath it. His hair was combed back with flawless precision. His nails were manicured. His shoes were a shining black wing-tip, also Armani.
He looked like a million bucks. Which was fitting, since he was worth that much. Actually, a lot more.
“You clean up nice,” she told him softly, regardless of the others in the room.
He turned away from the mirror to regard her once more. Something flashed in the deep blue depths of his eyes. She wondered what he was thinking.
And then someone cleared their throat. “What, exactly, are you going to do with this guy again?” Dylan asked, a note of irritation in his tone.
Jack turned back to the mirror and met the young man’s gaze in the reflection. He casually worked on adjusting his tie as he spoke. “I’m going to either convince him to tell me all that he knows about Craig Brandt, or I am going to retrieve the keys to his office and we can ascertain the information we need on our own.”
“How are you gonna do that?” Dylan asked.
Jack didn’t answer right away. He finished adjusting his tie and then bent to double-knot the laces of his shoes. The group watched him in silence and growing unease. When he was through with both shining shoes, he stood and opened his jacket to pull out a blue steel M1911 from its holster. The gun had been used by the US Army since 1911, hence it’s name. Annabelle knew this because it was Jack’s chosen weapon. He’d been using it for years. US armed forces now used a newer model of the weapon, but Jack kept the older model.
She eyed the gun from where she stood. Something was different. Her brow furrowed. The gun wasn’t as shiny as it usually was. She moved forward and, without thinking, gently took hold of his hand to get a better look. Jack stopped moving, allowing her to turn the gun over in his hands.
There was a worn, shapely “K” carved into the side of the slide, with a crown carved over it. She had never seen that before.
“What’s this?”
“It designates the gun as a Kongsberg Colt,” he said softly.
“Oh?” She had no idea what that meant.
He smiled. “Made in World War Two at an armory in Norway.”
She nodded, pretending that that explained everything. What she didn’t understand was why he was using a seventy-year-old weapon all of a sudden.