Mortal Fear. Greg Iles

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      “What can you do about that?”

      Lenz says nothing for a while.

      “You realize I could go public with all this at any time,” I tell him.

      “That would only aggravate the very situation you seek to alleviate. The disruption of your wife’s life would increase exponentially.”

      He’s right, of course.

      “But perhaps I can be of assistance,” he says. “It’s true that the various police departments involved in the case—particularly the Michigan department—are ready to have both you and Mr. Turner arrested. I, however, do not share their enthusiasm.”

      “Get to it, Doctor.”

      “I think perhaps we can help each other, Mr. Cole. If you will agree to help me in a limited capacity, I think I could have both Bureau and police pressure removed from your life.”

      “What kind of capacity?”

      “I want the master client list, of course. Can you get it?”

      “Maybe.”

      “I’ll take that as a no.”

      Damn this guy. “Why take that as a no?”

      “If you had a copy of your own, you would have destroyed it by now. And you no longer have access to the accounting database, which you would need to get a new copy.”

       How does he know that?

      “However, you still have something I want.”

      “What’s that?”

      “Your thoughts.”

      “What?”

      And then he tells me. How long he has been planning this, I don’t know. Maybe this was the whole point of putting pressure on Drewe. Of not throwing me to the Michigan police. Because Lenz wants exactly what they want. To fly me up to Washington so he can question me with no one else around. He says something about “an informal version of his standard criminal-profiling technique,” but I don’t really listen. We both know the bottom line. If I want the pressure taken off, I’ve got to play his game.

      “How soon do you want to do this?”

      “I’ll have a ticket for you waiting in Jackson, Mississippi. It’s 10.50. Can you get to the airport by noon?”

      “Noon today?”

      “Of course.”

      If I drop everything and walk out the front door without a toothbrush. Then I remember Drewe’s voice, tight with anxiety. “Yeah, I can get there. You think there’s a flight?”

      “If there isn’t a direct flight, you’ll find a connecting ticket. Ask for messages at the American Airlines desk.”

      “Okay. I’d better get going.”

      “Just a moment. At the meeting in New Orleans, you mentioned that EROS is patronized by many celebrities.”

      “I can’t tell you any names.”

      “Fine, fine. But what level of celebrities are we talking about?”

      “Well … Karin Wheat was pretty famous.”

      “Yes, but authors don’t get the kind of adulation that Hollywood stars or sports figures do.”

      “Not many sports figures on EROS, Doctor. The IQ level tends to run a little higher than that.”

      “So what level of star are we talking about?”

      “The top of the business. And not just actors. Directors, producers, agents, the works.”

      He digests this in silence.

      “Aren’t you any different from the paparazzi, Doctor? I thought you were trying to solve these murders, not root up juicy tidbits about Hollywood.”

      “In all honesty, I find the whole concept of EROS fascinating. However, there is a point to my questions. Jan Krislov refuses to reveal anything about her clients. Thanks to you, I realize she is not grandstanding but prudently shielding people who have a great vested interest in protecting their public images. People who would not hesitate to sue Ms Krislov and have the funds to pursue such a lawsuit to its bitter end.”

      “No doubt about it. Hell, there are celebrity lawyers on that master client list. Jan Krislov is a lot of things, but she’s no fool.”

      “Do you have any more EROS session printouts?” Lenz asks.

      “No more of the murder victims or Strobekker.”

      “I’ll take anything you have. I’m following a rather twisted trail, and I’d like all the signposts I can get.”

      “I’ll bring you what I have.”

      “Excellent.” Lenz says he’ll fax me directions to his office in case I miss the FBI agents he plans to have waiting at the Washington airport. Then he says, “May I give you some unsolicited advice, Mr. Cole?”

      “People do it all the time.”

      “You’re an experienced futures trader. However, if I were you, I’d clear my current positions. Dump all contracts until this mess is resolved.”

      “You’re not me.”

      “Quite. Well … I’ll see you this afternoon.”

      While Lenz’s fax comes through, I call Drewe in Jackson and explain what I’m about to do and why. She warns me to be careful, then goes back to her patients.

      I pack a briefcase with a toothbrush, five hundred dollars in cash, and a few EROS folders from my file cabinet. Before I leave the office, I almost pick up the phone and follow Lenz’s advice. Getting out of the market now would cost me money, but that’s not what keeps me from doing it. The truth is, I feel a simple bullheaded resistance to letting Arthur Lenz tell me what to do. If I lose a few thousand bucks because I’m in a daze, so be it. It’s happened before.

      I am almost to the Explorer when I remember Lenz’s fax. Running back inside to get it, I hear the phone. It’s my office line. I debate whether or not to answer, then pick up.

      “Hello?”

      “Moneypenny? This is Bond. James Bond.”

      “What is it, Miles? I’m in a hurry.”

      “Brahma went back online five minutes ago.”

      “Have they traced the call?”

      “Yes and no. They took a chance and started at the second Jersey line they wound up at last time. AT&T long line. Anyway, the connection СКАЧАТЬ