"James Morgan hired cult deprogrammers?" It's hard to surprise Gabri
el, but his voice rose with incredulity.
"We don't like to use that word. But when undue influence is exerted over the vulnerable, intervention may be required to help the victim see the situation clearly."
"So I'm exerting undue influence. For what purpose?"
"Money, obviously. That's what you always want, isn't it, Walsh?"
"If you are implying that I'm charging Olivia for my time, her account is closed. She did hire me to help investigate the deaths of two of her parents' alleged victims. But we completed that inquiry successfully. In fact, I'm paying Olivia now, as a research assistant and investigator."
"My associate said you were clever, Mr. Walsh, and he's correct. Yes, you're paying her . . . to deflect suspicion and to maintain an excuse for ongoing contact, while you continue to pursue the real prize."
"Which would be?"
"A five-million-dollar trust fund. Which comes due when she turns twenty-five. A few months from now."
Gabriel grunted.
After at least five seconds of silence, the man said, "You aren't even going to deny it?"
"To whom? You're hired help. I don't need to convince you of anything. The very thought that anyone--however skilled a manipulator--could persuade Olivia to part with her fortune is ridiculous."
"I offered to pay for the shirt," I called. "But not the car. The car wasn't my fault, and it's insured."
"See?" Gabriel said. "I would also point out that, given how handily she disarmed your colleague, you might be mistaken about her vulnerability. I will forgive you for that, based on your very short acquaintance with her. James Morgan has no such excuse. Beyond the fact that he's an idiot."
The man was silent.
"I have noticed," Gabriel said, "that despite your unwillingness to name him as your client, you haven't denied that he is."
"According to the contract, I cannot identify the man who hired us. There is no provision against acknowledging it, though. He's very concerned about his fiancee--"
"I'm not his fiancee," I called.
"The engagement ended two months ago," Gabriel said.
"Which does not keep him from being concerned."
"Get proof," I called.
"Of his concern?" the man said.
"Of his involvement," Gabriel said. "Prove to me that James Morgan is indeed your client and I will release you."
The man warned Gabriel that he was reaching for his phone. He passed it over. Gabriel read the screen and then waved me over to have a look.
It was an e-mail exchange with James. A little cloak-and-dagger in the wording, but the intent was clear. These men were to take me, by force, and persuade me that Gabriel Walsh was a very, very bad man. I forwarded it to both of us.
Gabriel took his foot off the man's chest. We retrieved the gun from under the car. Or, I should say, I retrieved it. Gabriel wouldn't fit, which I deemed a poor excuse. We left the so-called deprogrammer tending to his partner's wounds.
CHAPTER TWO
Gabriel didn't say a word on the walk back to the elevator, on the ride up, or even once we got through his door. I shot the bolt. At the click, he turned, as if startled, and then nodded.
He changed his shirt, walked to the window and stood there, fingers drumming against his leg. Then he came my way so fast I stepped aside. He unlocked the door and walked out.
He was in the elevator by the time I caught up. The doors were about a hand's breadth from shutting before he stopped them and leaned out.