Private #1 Suspect (Private 2)

“Are you okay?”

“What? Sure. I’m okay for a guy who is being set up to take the rap for a murder I didn’t commit. I’m absolutely fine.”

“I’ll take you out to dinner when this is all over,” Fescoe said.

I told him it was going to be a pricey meal.

Cody came in again as I hung up. He said, “Sorry,” went behind me, turned on my computer, and called up my schedule.

I stared at it blindly.

Cody said, “We’re all set up in the conference room, Jack. Meeting starts in fifteen minutes.”

CHAPTER 53

A CHASM OPENED between my thoughts and my perceptions. Everything outside myself—people walking past me in the hallways, my phone ringing in my pocket, laughter coming up from the stairwell—all of that seemed far, far away, having no relationship to me at all.

I crossed the floor, opened the conference room door, saw a circle of twenty-five men and women seated around the table, all partners in Private Investigations Worldwide, all here for our biannual operations meeting.

I knew every one of the people sitting at the table. Had been to some of their weddings, stayed in some of their homes.

They expected me to reveal plans. Make decisions. They expected me to lead.

But I wanted to be anywhere but here. Nearly all of the twenty-five had been in the military, the law, or law enforcement before they’d joined Private. I knew that when the shock burned off, I wasn’t going to be able to hide my rising panic from these first-class private cops.

Cody took a chair behind mine, and Mo-bot, who is fluent in several languages, sat next to Cody.

All conversation stopped as I pulled out my chair and sat down. There were some greetings, smiles, twenty-five pairs of eyes locking in on my face.

The unspoken question floated overhead in twenty-five thought balloons.

Did you kill Colleen Molloy?

Are you a murderer?

I had imagined Colleen’s death so many times at this point that it felt as though I had been standing by the bed when bullets from my gun drilled into her chest.

Fescoe’s call ten minutes ago had turned my mental imagery into something immediate and real. The cops had found my gun. They were running the ballistics now. And I knew with near certainty that sometime soon I would be charged with murder in the second degree.

I said, “Good morning,” squared the printout of the agenda in front of me, tapped the table with my pen.

I brought my colleagues up to date on the investigation into Colleen’s death and said, “The person who killed Colleen is a pro. That person is trying to incriminate me—and doing a good job of it too. He did his research. He knew Colleen was in Los Angeles, knew her movements and mine. He got into my house, killed her, and left without making any obvious mistakes. The police felt they didn’t have to look further than me. Why would they? The killing happened to my friend, in my bed, and she was killed with my gun.

“It was a beautiful setup. I don’t know who killed Colleen, but I have some ideas, and we’re going to bring him down. Please see me if you have any thoughts or if you can give me any help. Tell your staff and your clients that I’m innocent, and you can take my word for that because you all know me and I’m telling you the truth.”

“Jack, excuse me. What are these ideas you have?” asked Pierre Bonet, our director from France.

“I’m not going to discuss them until I have something solid.”

I asked if there were any other questions, and then I looked down at the agenda.

“Ian, you’re up first. You want to talk about expanding the London office into Glasgow…”

I set my expression to “listen,” although I could actually make no sense of what Ian was saying. He was reading from a chart projected on a screen when the door swung open and Tandy came in, Ziegler right behind him.

I felt sudden, pure terror, as if thugs had just broken in firing automatic weapons. Fescoe had given me no time to call my lawyer, no time to even clear the room.

“Excuse me, Ian. Mitch, let’s take this outside,” I said to Tandy.