Omens
Page 94
Edgar Chandler lived alone. He’d been married, but divorced his wife a half century ago. Two of his three children had predeceased him. The youngest lived in Tucson. Our research suggested Chandler employed a housekeeper/cook, but she lived in the city. He was a man who valued his privacy, even past the age when it was wise to live alone.
The porch lights had been left on, along with one interior light, which illuminated the drawn curtains on a huge bay window. The rest of the house was dark.
Before we reached the porch, Gabriel took out his cell. He would phone Chandler, tell him why we were here, and ask for ten minutes of his time. Yes, Chandler could call for backup, but it would take more than ten minutes for anyone to arrive.
Gabriel began to dial. Then his chin shot up, eyes narrowing.
“What—?”
I barely got the word out before a shadow lunged from the bushes behind Gabriel. I pulled out my gun and started to shout a warning, but Gabriel had the guy on the ground before I could.
I swung my gun behind me. I don’t know why. It was as if I’d heard something and reacted before I could process the sound. And on the other end of the barrel? An old man in a housecoat, with a gun aimed at Gabriel.
“Drop the gun now!” I barked.
When he didn’t move, I fired into the roses beside him.
“I said, drop it!”
“Oh my,” he said. There was no panic in his voice. No fear. “I do believe you mean it. I’m putting my weapon on the ground.”
He laid the gun on the porch slowly, as if the movement took effort. I readjusted my grip on the weapon, but my hands were dry and steady. Shock, I think, more than nerves of steel. I probably looked a little ridiculous, poised there like a badass movie cop. No one was laughing, though. Not the old man, straightening now. Not the big guy lying facedown in the grass, his own weapon pointed at the back of his head, a foot on his back. And not the bigger guy pointing that weapon at him.
“Now kick the gun over to me,” I said to the old man.
“My dear, I’m eighty-six years old. I cannot ‘kick’ anything without landing on my posterior and breaking a hip.”
“Back away then.”
He did. I retrieved the gun. It was a monster—at least .45 caliber. Even I’d fall on my ass if I fired it. I handed the gun to Gabriel and got a curt nod.
“You can consider yourself fired, Anderson,” Chandler said to the man on the ground. “I can’t have a bodyguard who gets himself thrown ambushing a trespasser.”
“I told ya I wanted to get a better look at them first,” the man whined. “I couldn’t see nothing in the dark.”
Chandler turned to me. “As we are now disarmed, I’ll ask that your bodyguard releases mine, and allows him to regain some semblance of dignity before I send him slinking into the night.”
“He’s not my bodyguard. He’s my lawyer.”
Chandler took another look at Gabriel. “Impressive. May I ask, then, sir . . .” He gestured at Anderson.
Gabriel took his foot off Anderson, gun still pointed at the man. “Go sit on the porch while we speak to your boss.” He looked at Chandler. “I haven’t met many retired psychiatrists who feel the need for a live-in bodyguard.”
Chandler shrugged. “Old age does not accommodate vanity well. With Anderson, I have someone here at all times without the humiliation of requiring a permanent nursemaid.”
“Which explains why you met us with guns,” I said.
“I’m an elderly man of some means, despite my modest living arrangements. It would not be the first time someone has sought to take advantage of that. I’m presuming, though, that breaking and entering isn’t your intent, unless you bring a lawyer in tow, should you be caught.” He pursed his lips. “That could be convenient.”
“We want to talk about Will Evans.”
He blinked, as if caught off guard.
“Dr. William Evans,” I said. “He was your—”
“Yes, yes, I know who you mean. I’m simply surprised because I haven’t heard that name in a very long time.”
“We know you worked for the CIA with Evans—on a classified Chicago-based branch of Operation Midnight Climax.”
“Ah. Let me guess your occupation then, my dear. Reporter. Or journalist, as I believe they prefer to be called these days. A young investigative reporter hoping to launch her career by unveiling a secret, sordid part of Chicago’s past. May I give you some advice? It’s been almost fifty years. No one cares. At best, you’d have a historical interest piece on the city pages. And, in return, you would make enemies you might prefer to avoid.”
I turned to Gabriel. “That sounded like a threat.”
“Noted.” His face was impassive, but a growl escaped in his voice.
I glanced back at Chandler. “How many reporters travel with their lawyers?”
He gave Gabriel another once-over. “I’m still trying to decide if you’re joking about that.”
“We’re not here to grill you on your activities with the CIA,” Gabriel said. “At the time, the general public might have taken a prurient interest in Ivy League academics whose forays into understanding human behavior included watching through peepholes in whorehouses. But today it seems more like the premise for a reality television show, and a dull one at that.”
“He does sound like a lawyer,” Chandler said to me. “Before we go further, then, may I know who I’m addressing?”
“I don’t believe that’s necessary,” Gabriel said.
Chandler sighed. “Definitely a lawyer.” He looked over at his bodyguard, sulking on a porch chair. “Take note, Anderson. Size and martial ability do not need to come with a correlating decrease in intelligence.” Back to us. “If you aren’t interested in these stories you’ve heard about Will Evans, what is your interest?”
“The fact that Dr. Evans worked for the CIA is a matter of public record,” Gabriel said. “It is also a matter of public record that he resigned to pursue private practice. However, we have reason to believe his leave-taking was not absolute.”
“That he continued with the CIA? He did not.”
“You sound very certain of that. I wasn’t aware the CIA was such a small agency.”
Annoyance flickered in Chandler’s expression. He covered it with a nonchalant shrug. “I knew Will very well at the time. If he’d returned to the CIA, I would have known it.”
The porch lights had been left on, along with one interior light, which illuminated the drawn curtains on a huge bay window. The rest of the house was dark.
Before we reached the porch, Gabriel took out his cell. He would phone Chandler, tell him why we were here, and ask for ten minutes of his time. Yes, Chandler could call for backup, but it would take more than ten minutes for anyone to arrive.
Gabriel began to dial. Then his chin shot up, eyes narrowing.
“What—?”
I barely got the word out before a shadow lunged from the bushes behind Gabriel. I pulled out my gun and started to shout a warning, but Gabriel had the guy on the ground before I could.
I swung my gun behind me. I don’t know why. It was as if I’d heard something and reacted before I could process the sound. And on the other end of the barrel? An old man in a housecoat, with a gun aimed at Gabriel.
“Drop the gun now!” I barked.
When he didn’t move, I fired into the roses beside him.
“I said, drop it!”
“Oh my,” he said. There was no panic in his voice. No fear. “I do believe you mean it. I’m putting my weapon on the ground.”
He laid the gun on the porch slowly, as if the movement took effort. I readjusted my grip on the weapon, but my hands were dry and steady. Shock, I think, more than nerves of steel. I probably looked a little ridiculous, poised there like a badass movie cop. No one was laughing, though. Not the old man, straightening now. Not the big guy lying facedown in the grass, his own weapon pointed at the back of his head, a foot on his back. And not the bigger guy pointing that weapon at him.
“Now kick the gun over to me,” I said to the old man.
“My dear, I’m eighty-six years old. I cannot ‘kick’ anything without landing on my posterior and breaking a hip.”
“Back away then.”
He did. I retrieved the gun. It was a monster—at least .45 caliber. Even I’d fall on my ass if I fired it. I handed the gun to Gabriel and got a curt nod.
“You can consider yourself fired, Anderson,” Chandler said to the man on the ground. “I can’t have a bodyguard who gets himself thrown ambushing a trespasser.”
“I told ya I wanted to get a better look at them first,” the man whined. “I couldn’t see nothing in the dark.”
Chandler turned to me. “As we are now disarmed, I’ll ask that your bodyguard releases mine, and allows him to regain some semblance of dignity before I send him slinking into the night.”
“He’s not my bodyguard. He’s my lawyer.”
Chandler took another look at Gabriel. “Impressive. May I ask, then, sir . . .” He gestured at Anderson.
Gabriel took his foot off Anderson, gun still pointed at the man. “Go sit on the porch while we speak to your boss.” He looked at Chandler. “I haven’t met many retired psychiatrists who feel the need for a live-in bodyguard.”
Chandler shrugged. “Old age does not accommodate vanity well. With Anderson, I have someone here at all times without the humiliation of requiring a permanent nursemaid.”
“Which explains why you met us with guns,” I said.
“I’m an elderly man of some means, despite my modest living arrangements. It would not be the first time someone has sought to take advantage of that. I’m presuming, though, that breaking and entering isn’t your intent, unless you bring a lawyer in tow, should you be caught.” He pursed his lips. “That could be convenient.”
“We want to talk about Will Evans.”
He blinked, as if caught off guard.
“Dr. William Evans,” I said. “He was your—”
“Yes, yes, I know who you mean. I’m simply surprised because I haven’t heard that name in a very long time.”
“We know you worked for the CIA with Evans—on a classified Chicago-based branch of Operation Midnight Climax.”
“Ah. Let me guess your occupation then, my dear. Reporter. Or journalist, as I believe they prefer to be called these days. A young investigative reporter hoping to launch her career by unveiling a secret, sordid part of Chicago’s past. May I give you some advice? It’s been almost fifty years. No one cares. At best, you’d have a historical interest piece on the city pages. And, in return, you would make enemies you might prefer to avoid.”
I turned to Gabriel. “That sounded like a threat.”
“Noted.” His face was impassive, but a growl escaped in his voice.
I glanced back at Chandler. “How many reporters travel with their lawyers?”
He gave Gabriel another once-over. “I’m still trying to decide if you’re joking about that.”
“We’re not here to grill you on your activities with the CIA,” Gabriel said. “At the time, the general public might have taken a prurient interest in Ivy League academics whose forays into understanding human behavior included watching through peepholes in whorehouses. But today it seems more like the premise for a reality television show, and a dull one at that.”
“He does sound like a lawyer,” Chandler said to me. “Before we go further, then, may I know who I’m addressing?”
“I don’t believe that’s necessary,” Gabriel said.
Chandler sighed. “Definitely a lawyer.” He looked over at his bodyguard, sulking on a porch chair. “Take note, Anderson. Size and martial ability do not need to come with a correlating decrease in intelligence.” Back to us. “If you aren’t interested in these stories you’ve heard about Will Evans, what is your interest?”
“The fact that Dr. Evans worked for the CIA is a matter of public record,” Gabriel said. “It is also a matter of public record that he resigned to pursue private practice. However, we have reason to believe his leave-taking was not absolute.”
“That he continued with the CIA? He did not.”
“You sound very certain of that. I wasn’t aware the CIA was such a small agency.”
Annoyance flickered in Chandler’s expression. He covered it with a nonchalant shrug. “I knew Will very well at the time. If he’d returned to the CIA, I would have known it.”
