Fatal Connections

Chapter 18

Well, this was news.

"The Harcourts felt threatened?" I asked, although obviously they must have.

"I asked them about that." He dipped his head in a brief nod. "They claimed it was to maintain a sense of security. It was getting to the point where total strangers would accost them with a million questions. Walk right up to them and grill them on this or that."

"I see." The price of fame—internet or otherwise.

"But," he added, "they never mentioned a specific threat."

"And I assume you knew they hired me?" I turned the statement into a question, with the hope that it would avoid yet another evasive response.

"Of course," he said.

"I'm also assuming their kids inherit their assets?" Douglas seemed to warm up to statements phrased as questions.

"You'd have to ask their lawyer about that." I thought I saw a look of relief on his face. A financial planner with no clue about his clients' will? I held off on expressing my doubts.

I also sincerely doubted the Harcourts' attorney would give me the time of day. "Who is that?" I asked anyway.

"Aaron Gallagher of Gallagher and Bernson. I have a card." He grabbed the handle of the middle desk drawer to pull it open and produced a business card with a flourish.

The card was dark blue, high-quality stock, with silver lettering. I tucked it into my shoulder bag. I took a few more minutes to extract a bit more intel from Douglas, but I packed it in when I sensed I was digging a dry well. I stood up and so did he. "Thank you for your time," I said, shaking his hand again.

"It was nice to meet you," he said, smile fixed in place.

"Same here."

Always nice to end on a polite exchange of lies. I wondered if that was the only one he'd told me.

After I left the splendor of Douglas's office suite, my stomach grumbled with discontent at the measly half donut I had for lunch. I vaguely recalled a cute little deli located just off Wisconsin Avenue with a reputation for great sandwiches. After two days filled with dead bodies, police interrogations, and non-answers to my questions, I deserved a small reward.

Within minutes, I was seated at one of the deli's bistro-style tables, chowing down on a turkey club, crunchy with bacon and slathered with a spicy, slightly mustardy, spread—a sandwich to die for. After filling the void in my stomach with most of the sandwich, I retrieved my phone and placed a call to Nick. When he answered, I clued him in on the bits and pieces I had managed to discover.

"A bodyguard?" Nick sounded less surprised than thoughtful. "I hope the police know about this."

"Douglas said he mentioned it to the police." At least, that's what he claimed. "Speaking of which, have they been in touch with you?" I asked.

"Yeah. I'm meeting with them later today."

"That's good." And it was. If Sully's subtle suggestions about Nick's record were in any way seriously damning, wouldn't they have arrested him?

Nick coughed up a nervous laugh. "Should I bring a lawyer?"

That was a really good question, one I wished I could answer.