Sleeping Secrets: Heather Chase FBI Series Book 7, page 11
Overcoming problems... Maybe that was how Taylor worked. He found vulnerable marks facing a critical problem in their lives and presented an ostensible solution. Yes, but that solution was always just a mirage, wasn’t it? A carrot on a string is used to pull the vic in exactly the right direction to fill Taylor’s pockets. And then he’d leave them high and dry—and poor, too. Ronald Alden was the perfect victim, practically begging for someone to come and manipulate him, prodding at his fears and his dissatisfaction until he finally broke, allowing Taylor to get rich while Alden hoisted himself on his own petard.
Maybe that was the key then. Instead of chasing Taylor’s tail. If she could determine Ron Alden’s buttons, shouldn’t Chase be able to get a head start on Taylor, and figure out his play before he made it? That way, she wouldn’t need the usual drudgery—the warrants, the pointless questioning, the manual checking of security cams, and the visits to the DA’s office. Instead, she could just sit and wait for the con to go down.
Only one problem with that strategy: Chase had come to the party late. The con might already be going down under her very nose. Taylor sure seemed to have his hooks in Alden. As did this Gwen character.
So, what was the con? It all kept coming back to that question. Was it really the lucrative clinical trials this all revolved around? And would Taylor really expose himself for something so—banal? Maybe that was just Mr. X’s modus. He didn’t go for the low-hanging fruit, as many grifters did in a professional capacity. Instead, he was more creative—he went for unexplored niches, things no other con man would dare to attempt simply because of how difficult or complicated it was. And everything in pharmaceuticals was difficult and complicated—not only did it involve in-depth specialist knowledge about the products themselves, everything within the business was also regulated and legalized to kafkaesque levels of insanity. But the industry itself was shark-infested waters. To be a conman walking among conmen was a dangerous thing, it meant the possibility of being sniffed out at every turn.
But maybe that was the whole point. Maybe it wasn’t even about the money, not really. Hell, assuming that Taylor was behind that press leak recently, with that stock bump alone he would have made bank. It would have been advisable to make a clean break at that point and get out while the going was good. Before the Novatide sharks came for blood, and then the filter-feeding SEC and the FDA and any other number of pencil-pushing poindexters came to get theirs too.
It’s the challenge, isn’t it Taylor? That’s what all this is about. And if that’s the case, then your end game isn’t necessarily the clinical trials. It’s about taking charge of this company—and using Alden as your pawn to do it.
As the elevator pinged open on the twentieth floor, Chase walked out with a new, hot ambition boiling in her blood. She was going to solve this case, and do it without leaning on SET.
Now that she’d caught Taylor’s trace, it was simply a matter of going hunting. And Ronald Alden was going to be her bait.
Chapter 18
McEnry woke with a start to his head throbbing. Not quite the peaceful awakening he’d been growing used to during his time here—it threw him off course and he spent the next half hour in a daze, not sure whether to get up or try and sleep again. The sunlight streaming through the window, which on prior mornings had gently stroked his face awake in a tender caress, now came at him like a bazooka. His eyeballs stung.
God, he felt tired. Sighing deeply, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stumbled out. Suddenly the room which had been a pleasure resort now felt like just the next mission, just him doing his job. He’d brought his work into it, and it had spoiled the fantasy.
Of course, he had to bring work into it at some point. What was he going to do, stay at this clinic on the Bureau’s dime and make no progress? Shuffling off toward the shower, that was when he noticed the little white thing on the floor over by his door. His chest tightened as he staggered over to it and picked it up. A letter. Or really, a note is what it was. It said this:
We noticed you’ve been up and about at night. Is something affecting your sleep? Maybe we should discuss it. :)
-Mickey
McEnry shivered. Even their friendliness came off as passive aggression. That was the thing—when you stirred the pot, when you went against the system, suddenly it wasn’t all just candy canes and rainbows anymore. You saw the evil heart pumping its black blood inside the thing and it ruined the illusion. As he stomped into the shower, McEnry was feeling pretty annoyed at Section Chief Linar for forcing him to take action.
He’d spoiled everything. Even the shower felt too hot.
It then occurred to McEnry why some people just kind of went along with everything in the world even though it made no sense. It was like being a kid your whole life and it was so much easier than the alternative. Not that he was some kind of renegade—he followed the rules best he could, obeyed his orders, and got the job done. But following orders alone hardly got the job done; it took intelligence, quick thinking on the spot, and adapting to changing circumstances. You had to outsmart the enemy, outsmart your environment. You had to always be on guard against the world. That was the complete opposite of going along with things. It was to wage war with the other.
He was certain people were watching him at breakfast. He forced down gulps of the insipid chicory, wishing it was a large cup of joe from Cafe au’ Day. He barely touched his food. The eyes of a dozen people in white coats were burning into his flesh like the overpowering sunlight through the window. He tried not to make any obvious movements like looking around, but he knew they were there. He’d tripped some kind of flag and now he was being monitored. Once or twice he got up to pretend to refill his drink and casually surveyed the room, but he couldn’t catch who it was watching. They knew better than that. They’d been trained.
Outside on the green, going through the motions. Joined in the morning Tai Chi class. Eyes were still on him, watching his every move.
“You’re so tense today,” the teacher told him, a cute small chick who smiled a lot, whom he’d formerly gotten along with, but who now just annoyed him with her militant bubbliness and positivity. Everyone is forced to be so positive and not complain at all. It came off too sickly and sweet now, too much. It was all too much. Being stuck here like this. Forced to play this game. And now with them watching him, he couldn’t even do his job.
It must have been the drop, that’s how they’d caught him. They hadn’t caught him when he’d gone up to the higher floors, and that had been some kind of lucky break. He’d exploited their trust—their trust that all the patients were sufficiently zonked out in their beds, that is. So, he’d slipped through the cracks there, gotten one over on them. But the drop, that had been careless. He told himself he was just getting things done fast to help out the FBI, but the truth was he wanted it over with so he could go back to his dozing, zone-out life here at the facility. That’s why he’d made the drop that same night, and that’s probably why they’d caught him.
Since they had no access to computers or mobile phones, the only method provided for communicating with the outside world was via the telephone in the head office down at the bottom of the green. But the chances of that phone being monitored were almost certain. That’s why before coming in here, Section Chief Linar and Bob Fairfax had come up with a countermeasure—what McEnry was to do when he wanted to make contact was to leave a note in a specific yard out the back of the complex, where the Bureau could discreetly pick it up using a small, silent drone. They’d agreed that the drone would make a pass over the grounds each night at exactly 3 a.m., to reduce the possibility of anyone seeing it.
After acquiring intel about the possible mole at Novatide, McEnry quickly made a note and snuck right out to the drop point. That was his error. He should have put a day or two between his exploring and his attempt to communicate. He could have more surreptitiously left the note in the evening and gotten away with it. But now it was possible—in fact, probable—that they suspected him of subterfuge.
But hell, he’d gotten the information, so maybe it was time to leave anyway. After the excruciatingly slow Tai Chi class had ended, McEnry made his way back down the green and called the phony number set up for him to communicate with the Bureau. He gave them the coded message: “Hey Melissa, how’s it going?”
Which was replied with “Oh, hi Tom, I’ve missed you so much!”
After this, they traded blanket platitudes and nonsense until the agent finally said, “My brother wants to speak to you,” which was code for Linar becoming available.
“Okay, put him on,” McEnry said.
“Tom!” Linar said, affecting a friendly tone that reminded McEnry of all the other affected friendly tones at the facility.
“Hi Greg, how’s it going?”
“Going good man. Going good. So, how’s the vacay going?”
“Oh you know, starting to get stir crazy. All this rest is tiring.”
“Ha haaa!” Linar laughed exaggeratedly. “Shit man, I wish I had the same problem! Up to my eyeballs in work. Good to hear from you though.” That was code, meaning they’d retrieved his message.
“Yeah, it’s good to speak to you.” [Copy that].
“So tell me, what’s going on, man?” [Report in, Agent McEnry].
“Oh not much, just got done with a Tai Chi session. Thinking of maybe slipping out of that and trying yoga instead.” [I want to leave the facility].
“You can do that?” Linar said, “Just slip out like that? But what about the other activities?” [You can’t leave yet, you still have a mission to perform].
“True, there are other activities, but I feel like I’m eating too much. I better watch my weight.” [I’m being observed and can’t gather intel].
“Hey man, you get fat you get fat, but the important thing is to stay there and see it through to the end. Otherwise, you won’t get better.” [Continue the mission, Agent].
“You got a point there. I guess I shouldn't quit so easily.” [Copy that].
“Well, that’s settled then. Hope to hear good news soon, bro!” [Report in again when you have new intel].
So, that was that. Request to abort denied. Trundling back up the hill, McEnry wondered what he’d even do for the rest of the day. This vacation was beginning to grow tiresome.
Chapter 19
Alden was being a broken record. He knew he was, but sometimes he couldn’t help himself. But he really needed to stop talking about himself before he put her off. He looked up nervously at Gwen again—there she was, practically sparkling with beauty. It made his heart swell. It made his head swell. It made his—then he’d start talking again, about himself, his work, his accomplishments. Even though you weren’t supposed to do that on a date, is talk about yourself all the time, because people didn’t like it when you did that, he’d heard.
He took a big gulp of wine and made himself calm down—impossible while looking at her, so instead he looked around the room: The finely woven tablecloths, the subtle ambient lighting, the arrow-straight posture of the waiters, the polished and well-manicured, costly suit wearing clientele of this establishment, the Fifth Avenue French restaurant Le Flam that he’d never visit in a blue moon, except that this was his blue moon. And also, he’d made a little extra money recently so... Patting his forehead with a tissue, he then said, “Why don’t you tell me more about you, Gwen?”
She smiled at him, and her lips parted like the red sea and her teeth were the land of milk and honey... And Alden saw that it was good. Real good. A sudden hallucination about how she might taste struck him—tightening his heart as if a pro wrestler had just punched a hole in his chest and grabbed it—he felt all the blood of his veins spinning about and his head felt so dizzy it was hard to sit straight. Hell, if he did ever get the chance to kiss her—at this point a mere dream among dreams—he’d have to make sure they were sitting down at the time. All of his attempts at being composed would be so much smoke if he wound up fainting on her like some cheesy damsel from a—
“Alden?” Gwen said.
“Uh, umm, yes?”
“What do you think about that?”
Crap. He hadn’t heard a word she’d said. He’d been too distracted by the way her lips ended in little dimples, the generous size of her bottom lip, and how it squeezed gently when it pressed against the top one. He usually wasn’t this rude—in fact, he was generally very good at giving people attention. Not that he was good at conversing, though—in fact, trying to sort all the ideas in his head and leading them out in an orderly fashion, in real-time, was nothing short of impossible, but he did do the listening. He was a good listener; at least he had thought he was. But he was only human. And how could any mere mortal stand up against the mesmerizing form which was Gwen’s face?
“Is something the matter?” She said, a flash of worry suddenly appearing on that divine face.
He could bluff here, give a non-committal remark, but Alden wouldn’t let himself do that. It would be too much of an insult. No, the only thing to do was come clean.
“I’m awfully sorry,” he said, “I am interested, really very interested in what you have to say, but I’m afraid I didn’t catch that last thing.”
“Oh—” she said, her eyes turning a little glassy. “I thought—”
“You thought what?”
“No, it’s nothing. I thought I just said something to upset you is all.”
“Oh, no, no,” Alden said. “Nothing like that. I really just didn’t hear you.”
Gwen looked around the restaurant—it was a fine, upscale place. Not rowdy or loud at all. Alden caught that look.
“Look, Gwen, I’ll come clean,” Alden said, and seeing that worry on her face again made his heart twist backward this time. But he had committed to go on. “The thing is, I was distracted while you were talking.”
“You were... Distracted.”
“Yes.”
“Something on your mind?”
“You could say that.”
“What?”
“You.”
Gwen’s alarmingly blue eyes opened just a fraction and grew wetter just a touch—and the effect was more impressive than any summer blockbuster. “Alden,” is all she said, her cheeks faintly turning pink.
Now he suffered the opposite problem to before—he didn’t know what to say. Not a clue. The inside of his head had turned as blank white as Novatide’s clean room.
“So, if you could repeat what you said before,” Alden finally stammered out. “I’d be glad to give my opinion.”
“Oh it’s nothing, really,” she said, her voice somewhat fainter. “I just said how wouldn’t it be lovely to spend the day out on the river now that the weather’s getting warmer.”
“Oh,” Alden said. “Y—you’re talking about, you mean with me?”
“Of course you, silly.”
“I’d, well, I mean, if you, that is—I’d love to.”
She gently chuckled in the way that only Gwen could and it sent the ceiling nearly toppling down on him. In fact, he was lost in a daze for the rest of the date, scarcely remembering anything about it after that, and only finally smacked back into hard reality when the exorbitant check came landing in front of him, and along with it the feeling that he’d just been held up for his wallet. But not even that gouging of his savings could put a damper on his spirits. Whistling as he trundled back to work after his extended lunch, Alden jovially greeted his secretary—with whom he’d not really warmed up since her arrival, but now given his newfound happiness he thought he might make an effort.
“Back from lunch?” Miss Case said, her face not revealing any way she thought about it.
“Yes—I took a little longer than usual.”
“Oh?” She said.
“Yes, alright. You caught me. I was on a date. You forced it out of me!” Alden chuckled; Miss Case returned it with half a smile, at least he thought it might have been a smile.
“Hope you enjoyed it,” she said.
“I mean it wasn’t anything sordid,” Alden went on. “We actually went to a fine place over on Fifth Avenue. Le Flam, the place is called.”
“Le Flam?” Miss Case said, her ears seemingly pricking up. Of course, Alden thought, even the coldest female was no match for the charms of an uptown French restaurant.
“Yes. I know, it’s rather a nice place. Incredible interior. And the food—my god, their filet mignon. You definitely should try it sometime.”
“With my salary, I’m not sure I could,” she said simply. Then Alden realized he’d made an error. He shouldn’t be able to visit a place like that either on his salary, either. When a casual lunch costs upwards of four digits, it betrays certain facts about your fortune. A fortune he was meant to be kept secret.
“Oh, yes, of course,” Alden said quickly. “Well, in fact, I wasn’t the one who paid. I know—I know! But, in fact, I was with a friend who practically begged me to pay for lunch and—”
“And you chose Le Flam?” Miss Case said, one eyebrow raised.
“No, no of course I wouldn’t—I mean what do you take me for, really?” He was starting to get angry. Not just at this conversation, but at the fact he always felt like he had to explain himself, while people like Cranshaw could act like imperious douchebags all day long and never have to answer for it. Here Alden had spent over a decade never letting himself relax, tirelessly burning the midnight oil each evening to come up with the compound, 28 RX-7; he’d invented this wonder drug that had the potential to boost this company’s profits into the stratosphere, and why shouldn’t he indulge in the finer aspects of life from time to time? Didn’t he deserve it?
