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  Lucy was, well, Lucy. Always doing or saying something that made Abby laugh, even though she knew a lot of her mother’s bravado covered up insecurities.

  “I’d say your man’s a bit on the serious side.”

  “Doesn’t Meyer read the same kind of books?”

  “I don’t give him much chance to read. By the end of the evening he’s too pooped to do anything but fall into bed and go to sleep. Of course, now things will be different, I guess, unless I can get him back to his old self.”

  Her wistful tone exposed a tinge of finality, a realization that Meyer’s old self might never re-emerge.

  “He’s coming along pretty well, though,” Lucy said.

  Abby reached for her and Lucy latched on to her hand. “He’ll come through. You watch. And it’s all because of you. I bet those evenings aren’t far from his mind either.”

  Lucy gave a little sniff. “They aren’t. At least that’s what he told me. I think he was trying to make me feel good, ’cause I don’t think things are working too well, if you know what I mean. We’ll see.”

  Too much information. Abby changed the subject back to Luke before she heard all about Lucy’s love life. She wouldn’t put it past her mother to test the waters, even after a few weeks.

  “What about photographs?” Abby asked. “Nothing tells more about a person than photos.”

  “There’s only one framed photo on the mantle. An old photo of a woman and two boys. Must be his mother and, does he have a brother?”

  “He did have, but he lost track of him.”

  “You’d think a cop could find his own brother if he wanted to, wouldn’t you?” Lucy picked up the frame and studied it. “Luke hasn’t changed much. A handsome young boy. The brother is cute but delicate-looking, favors the mother. Luke must resemble his father.”

  “Luke wouldn’t like that comparison.”

  “I’m starved,” Lucy said. “How ’bout I make dinner and we eat outside.”

  “Dinner sounds great, but we’ll eat inside. Luke would probably think that’s unsafe.”

  “Hmm, protective, huh?”

  “Only until they catch whoever is trying to screw up my life.”

  “Stewart?”

  “We don’t think so.”

  “I’ll make dinner.”

  Lucy’s fizzled attention span left Abby without a tour guide. But she’d learned a lot about Luke McCallister. Yes, she felt nosy and invasive, but she needed a visual picture of how he lived his life. Abby knew more about his inside than his outside, and even that seemed to have a locked cupboard. Lucy’s travelogue helped acquaint her with a side of Luke out of her reach.

  They ate sautéed tilapia served over a bed of braised spinach with a slice of cantaloupe on the side and drank apple juice in wine glasses. Abby would have loved a glass of chardonnay, but not tonight. Not so close to Lucy’s near breach of the twelve steps.

  “Dinner’s tasty, Lucy.”

  “Luke’s a good guy.”

  “I know, but there’s something inside him I can’t reach.”

  “Do you think it’s important?”

  Abby thought about Luke and how he closed up whenever she got too close to drawing out his past. She felt her stomach sink. “Yeah, I think it’s very important.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Black Widow

  Lucy dashed out the door the minute Luke returned early the next morning. “Glad you’re home safe. Gotta hurry. I want to stop by to see Meyer before I open the shop.”

  He called his thanks to her back. “She’s a whirlwind.”

  “An understatement,” Abby said. “How did it go?”

  “I was nervous as a feral cat. They insisted on a back booth, but the place was small, and I could see them clearly enough. Got the time and place, so it worked out. Everyone was happy.”

  “That’s great. You watch, they’ll be calling you from all over the country. Have you eaten breakfast?”

  “Coffee. I’ll make something after I email Matt.”

  “Lucy made French toast. It’s still warm.”

  “Great.” Luke didn’t want to further involve Pete in a case where he might have to tap dance around police procedure. The instant messaging worked fine. He typed Matt’s address, and he answered immediately. Both men typed fast. Luke read the dialogue out loud for Abby.

  Matt: “Receptormine, the primary product produced by Synthetec, the small pharmaceutical company owned primarily by the Gentry family, went through years of clinical trials with mixed results. Enough positive data secured its approval by the FDA, and eventually it was hailed as a breakthrough in the treatment of schizophrenia. Martin Gentry instituted a major advertising campaign—television, print, you name it. The stock soared. Then a few deaths linked to the drug sent the stock into a tailspin. Martin and his publicity department went into high gear. The company released the results of numerous trial cases, all successful.

  I started poking around and found a Synthetec chemist who told me that their studies had been doctored. He made me promise I wouldn’t use his name, because if word got out that he’d divulged company secrets, he’d lose his job, or worse. I called a few other Synthetec employees to verify what he’d told me, but no one would speak to me, confidentially or otherwise.

  My source had no reason to lie, so I wrote an article questioning the validity of the trials without giving away my source. How do they say in politics? Something about the anonymity of an unnamed source? Then my kitchen blew up. I would have gone up with it if it weren’t for a stroke of luck that took me out of harm’s way. Shook me up plenty.”

  Luke: “They tried to kill you, Matt. Why didn’t you go to the police?”

  Matt: I did. They couldn’t find anything suspicious, or didn’t want to. Whoever rigged the stove used a delay. A few seconds, but it gave me enough time. I set my pan on the burner and turned on the gas. Then the phone rang, and when I went to answer it, boom. Sent me flying. I escaped injury, but the near miss scared my chemist into recanting his story, and I couldn’t get him to change his mind.

  “Martin subjected Receptormine to tests by an independent lab that determined the drug wasn’t a panacea for the treatment of schizophrenia, but neither was it entirely ineffective. As with most drugs, success depended on the reaction of each individual patient. Okay, I could live with that. My bosses told me to back off, and I did.

  “But after Martin died, things changed. Carlotta Gentry set up a research lab independent of Synthetec. On paper, she had nothing to do with it, which allowed the Gentry-Serrano Foundation to award a grant to the researchers to perfect a second generation of the drug, along with researching other anti-psychotics. The foundation board, comprising Serrano-Gentry buddies, either overlooked the blatant conflict of interest or they didn’t know what was going on.

  Luke: “What if you went public with the chemist’s name?”

  Matt: “It’d probably get him killed, and I don’t want that on my conscience. Anyway, he said if I used his name, he’d deny everything and sue me for libel. I should have taped him.

  “Now here’s where it gets interesting. Before the stove incident, the chemist gave me the name of another chemist. What she told me blew me away. This time I brought along my recorder. I can send you a copy of the tape.”

  Luke: “Who is she?”

  Matt: “Her name is Dr. Valentina Kozov, and she had a dialogue with her conscience. Here’s why. Carlotta Gentry’s research lab houses a second lab that manufactures a combination form of the potent psychedelic DMT. The variation, a mix of plant and synthetics, produced in this lab is more controllable and has longer-lasting results than an ordinary street hit of DMT. The drug can be ingested as a pill or injected in liquid form. Administered in the right dosage, it’s the perfect pharmacological weapon to induce long-lasting highs, including major psychedelic side effects, like vision and voices. Now, I ask you, why would anyone want to create such a drug, other than for the street?”

  Luke: “Je
sus, this is all starting to come together.” Luke then typed in the description of the pills found in the cabin.

  Matt: “You’re right, Luke. This is coming together. Dr. Kozov gave me a detailed explanation, which I didn’t understand, but the bottom line was that when she ran her own trials, she realized its chemical composition provoked schizophrenic symptoms in individuals with a genetic history of mental illness. When she approached her superiors with her findings, they removed her from the project. Curious, she questioned the drug’s alleged application and her boss said her services were no longer required.”

  Luke: “Did she go to the FDA or report it?”

  Matt: “No. She was approached by one of the bosses who offered a suggestion—or in her opinion, a veiled threat—that she think carefully before divulging anything to put her or her family at risk. She stressed to me that if the conversation had been taped, nothing he said could be interpreted as intimidating. She felt fortunate to leave the company in one piece. I asked her what would happen if she were called upon to testify against anyone involved at the lab. She said she’d disavow any knowledge of the drug’s production. When I asked her if she would commit perjury, she said, ‘Absolutely.’ I think she may be in the country illegally. None of that matters because after the interview, Dr. Valentina Kozov disappeared.”

  Luke’s hands paused over the keyboard while he took in the implications. The eerie implication that Mrs. Gentry’s company developed a drug that induced her son’s illness sent chills down Luke’s spine. If Stewart had a genetic predisposition to mental illness, why would she turn that into a reality?

  Luke’s suspicions raised more questions.

  Luke: “What are the names of the chemist’s superiors?”

  Matt: “Dr. Sylvan Crock supervised the secret laboratory. I’ve run the name. It’s a phony. Kozov said she never saw Crock, no one did, but the guy who threatened her was a tall, athletic man who dressed in expensive clothes, sported a Vandyke beard, and gave her the creeps.”

  Luke: “Who is he?”

  Matt: “His name is Graeme Collyer. He’s a ruthless SOB. Whoever gets in his way will wish he hadn’t. If I didn’t have a major character flaw, I’d have learned my lesson. But I’m too hardheaded to benefit from experience. I’d bet the state-of-the art wine cooler in my brand-new kitchen that he rigged the explosion in my old one. Collyer’s a South African, and I bet his résumé reads like an advertisement from Soldier of Fortune magazine.”

  Luke: “You’re saying he’s a mercenary?”

  Matt: “That’s what I think.”

  “That’s it!” Abby said, slapping her leg.

  Luke: “Hold on for a minute, Matt. Abby has something to say.”

  “Remember I said something caught my attention the night I was attacked? It wasn’t his voice. It was his accent. That’s why he didn’t want to speak. He only said a few words, but he definitely had an accent. Ask Matt if Collyer chew cloves?”

  Luke typed in the question.

  Matt: “I don’t know. I’ve only seen him from a distance.”

  Luke: “Why would someone like that work for Carlotta Gentry?”

  Matt: “He doesn’t. At least not openly. For the last few years he’s free-lanced in Boston for her father, Anthony Serrano.”

  Luke: “So Serrano really is Mafia.”

  Matt: “A dying breed, and Carlotta Gentry is Daddy’s little girl. Ask Abby. Carlotta portrays herself as this benevolent philanthropist, but she’s a controlling black widow, ready to inject her poisonous venom to achieve power over the kingdom. Money alone can’t accomplish that. She needs someone like Collyer to sweep the way clear.”

  Luke: “And you have no idea what happened to Dr. Kozov?”

  Matt: “Nope. When Kozov started to have misgivings about her role in the production of the drug, she couldn’t sleep and began losing weight. In exchange for her silence, she received a recommendation. But she must have feared for her life. She either went underground or the bad guys took her out permanently.”

  Luke: “It’s starting to make sense. Voice synthesizers, money drops, Daisy. Too sophisticated and professional for anyone around here. I think that’s what’s been bothering me all along.”

  Matt: “Your intuition’s right. I have one more possibility I want to check out. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try. I’ll get back to you.”

  * * * * *

  It took two days, but Matt finally convinced the widow of Martin Gentry’s accountant to search her husband’s papers. When she found what he wanted, he spent all night going over the papers. She had no idea she was concealing information that contributed to her husband’s death. The financial reports had been in his safe deposit box when he died and were then boxed with other papers from her first marriage. Matt hoped he hadn’t put her life in danger by asking to see them.

  The documents were the smoking gun he’d been searching for and explained at least part of what he’d been trying to prove. He would need more time to get an accurate picture of what they meant, but right now, he wanted the originals out of his house and in his safe deposit box at the bank, especially after seeing the Lincoln yesterday morning.

  He’d make copies and put them in his hidden vault. Vault? A euphemism. The papers would be so well hidden, he worried no one would find them if anything happened to him. Just as well he didn’t have them when he sent Luke the tapes of Kozov’s conversation. He’d already put Abby and Luke at risk. He’d called them from a pay phone because he didn’t trust his own phones any more. Paranoia was setting in. He’d call Abby later and fill them in.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Knowing the Risks

  “Collyer has to be responsible for everything that’s happened to me.” Abby said. “That day in the hallway of my office, the ransacking of my home, the attack in the yard, and the incident with my mother in the car. Everything, and all at the command of Carlotta Gentry.”

  “Looks that way. You’ve met her. What’s she like?”

  Abby leaned back, swiveled the chair to the side, and stretched her long legs. “She always reminded me of Katherine Hepburn: tall and bony with an imperious attitude and affected New England accent that spoke money. The tall and bony was genetic, the attitude acquired, and the accent contrived. Oh, she came from money, all right, but I’d heard the rumors it wasn’t the right kind. I never paid much attention. As far as I knew, Anthony Serrano made his fortune recycling junk before it became trendy.”

  “So how did the heir of an old Charleston family and the daughter of a Boston blue-collar millionaire get together?”

  “I don’t know. Stewart never talked much about his parents. Mr. Gentry was a handsome man, rather a rascal. I heard talk of affairs and gambling. Mrs. Gentry rarely spoke to me, let alone confided about business or family. At the time, that suited me fine. My lower middle-class self never felt comfortable in their company.”

  “Did you ever have a problem with any of them?”

  “Not so I’d be on anyone’s hit list. After all these years, why would Carlotta Gentry send someone to harass me? I don’t get it.”

  “That’s the million-dollar question, but it has something to do with your ex-husband. Bet my life on it.”

  Abby didn’t like the sound of that.

  * * * * *

  Matt pulled the copies from the printer in his home office and tucked them into his special vault. Yesterday was the second time he saw a Lincoln Navigator behind him. Was it the same car both times? The driver wasn’t Collyer; he knew that. But with the South African running the show, he could employ any number of thugs. Maybe he should have called the police. And what? Say he saw a car following him?

  Living in a secluded area offered plusses and minuses, solitude being the beneficiary of both. Nothing suspicious caught his attention, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he got into his car. His nerves were shot. Then he thought of his stove and knew he had reason to be nervous.

  A quick glance at his dash clock gave hi
m about twenty minutes to get to the bank by opening time. He took the fastest route into town but also the most desolate. Then he saw it in the rear view mirror—a black Navigator, moving up behind like an on-track missile. Sweat oozed from every pore. His heart rate accelerated.

  Stupid. He should have called the police. Matt couldn’t see the driver through the Lincoln’s darkened windows. He checked the mirror. No one behind but the black bullet. No one coming the other way, either. He reached for his cell phone. Shit. He’d left it on his desk. Of all times to be forgetful. He stepped on the accelerator, slamming his foot to the floor.

  Sixty.

  Seventy.

  The Lincoln kept gaining ground.

  Eighty.

  Eight-five.

  He’d never driven this fast in his life. The Navigator was almost on his bumper.

  Ninety.

  He was coming into the curve, knuckles white, palms sweaty-slick on the wheel. The Lincoln pulled alongside. Matt saw the dark forms of a driver and a passenger, both faces obscured behind tinted glass. The window slid down a few inches, and a gun barrel poked through, aimed in Matt’s direction. Fear gripped him, and he lost his concentration. He turned into the curve too fast and pulled sharply to the right. Too sharply. He straightened the wheel, but the Lincoln forced him to veer out of its way, swerve back hard into the turn. The car went into a long skid. He couldn’t pull it out. Then he was sliding. It felt like he was on two wheels. He jumped the embankment, then careened onto its side. Rolling. Once. Twice. The seatbelt held him tight as he tumbled into the ravine and, after a slow final flip, landed right-side up.

  The airbag inflated on impact and pressed against Matt’s face before deflating. He was strapped into his seat with water and mud oozing into the car like a sluggish river of cold lava. The envelope lay next to him. If only he could bury it in the viscous sludge or stuff it under him so they couldn’t see it. He worked his fingers free, but his arm was caught under something. He couldn’t move it. The steering wheel pressed against his rib cage. Pain shot through him with every attempted breath.