The Dead Man

She nodded and took a breath, picking up speed as she spoke, gesturing like a manic conductor. 'Why? I mean, I know why. The money isn't yours. It's dirty. The FBI already thinks you know where it is. If you find it and start spending it, they'll be all over you in a heartbeat. You could go to jail. I know all that. But, what if you could keep it without getting caught? Five million dollars is a lot of money. Don't you ever think about that?'

Her face was flush, her breath quick. I knew the look. It was the rush of the impossibly possible, the one in a million shot that breaks the rules that shouldn't apply just this one time and that will fix everything forever but never does and always makes things worse. In that moment, she was Wendy at her most maddening.

'No. Not now. Not ever.'

'Well, hey, you're right. Me neither,' she said, slapping the steering wheel. 'You know what else I've been wondering. How did the mailman end up with Wendy's letter in the first place? If he was Corliss's mailman, was he yours too?'

'That's a question worth asking. Put it on your list after you talk to the construction crew. Finding someone at the post office who will talk to you may be a little tricky.'

'Not with my charm. What are you going to do?'

'I've got a lot of ground to cover today but I'm going to start with Anthony Corliss, give him a chance to come to Jesus with me before Kent and Dolan find their way to his office. Once they see Enoch's dream video, they'll have a tough choice to make.'

'What's that?'

'Who to arrest first, Corliss or me.'

Chapter Thirty-one

We reveal ourselves in many ways, denying, confessing, and rationalizing our faults while exaggerating or diminishing our glories. We embrace and chase those we love and covet, rejecting and denouncing others that threaten us. Our involuntary blinks, nods, winks, grimaces, and squints may flesh out our hidden selves, but nothing says more about us than what we do in the moments that test us, whether it's the hungry, homeless man with his hand out or that which tempts us when no one except God is looking and we aren't convinced He's on duty.

Lucy's question about the money revealed her needs rather than her faults. She had already told me what she'd done, what it had cost her, and how afraid she was of what she might do the next time. Now she was reminding me that she needed backup as much as I did. I hoped I would be kick-ass in the clutch for her.

'Morning,' Leonard said. 'Frank Gentry was up here looking for you. He waited in your office for a while but he gave up.'

'Great. Call him. Tell him I'm here now. I need to talk to him right away.'

'No good. He said he'd be tied up in an IT staff meeting until at least eleven and don't ask me to interrupt him.'

'Why not?'

'He was in the Special Forces. When those guys give you an order, you don't argue. They'll break your legs just to hear the sound it makes. Me, I'm a conscientious objector.'

'To the military?'

'To pain, especially mine.'

'Fair enough.'

The message light on my phone was blinking. It was a message from Gentry telling me that he'd left the report I'd asked for in the top left-hand drawer of my desk. I found the report in an envelope stamped confidential. It contained the list of staff people who had accessed the dream project files. Gentry had been thorough, alphabetizing the names and including columns identifying each person's position at the institute, their contact information, and the dates on which they had accessed the files. There were thirteen names on the list, including mine.

The least surprising names were Anthony Corliss, Maggie Brennan, and their research assistants, Janet Casey and Gary Kaufman. Four of the people on the list were identified as directors of other projects. I had no idea how their work related to the dream project but added that question to my to-do list. Gentry had included his name since he had accessed the files at my request, his access occurring last night.

The remaining names-Milo Harper, Sherry Fritzshall, and Leonard Nagel-registered on a scale somewhere between interesting and baffling. It took a moment for me to realize that Leonard Nagel was my Leonard. Gentry identified his title as administrative assistant to director of security, adding a footnote that Leonard's access was not authorized and that Gentry was continuing to investigate how he had breached the system security. All three were regular visitors, having accessed the dream project files before and after the deaths of Delaney, Blair, and Enoch.

Leonard's desk was across from my open office door. I watched him as he worked, tapping his Bluetooth earpiece as calls came in, flexing his irrepressible grin. He shuffled papers and scrolled through screens on his computer monitor, a combination pep squad leader and perpetual motion machine. He glanced my way, saw me watching, winked, and went back to work.

I called Simon, gave him all twelve names, and told him to make those background checks a top priority.

'Including Milo and Sherry?' he asked.

'Including them. Nobody gets a pass.'

'You going to tell Milo that you're investigating him?'

'Depends on what you come up with. I know he's your buddy. I need to know if you can do this.'

Simon hesitated. He was a loyal and devoted friend and I was putting him between those conflicting demands.

'I don't like it,' he said.

'What do you think Milo would tell you to do?'

This time, Simon didn't hesitate. 'Whatever it takes.'

'Those are the words the man lives by.'

'Milo's a celebrity. Sherry gets some press but not nearly as much as he does. There will be a ton of stuff on both of them. This will take awhile.'

'Focus on what's not in People magazine. And don't forget about Leonard. He's my assistant. The dream project files are password protected and he wasn't supposed to have the password. Find out if he's a got a track record of snooping or peeping.'

I got to Anthony Corliss's office the same time he did. He was wearing a waist-cut down jacket, jeans, and hiking boots damp from the snow. His cheeks were red, his hair matted against his scalp. He was holding a knit cap and scarf in one hand and a backpack in the other.

'Hey,' he said. 'Back for more?'

'Just a few questions.'

'Damn, I'm sweating like a stuck pig,' he said as he unlocked the door. 'Walked to work. Seemed like a good idea at the time and it's either exercise or die. I hate exercise but I'm not ready to die.'

'Where do you live?'

'Over in Crestwood, a couple of miles from here. Not a bad walk on a nice day but it was a bitch in this cold.'

I followed him into his office. He hung his coat, cap, and scarf on a hook on the back of his door, tossed the backpack on the couch, and dropped into his desk chair. I sat in a chair across from him.

'That's a little north of me. I'm in Brookside.'

'Well, then, I guess we're neighbors. That mean we're gonna be friends?' he asked, leaning back in his chair, flashing a smile.

'No reason we can't be. I need you to educate me.'

'About what?'

'For starters, the girl at Wisconsin who drowned.'

His smile vanished. 'You were a cop, right?'