‘You – you should take his call in my office,’ Hurley said in a daze.
‘I’ll do that.’
He walked back to Hurley’s office and thumbed the phone’s button. ‘Groote.’
‘Tell me you have Frost back.’
Groote kept his voice calm. ‘Cut the drama. If I had it I’d have already called. I need you and Hurley to keep your heads on straight, you got me?’
He heard Quantrill take a calming breath. ‘So what’s the situation?’
‘I have a theory. She takes on exposing you, it’s natural to assume she had help, and Nathan says she asked this Michael Raymond guy for help. Raymond works at an art gallery, which doesn’t make sense in terms of how he could help her – but say Nathan’s telling the truth. Michael Raymond realized your drug was going to go for a premium price. So he uses Allison to get Frost. Then he gets rid of Allison.’
‘A bomb… who would use a bomb?’ Quantrill’s voice held a sudden fear in it that replaced the impatience of a minute ago.
‘We don’t know it was a bomb. Could have been he rigged a gas explosion. We don’t know shit about this guy except his name and he works in an art gallery.’ He paused. ‘Both mentioned another name. Sorenson. Nathan and Raymond claimed Sorenson was a guy who came to Allison’s house after she died, but I never saw him. So either there’s another player working here, role unknown, or they’re lying to me. I got to go with what I know.’
Quantrill considered in silence.
‘Mr. Quantrill,’ Groote said, ‘I need you to be honest with me. You got enemies, I’m guessing, other than this woman who might have been a whistle-blower. Who knows about Frost? Who might try to steal it from you?’
‘A pharmaceutical. Another information broker.’
‘The drug company so they could produce it. The broker so he could sell the research.’
‘Or,’ Quantrill said slowly, ‘Michael Raymond might want a financial payment. He doesn’t blow the whistle the way Allison would. He sells me back the research copies for a price.’
‘But then when I spoke to him he didn’t want to set up a meeting. He seemed… confused. But he did say he knew where Frost was, it would take time, but he’d call me back.’
‘Then he’s wanting us to squirm to drive up the price.’
‘If he goes public…’
‘No drug company could produce a medication based on illegal testing,’ Quantrill said. ‘We have to bury how Frost was tested. It would kill the research in its tracks. Years before anyone would touch it again or bring it to market.’
Years Amanda didn’t have. ‘Then the money has to be his motivation. Otherwise he would have gone public already.’
‘Find him. Say you’ll pay him five million for Frost. You’ll have to make sure he hasn’t passed the information on to anyone else. Obviously you can’t leave him alive.’
‘I’ll get out the screwdriver.’ He hung up and Groote checked his gun and his watch. First try the gallery for Michael Raymond, then try the apartment. A gallery. It didn’t fit a guy who Allison Vance would ask for help. And that bothered Groote. He didn’t like walking into the unknown.
He fitted his gun into his jacket holster and headed for the parking lot.
SIXTEEN
Groote walked into the gallery. He surveyed the art on the walls with indifference: portraits of Navajo and cowboy, landscapes of burnished New Mexico desert and wildflower-dotted fields. He read the price tag on one landscape of a stone-choked creek. Eleven thousand dollars. He’d killed a man for less once.
He stopped and listened with care. He guessed there were two people in the gallery, from the murmur of voices. A woman, a man, talking softly from the rear of the gallery. He left his sunglasses in place – no need to be easily recognizable. He went back to the door, flipped the OPEN sign of engraved, polished metal to CLOSED, turned the dead bolt. He hoped he didn’t have to kill everyone in the building. He’d prefer to get Raymond out of the building, get him alone. But better to be prepared.
He headed for the back office, listening to the man’s voice, unsure if it was Raymond’s. He scanned the floor plan. Two exits off the hallway, a set of stairs going up to another display room of art, three more rooms to his left, a short hallway and a set of French doors to his right.
He stopped at the back office’s door. A fiftyish woman, brightly pretty, and a man in his thirties stopped talking and both smiled at him, ready to part him from his money for one of the paintings outside. They were clearly mother and son; the family resemblance was striking. There was a third desk in the corner, empty.
‘Hi, may I help you?’ the woman asked.
‘Yes, ma’am, I need to see Michael Raymond. I promised to buy a painting from him.’
The woman seemed to freeze for a second, then said in a rush: ‘Well, I’m sorry, Michael’s not here this afternoon. I’m Joy Garrison, the owner; this is my son Cinco. May we assist you?’
Groote glanced at Cinco, who opened his mouth as though to interrupt the woman, then shut it.
‘Mom-’
‘Cinco, it’s fine,’ Joy said in a tone that brooked no discussion. The phone rang; Cinco picked it up, said hello, and started answering a question about the gallery’s operating hours.
‘Which painting were you interested in?’ Joy asked.
The woman must want to scoop the commission, Groote thought. ‘The landscape by the front door. How odd. Michael told me he would be here today. But I’d like to talk to him about it, make sure he gets the commission.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry he’s not here.’
‘When’s he expected back?’
But then she snapped her fingers. ‘Oh. Wait. You’re right. He will be here today. Around six, right before we close. Picking up his paycheck. I forgot he told me.’
Groote nodded. ‘Okay, then, I was sure I’d lost my mind.’ He laughed politely. ‘I’ll check back with him around six.’
‘Did you want to leave a name, sir?’ Cinco hung up the phone.
‘Jason Brown,’ Groote lied, because to refuse a name would be suspicious.
The phone beeped and Joy Garrison punched a button. ‘Yes?’ she said. ‘Of course I can get you that painting, sir, yes…’ and started to nod, jot words down on a notepad.
It still seemed wrong, but he heard a rattling at the door, another customer testing the knob in surprise at the early closing, so he went back to the door, flipped the sign and opened the lock, keeping his back so Cinco and Joy couldn’t see what he’d done. He said, ‘Excuse me,’ to two turquoise-bedecked tourists, slid past them, headed for his car. Time for Plan B – go to Michael Raymond’s home address, see if he was there, and if not, search the place for an idea of who he was. Then come back around six for a private talk with Michael Raymond.
Groote was ten blocks away when he realized his mistake, and he powered the car hard around in a screeching U-turn.
SEVENTEEN
Miles, coming out of Joy’s office up on the second floor, saw the man, saw him flip the sign and lock the door, and thought: He’s here for me. He took four silent steps back from the railing, ducking behind a sculpture of a crouching cougar and wondering if this was the man who had chased him from Allison’s apartment. The shooter.
Then the man spoke to Joy and Cinco, asking for him by name, and Miles was sure.
He had no weapon, but he grabbed a small sculpture – an iron figure of a Sioux warrior. The rider rose high
