like your daughter back, Dennis? What would that be worth to you?’
Groote opened his mouth, then closed it.
‘Everything, wouldn’t it?’
‘Sure,’ Groote said. ‘I would want it for my daughter.’
‘You and many, many other people. Experts estimate that up to ten percent of the American population, ten percent of the European population, suffers from a form of PTSD. That’s many millions of potential patients. And then we have all the soldiers coming back from the Middle East fresh from war, with as many as forty percent with traumatic memories. Huge cost, right there. And the civilian populations in the war zones. Add in all the other horrors of life that can haunt us: hurricanes, assaults, rapes, car crashes, accidents, terrorist attacks… well, you can see fighting trauma is a growth market.’ Quantrill took another sip of his juice, poured a glass from the carafe for Groote, handed it to him.
‘I haven’t heard of any drug research along these lines, and I follow anything that could help my girl.’
‘The research and testing has been done, well, under the table. So I can sell the research to a pharmaceutical and they can claim it’s a product of their own development. I get an ongoing percentage. Sooner that’s done, sooner Amanda and everyone who needs the drug gets it.’
Groote’s mouth went dry. ‘Why’s the research got to be secret?’
‘Not your worry. But I do need you to worry about a woman in Santa Fe. Her name is Doctor Allison Vance. She’s been working with the patients who’ve tested the drug in a psych hospital I own there. My research director’s worried that she might blow a whistle on me to the FDA. She does that, no miracle drug for anybody. Including Amanda.’
‘I already dislike Doctor Vance intensely,’ Groote said. ‘I’m sure she’s a truly awful person.’
Quantrill grinned. ‘I knew you were the right guy for this job. Go to New Mexico on the next available flight. Bring back the research materials to me. I know they’ll be safe with you. And if Doctor Vance becomes a problem, then I need you to introduce her to a very serious accident.’
THREE
Pull yourself together, Miles told himself. Andy quit following him as he ran along Paseo de Peralta and turned the corner onto Canyon Road. He’s fighting you because he’s afraid you really will make him go away.
Miles stopped running, stuck a hand in his pocket, closed his fingers around the pills Allison had given him. No, he wouldn’t take one yet; he wanted his mind sharp at work. As sharp as it could be. If Andy reappeared… then down the pill. But Andy didn’t seem to enjoy the gallery much and Miles walked on surer footing inside its walls.
The exercise calmed him, but he couldn’t shake Sorenson out of his thoughts. The man had seemed ready to take a swing at Miles; he didn’t carry the soothing air of a psychiatrist easing a startled patient. Miles played the odd session back in his head. Just springing another therapist on him was wrong, dead wrong, not the sort of thing Allison did. A therapist wasn’t supposed to do the unexpected. Life rattled his cage enough most days.
Right now the gallery beckoned as his refuge.
Miles had had only two job interviews in his whole life. He’d always worked for his dad at Kendrick Investigation Services, in its strip-mall office between a pawnshop and a vintage-clothing store in a Miami neighborhood. When Andy brought Miles to meet the Barradas two days after his father’s funeral, his first job interview had been decidedly one-sided: Your dad owed us three hundred thousand off greyhounds and ponies, Miles, and he put up the agency as collateral. So we could take your business right this minute. But thanks to your buddy Andy, we’re offering you a deal. We need a man to be our own personal spy, Miles. We need you to steal information for us. Get the incriminating evidence on other rings – find out who their dealers are, their suppliers, where they’re stashing and cleaning their money. We have that, we take them down, we take over their business. You can give us leverage, give us a competitive advantage. Mr. Barrada enjoyed reading the latest business-book best sellers and adapting their ideas to mob life. You do that for us when we ask for the next two years, our debt’s settled. And, scared to the bone, he’d had no choice but to say yes.
The interview with Joy Garrison had been equally difficult. He’d walked through the gallery, his Witness Security inspector contemplating the paintings and their high price tags, and followed Joy upstairs to her private office. She was a petite woman, fiftyish, attractive, and at first he thought she was the stereotypical Santa Fe hippy-dippy, in her billowy pants and her silver-and-turquoise jewelry. But as soon as he sat across from her he recognized a toughness in her eyes that rivaled that of Mr. Barrada.
She studied him for an agonizing minute. He forced himself not to fidget in the chair.
Finally she said, ‘You really want this job.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘But you don’t know shit about art, do you, honey?’
‘Not much, ma’am. But I-’ And he stopped because Andy stood in the corner, arms crossed.
‘What’s the matter? But what?’
‘I wanted to go to art school. Learn photography. I didn’t get the chance.’
‘Parents disapproved?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Said they wouldn’t pay for a waste of money.’
‘My parents said the same thing. They were right, I couldn’t draw a straight line. But being an artist and selling art are two different skill sets.’ She laughed. ‘This gallery pays for Mama and Daddy to be in a real nice retirement village.’
‘I’m a hard worker, ma’am. I can move the art for you, lots of those paintings and sculptures must be pretty heavy.’
‘I need brain more than brawn. Inspector Pitts says you’re handy with computers. I sell to collectors all over the country but my Web site’s crap – I need a much more effective one. I also need help tracking inventory.’
‘Yes, ma’am. I can build you a database, build or manage a Web site, run and fix your computers, make your systems more secure, whatever you need.’ He didn’t want to see Andy, so he kept his gaze locked on his lap. ‘You tell me how to sell art, I’ll sell art. I’ll do whatever you need.’
‘Hon, look at me when you talk to me.’
He looked up.
‘We’ll go slow on you selling, until you can look people in the eye.’
He swallowed. ‘That’s probably a good idea.’
‘You’re not my first federal witness to hire. They sent me an embezzler two years ago. She did just fine for two months, then she stole five thousand from my ex-husband.’ Joy shrugged. ‘Better him than me.’
‘I won’t steal.’
‘You understand I’m the only one here who knows you’re a witness. Inspector Pitts didn’t tell me your real name, or where you’re originally from. Just your new name, and your criminal record and your past work skills as reported to WITSEC.’
‘I don’t have a record, ma’am.’
‘That’s why you have the job, honey.’
He remembered to breathe. ‘Thank you. You won’t be sorry.’
She leaned forward. ‘I can imagine you’ve been through a real ordeal, walking away from your life. I want you to know, Michael, that you can trust me. No one else at the gallery will know you’re in the witness protection program. I will never, ever betray that trust.’
‘Thank you. I hope to earn your trust, Mrs. Garrison.’
‘Call me Joy. You start tomorrow.’
She stood and he stood and shook her hand, and he’d loved the job for the past two months.
The door to the Joy Garrison Gallery jangled as he opened and closed it. The gallery represented fourteen artists who were growing in repute among collectors. Most of the paintings and sculptures were priced at two thousand dollars or more, and Miles wished he could have made a living creating calm beauty on canvas. Miles nodded at Joy and her son Cinco as he stepped into the back office where he and the staff worked. She sat at a sales rep’s desk, jotting on a sticky note. She raised an eyebrow; Cinco stayed on the phone with a New York
