The Garden of Betrayal - Lee Vance [106]
My phone rang as I resumed pacing. I answered it and heard Amy’s voice.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Fine,” I said, spotting a cockroach the size of my thumb on the ceiling. “What’s up?”
“Susan called. Walter wants to see you.”
“That’s a surprise.” Alex’s funeral had been held that morning.
“I know. I asked what it was about. All Susan knew was that Walter’s at home in the city, and that he wants you to stop by as soon as possible.”
The hubris that led Walter to believe I’d drop everything and hustle on over to his town house after the way he’d treated me was offensive, and I was more than a little tempted to insist that he call on me instead. Regretfully, I couldn’t afford the luxury of holding a grudge. I still wanted to know who he’d seen and what he’d learned in Washington.
“Not going to work for me. Tell her that I’ll call in later to set something up for tomorrow.”
“You sure?”
“Waiting won’t kill him.” A shadow fell on the window curtain; someone was in the gallery just outside my room. “Text or e-mail me if you have anything else,” I whispered. “I have to go now.”
I hung up without waiting for her answer and moved silently to the door, imagining I could sense someone on the other side. I touched the gun in my pocket to reassure myself. Reggie and Claire had been united in insisting that I carry it, much to my surprise. I took a deep breath and jerked the door open.
Mohler was hunched over on the other side, head angled as if he’d been trying to eavesdrop. He was wearing a black trenchcoat with the collar turned up and a Clouseau-like herringbone hat. Startled by my sudden appearance, he leaped sideways, his stupid hat falling to the ground. My nerves had been stretched taut, but it was impossible to feel intimidated by him. My initial impression came back—he was a little man in over his head. I picked up the hat and offered it to him.
“I know you,” he said, snatching it from me and working his fingers along the brim. “You’re the guy who was in my office the other day. The telephone guy.”
“And I know you,” I answered. “You’re the guy who surfs spanking porn all day and transfers money between numbered accounts once a month.”
His lips twitched, exposing crooked front teeth.
“You’re fucking with the wrong people. You have no idea what kind of trouble you’re in.”
“Maybe not. But I know what kind of trouble you’re in. So, why don’t you come on in, and we’ll talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Then why are you here?”
His lips twitched again, but he seemed to have run out of bravado. He entered the room slowly, head darting from side to side. There was nothing to see except the bed, the nightstand, a low chest of drawers, and a green tartan–upholstered chair. I flicked on the overhead light, shut the door, and sat down on a corner of the bed. I figured it had to be marginally cleaner than the chair.
“You’re not any kind of cop,” Mohler said, turning to face me. “You wouldn’t be alone if you were. Which makes you—what? A shakedown artist?”
“An interested party.”
“An interested party who broke into my computer system,” he said, reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out a hard copy of the e-mail I’d sent him. “And who’s threatening to expose me to