"Perhaps, Lydia, we could maintain the illusion that I'm in charge of this office, at least when there's a client present."
"Client...?" She turned and saw me. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Walsh. I"--she waved at a tiny screen--"saw you get out of the car and you seemed to be alone."
"I am not."
"You never bring clients to the office on the weekend."
"So it's my fault. Naturally. Lydia, I'd like to introduce you--"
"Ms. Jones. Of course." She came out from behind the desk. "Please forgive my manners. May I get you a coffee or cold drink?"
I looked at Gabriel. "Are we staying?"
"We are." He turned to Lydia. "We need to conduct research involving your former employers. Don't bother with drinks. You should go enjoy your weekend."
She nodded, and I said good-bye as Gabriel led me through a second door into his office.
Back in high school, I'd had a friend whose father was the kind of guy who never flew business class ... because he never flew commercial at all. Her family made mine look positively middle-class. Her house had been a twenty-thousand-square-foot ode to modernity, yet her father insisted on having a study that he'd literally had transplanted from a historic manor. I remembered how much I loved that office, like something out of a Victorian novel. Gabriel's reminded me of that, though his actually suited the building.
The walls and floor were wood. The ceiling was decorative plaster, the design so intricate that I could lie on my back and stare at it for hours. And he had the chaise longue for exactly that, though from the looks of the leather, it didn't see much lounging. There was a massive fireplace along one wall, with the faint smell of ashes suggesting that did get used. The other three walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. It even had a wooden ladder on a track, for reaching books on the top shelf. That, too, didn't look used--Gabriel would stand head and shoulders above your average Victorian.
Gabriel pulled out the red leather chair behind his wood desk. Then he paused, frowned, and looked around. It took a moment before I realized he was looking for a second chair.
"Lydia must have taken it out," I said.
He shook his head. "I don't see clients in here. I'll pull one in from the meeting room."
As he left, I looked around. He didn't meet clients here? It was certainly impressive enough, and I'd presumed that was the point.
When he rolled in a chair, I said, "You said we're researching Lydia's former employer. She worked for the CIA?"
"For twenty years. Secretary to the Chicago field office special agent in charge."
In thinking Gabriel would hire a pretty young thing, I'd committed an unacceptable misjudgment of character. Would he really waste a decent salary on eye candy? Not when he could hire someone with ten times the experience for the same rate.
"You sent her home," I said. "I'm guessing that means we're about to use access she's given you, and you don't want her to be culpable, should it ever be discovered."
He popped open his laptop. "Not quite. Lydia no longer has access, and even if she did, I doubt she'd betray her previous employer by providing it. She has, however, shown me a few alternate routes to obtain information."
"Back doors?"
He nodded. "Anything Evans did before Peter's death would be at least twenty-two years old. That means it's unlikely to be classified. However, given that my simple background checks did not reveal precisely what he'd worked on, I'm presuming it's something that the CIA would prefer not to post in easily accessible locations."
"Unclassified, but only if you know where to find it."
"Correct."
Gabriel typed and navigated too fast for me to ever replicate his path, but he let me sit there, watching, which surprised me. Hell, after our spat over Desiree, I was surprised he hadn't called it a day and done this on his own. Likewise, he could have insisted I take that lunch break while he visited the Saints' clubhouse.
I could take this as a sign that our partnership had progressed to the point of actual trust. What's that old joke? "A friend helps you move; a real friend helps you move a body." We weren't friends; I knew that. But helping someone hide a body does take a relationship to a whole new level. Maybe it was trust. Or as close as we could get.
Chapter Fifty-five
Dr. Will Evans had indeed worked for the CIA. It wasn't a secret. It wasn't on his resume, either. Gabriel said that wasn't unusual. While his position didn't seem to have been classified, the CIA didn't exactly publish its employee lists.
At first, Gabriel wasn't able to get much more than confirmation that his name appeared on old records. Evans had been young, just out of grad school, and he'd worked on various projects as a psychologist.
"What did the CIA use psychologists for in the sixties?" I asked. "Things like post-traumatic stress? Or was the party line still 'suck it up and deal'?"