by Polly Iyer
“Oh, right. Receptormine, isn’t it?”
“A miracle drug,” Scanlon said proudly. “It’s done wonders for Stewart.”
“So much so that he felt well enough to leave his safe haven and find his ex-wife.”
“I know nothing about that. We’re doing our best to return him to this hospital where he’ll be well taken care of.”
“Really.” Luke hoped the word sounded sarcastic. “I’m confused. If Receptormine is such a miracle drug, how come Stewart Gentry isn’t taking it?”
Scanlon jerked to attention. Luke imagined the haughtiness in his voice. “What are you talking about? Stewart’s been on the drug since we developed it.”
“I have some of Stewart’s pills. I think the FDA would find their composition interesting because, you see, they’re not anti-psychotics at all. They’re hallucinogens. Don’t you find that fascinating, Doctor?”
Scanlon’s ghostly white face turned even whiter, and his tiny body affected an almost effeminate pose. He cocked his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about the secret lab where this drug is produced.”
“Synthetec is the only pharmaceutical lab in this city. If anyone else is producing drugs here, I certainly don’t know about it. Since you’re accusing Synthetec of developing an illegal substance, I suppose these pills of yours have their mark on them?”
Luke hoped Scanlon wouldn’t bring that up. He said nothing.
“No? I’m shocked! You come in here attacking my good name with no proof. I think you’re a perfect candidate for Receptormine, Detective. You’re delusional. Hallucinogens, secret laboratories. Where do you get these ideas? I’ve wasted enough of my time. I suggest you think long and hard before you repeat these ridiculous accusations, or my lawyer will slap you with a slander suit that will break you.”
“Go ahead, because you’d have to prove the allegations false. They’re not, and we both know they’re not.”
“And you have to prove they are, Detective McCallister. You can’t do that.” He pressed the intercom button and the secretary opened the door. “My secretary will see you out. Good day.”
An over-the-shoulder glance caught the Casper-like figure reaching out with a shaky hand for the phone before Luke cleared the doorway.
* * * * *
Carlotta Gentry picked up the phone and heard Herbert Scanlon’s frantic voice.
“He was here, Carlotta. That McCallister cop was here.”
“We knew he was there, Herbert. Why are you all in a tizzy?”
“I’ll tell you why.”
Carlotta heard Scanlon’s deep controlled breaths in her earpiece.
“McCallister knows about the drug, he knows about the lab, he knows everything. He’s going to blow this whole thing wide open. I can’t have that. That’s my tizzy.”
She always worried about Scanlon. He was the mad scientist with no concept of anything other than his experiments on the human brain and the drugs that alter its function. She had to keep him under control.
“Stop it, Herbert. He doesn’t know everything. If he did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. He only suspects, and suspicions don’t mean shit. Nothing’s going to happen. Detective McAllister won’t say a word, and my police department wouldn’t listen anyway. Don’t I always take care of things?”
“Don’t forget Archer. He’s a rogue cop who won’t be silenced. He’s smart, honest, and doesn’t give a rat’s ass about bucking your authority or anyone else’s.”
“This is still my city. I admit, Archer is a problem. It hasn’t been easy working around him, but I’ve managed. Bottom line: If I want Archer taken care of, he will be. And it will be a tragic accident in the line of duty.”
“This is different. If Stewart talks to the wrong people—”
Carlotta felt the heat rise on her face. “I thought you said he wouldn’t.” She pulled a lace-trimmed handkerchief from her jacket pocket and dabbed her forehead. “You assured me that the only person he trusts is Abigael.”
“You hear what you want, no matter how many times I explain the facts. There is no sure thing when it comes to the mind. Stewart has been conditioned not to say anything about Martin and that other business, but in spite of all my tactics, he’s refused to give up the information you want. At least not to us. Your ex-daughter-in-law is our last hope, but it doesn’t seem like Stewart has opened up to her either.”
“Not yet, but he will. Stewart was always my most unpredictable child. Unpredictable and uncontrollable. I had hoped he’d tell Abigael before anyone else got involved, but that hasn’t happened. Now, besides her cop boyfriend, Archer and another psychiatrist are involved—a doctor Stewart might trust, because he sure as hell didn’t trust you.”
“I couldn’t do too much about that. He didn’t trust me from the beginning. Part of our problem is that psycho Collyer you have working for you. He should be locked up in my hospital. If he hadn’t played games with the Gallant woman, there’d be no cop involved, and McCallister wouldn’t be here in Charleston cozying up to Archer.”
“That psycho and his men take care of all the dirty work no one else wants to do. He took care of that pesky reporter, didn’t he?”
“Another person who wouldn’t have been involved if it weren’t for McCallister.”
“I should have eliminated Devon the first time he stuck his big nose into our affairs. Lord knows I tried. Okay, granted Collyer has a tendency to get a little carried away, but it’s too late now. Besides, I can hardly punish him, can I? My father wouldn’t approve.”
“If Stewart opens up to the wrong person, then another person is involved. You can’t get rid of everyone, Carlotta. Your daughter-in-law’s psychiatrist friend might get Stewart to talk by using the same techniques I used. What will you do then?”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Even if Abigael remembers something, she won’t be around to talk about it.”
“Doubtful she will talk,” Scanlon said. “I’m confident my procedure worked. Besides, we weren’t sure she knew anything, even then.”
“This is a hell of a time to find out,” Carlotta barked.
“I’ve tried, you know I have. If your man had left her alone, we wouldn’t have stirred up all this interest. Nature would have taken its course.”
“If your men hadn’t been so lax, Stewart would still be in la-la land and none of this would have happened.”
“It’s all your fault. You—”
“Enough!” Mrs. Gentry snapped. “Let’s not get into a pissing match about who made the bigger mistakes. What’s done is done. I’ll take care of Detective McCallister, but don’t go anywhere. I might have another guinea pig for your experiments. I trust you, Herbert. Don’t let me down.”
She hung up before Scanlon said anything else she didn’t want to hear.
Damn. She hated to admit it, but the psychiatrist was right. Too many people were involved now. She had to get the information and shut up her son and ex-daughter-in-law for good. But first, she needed to take care of Abigael’s deaf boyfriend.
Chapter Thirty-One
Into the Spider’s Web
A message awaited Luke when he got back to the hotel.
Mrs. Carlotta Gentry wishes to see you. A car will be waiting in one hour. Please be ready.
Half an hour had passed since the timed message. No more games. She not only knows I’m here, she knows where I’m staying.
Luke asked the hotel desk clerk to call Norm Archer’s cell. The call relayed automatically to the precinct switchboard. Detective Archer was in a briefing. If it’s an emergency, the operator said, she’d interrupt.
“No, that’s okay,” Luke told the hotel desk clerk. “Leave a message that Luke McCallister called, and tell him I’ll catch up later.” He thought of texting him, but if he was in a meeting, he didn’t want to disturb him. He left a note for him at the desk about his invitation.
Should he go? Had he play
ed his hand too quickly? If she knew he was here, she probably knew he’d met with Norm. The desk clerk knew where he was going. What could she do in broad daylight? He was a cop. He knew what he was doing. Still, maybe he should wait for Norm. Damn that he couldn’t talk on the phone. Damn it to hell. No, waiting wasn’t an option. The iron wasn’t hot; it sizzled. He checked his gun, slipped it into his shoulder holster, and tucked another into a leg holster. Striking time.
A limo arrived at the stated time. A uniformed chauffeur opened the back door and ushered Luke inside. He spoke directly to him, offering a drink from the bar in back. Luke declined but noted the driver knew he couldn’t hear.
He estimated the distance to the Gentry estate at ten miles from the Battery. The limo entered through an iron gate to a long, curved driveway, bordered by dozens of mature azaleas lush with brightly colored blooms and canopied by ancient live oaks dripping with Spanish moss. Clusters of flowers edged the entrance of the house. The antebellum plantation sat on six acres along the Intracoastal Waterway and resembled a set design from Gone with the Wind. Luke expected a rush of hoop-skirted belles frolicking on the lawn and Scarlett herself sashaying through the front door.
The chauffeur opened the rear door of the limo, and Luke stepped out to find a starched butler reminiscent of another era waiting at the columned entrance. He escorted Luke through a massive foyer into a large antique-filled living room. He’d seen homes like this in magazines, and the bankroll necessary to obtain them exceeded his range of comprehension.
Carlotta Gentry lounged on a covered veranda that swept the back of the house, overlooking the water as sailboats and yachts passed on review. Luke imagined the panorama alone accounted for the multi-million dollar price tag. He pulled himself back to earth and remembered why he came.
Formally dressed in a royal blue silk dress and jacket with pearl and diamond earrings and necklace, Carlotta Gentry exuded an air of royalty. Her flawless makeup and surgically-enhanced face were in sharp contrast with the veined and spotted hands that betrayed her years. She stroked her ring finger over an imaginary strand of misplaced hair and inspected him as if he were bird shit that had plopped uninvited on her veranda. When she spoke, she half-turned on purpose to put him at the greatest disadvantage. Luke disliked her immediately and almost heard the tone of her voice from the way her mouth moved. She mocked him and meant to.
* * * * *
Carlotta indicated a chair, but didn’t offer to shake McCallister’s hand. The detective was a rare work of art. A woman was never too old to appreciate a handsome man, and Detective McCallister’s magnificence wasn’t wasted on her. Tall, muscular without being overly developed, with features off enough to keep him from being a pretty boy. Somehow it all worked. He reminded Carlotta of her dear departed husband, who stopped women in their tracks whenever he was in their midst. McCallister even flashed the same bright blue eyes.
She patted her perfectly groomed hair as if she were a teenager, then chided herself for the moment of vanity. “Why are you in Charleston, Detective McCallister?”
He took the chair she indicated facing the waterway. “Please speak directly to me, Mrs. Gentry. I’m deaf, but I read lips, as you well know.”
“Really.” She faced him with an arched brow and her best condescending smile, honed by years of practice. “Obviously not from birth. You speak too well.”
“You arranged this meeting, Mrs. Gentry, so don’t act like you know nothing about me. In fact, you probably know as much about me as the record permits, and you knew it before I arrived in Charleston.”
“Not everything, Detective, but I suppose I could find out if I wanted to. I’ll ask again, what is it you want, and why did you barge in on Dr. Scanlon?”
“What is it you want, Mrs. Gentry? Why are you harassing Abigael Gallant?”
She didn’t like being questioned, especially by someone so obviously inferior. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Abigael is in Hub City—doing well, I hear. Why would I harass her? Frankly, seeing you in the flesh, I don’t understand why someone who looks like you would be interested in a gangly, awkward girl like Abigael, even if you are deaf. Unless, of course, you don’t think yourself worthy of a normal woman. Maybe underneath your handsome exterior, you have an inferiority complex. Something in your childhood, perhaps?”
She watched his reaction. Maybe his lip-reading wasn’t as good as she’d been told. But then she saw the angry flush on his face and knew he understood every word.
“To be honest,” she continued, “I never understood what Stewart saw in Abigael either. But at least then she wasn’t…defective. Tell me, Detective McCallister, what is it that makes her so attractive to men? I presume she has special talents in the bedroom. Is that it? Must have inherited that from her lowlife mother.”
She twisted the knife, begging for a reaction. His body tensed. She saw his determination to avoid being goaded into losing his cool, but that wouldn’t last. She was a master at finding her adversaries’ weaknesses and turning the knife until it hurt. That’s how she maintained control.
“Abby couldn’t care less what you think about her, and neither do I. She’s a hundred times the woman you are, Mrs. Gentry. All I want to know is why you’re harassing her.”
She laughed. The nerve of him. Imagine, comparing me to that drunk’s daughter. Even though she knew what he was doing, blood boiled inside her. A sheen of perspiration glazed her upper lip. No one gets the better of Carlotta Gentry. She squared her shoulders.
“I’ve done no such thing, and I resent the implication. I haven’t left Charleston, except for a short trip to New York to see a series of Broadway plays, not that I have to defend myself against such an outrageous allegation.”
“Of course you wouldn’t soil your hands. You have someone else do your dirty work. Your man, Graeme Collyer, for example.”
“Mr. Collyer isn’t my man. He works for my father in Boston as his private bodyguard, which keeps him too busy to be harassing, as you phrase it, a pitiful blind woman hours away. Why on earth would he find pleasure in that?”
“I think it concerns your husband’s death and some major finagling within Synthetec.”
She felt the involuntary twitch in her cheek. “My husband died in a plane crash a little over eight years ago. The documented cause was pilot error, with no evidence of foul play. I’m distraught over his loss to this day.”
Then she focused her eyes on McCallister’s. “You’re grasping at straws, Detective. You are still with the police force, aren’t you?”
“You know I am. You know everything except where your son is and what he told his wife after your husband died, before you turned him into the man he is today.”
Turning to take in the view, she decided what had to be done. She’d built this empire with Serrano money, not Gentry’s. No arrogant has-been cop would take it away. Not while she lived and breathed. Too much was at stake. She’d play with him a little longer to see what else he knew.
“You’re pushing the envelope, young man. It’s the second time today you insinuated something I characterize as slander. A genetic malfunction rooted on his father’s side caused my son’s illness. We’ve done everything possible to help him, including perfecting an anti-psychotic drug to alleviate his symptoms.”
“I had your drug tested, and you know it’s anything but what you claim.”
She squinted. This man definitely knew too much, but without proof, all he had were suppositions. “Speaking publicly about ridiculous accusations would be a serious mistake.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“You’re the one making threats, Detective.”
“Your party is over, Mrs. Gentry. I think when the authorities dig deeper they’ll find some things that won’t reflect well on you, starting with your husband’s death. What did Stewart hear to make him such a threat that you sicced your quack psychiatrist on him? And why Abby? Did you really think she knew something all these years and kept qu
iet?”
Game, match, championship, Detective McCallister.
She smiled and her shoulders relaxed. “Oh, when my albino quack failed to extract any information from her, he made sure she didn’t remember anything. Yes, Detective, Dr. Scanlon treated Abigael at the same time he treated Stewart. He visited her again in the hospital for a touchup. Only after Stewart escaped from our protective haven did I worry that he possessed the magic key to her damaged brain. But then I saw the advantage. If Stewart unlocked that brain of his and released the information we wanted, it’d be to Abigael. All we had to do was wait until he knocked on her door. We should have let him out ages ago.
“So you see, we’ve known where Stewart has been almost since the beginning. The cabin, the nights he spent in that jalopy, and the seedy motel he stayed in. We know where he is now, too, even though you don’t. And we’ll know what he tells Abigael when he tells her.”
* * * * *
Luke took a deep breath. Surely he’d misread her. She couldn’t have said what he thought because if she did, she’d told him too much. He was in over his head and sinking, and he knew it. Now he wished he had waited for Norm, because he saw no way out.
“Would you mind repeating that, Mrs. Gentry? I didn’t quite get it all. Your speech patterns are more difficult for me to read.”
“Nice try, McCallister, but you understood me perfectly. The expression on your face gave you away. You could cause me a lot of trouble. Raise questions I’d rather not answer. You could, but I doubt you will.” Her eyes flicked behind him, and she nodded her head. “I seriously doubt it.”
Of course Luke didn’t hear a thing. He didn’t sense anything either. No vibrations, no peripheral shadows. A fleeting picture of Abby flashed in his mind at the same time the crack on the back of his skull made everything go dark.