by Jim Heskett
Layne plucked a piece of lint from the shoulder of his tuxedo jacket as he ascended the steps toward the large building at the south end of the complex. According to the layout, this was the gymnasium with bleachers and a stage on one end, and they could easily convert the room into a ballroom for fundraisers.
They’d been having regular fundraisers lately, rolling out public pleas from local politicians and a couple of Hollywood celebs who lived in the area. The east wing of the building needed repair, at least, according to the website.
The multiple valet drivers were all wearing matching tuxedos with silk ties and cummerbunds. Maybe they could have diverted a little of that tux fund to the east wing instead.
At the door, Layne slipped into his inner tux pocket and pulled out the invitation. Printed on powder blue card stock, from a design created by Harry Boukadakis. As he had done in the years they’d worked together back in Layne’s covert ops days, Harry had come through in a pinch with few questions asked. Layne had worked with many people on the team, drifting in and out, but Harry had always been a constant. Reliable, loyal, one of Layne’s oldest friends.
After a quick photoshop mockup, Layne now had an invitation for a man with the name Louis Pastori. Harry had done the whole thing in about an hour over email with Layne this afternoon, and Layne had then printed the fake invitation at a local copy shop.
To the right of the ballroom doors stood a tall woman in a glittery evening gown. Layne wondered if donor dollars had paid for that, as well. She showed Layne a broad smile and held out an open palm. “Your invitation, sir?”
Layne handed it to her, and she gave it only a cursory glance. Probably not much scrutiny needed, since no one would expect a counterfeit invitation to a mental health fundraiser. And good thing, too, because it had been a hack-and-slash job to throw it all together.
“Good evening, Mr. Pastori. Welcome to our event.”
“Thank you. I’m looking forward to it.”
“You can head straight to the silent auction in the back, or feel free to stop at the bar and spend some time working your way around the room. You have an hour until Mr. Jahandar makes his speech.”
“Thank you. I’ll try the bar.”
With a flirty smile, she waved a white-gloved hand to the interior. Once past her, Layne stuck a finger into the collar of his shirt and gave it a tug to complete a little room. The tux didn’t fit right, but that’s what happens when you have to take one off the rack on short notice. Maybe if he worried about seeing any of these people ever again, he might care. But, Layne did not.
He took stock of the room. One large interior space with an enormous ceiling and metal floodlights hanging from the rafters. There were drapes on the walls, probably to hide the motivational posters that normally would occupy typical gym decor. On the stage, a string quartet played. Two men in tuxedos, two women in evening gowns. Waiters swept through the room, carrying caviar and champagne flutes. A hundred men and women milled about, sipping drinks, networking, standing at the strategically placed tables.
Layne couldn’t help but notice the makeup of the room was almost entirely white people. Combining that with the extravagance of an event designed to plead for donations, he found it hard to swallow his distaste for Hillcrest. But, he had to remind himself why he was here. It had been some time since he’d been undercover, but he had to make himself adopt the persona. Louis Pastori. To his friends, he’s Louie.
Layne approached the bar and ordered a whiskey sour, which he was surprised to learn was free. An open bar?
As Layne waited for the bartender to mix his drink, he eavesdropped on the conversation at a nearby table. Four white men, all of them apparently in banking. Or managing hedge funds, which Layne knew was somehow related to banking. Or investment banking, or something like that. Layne had never been the type to play the stock market.
His phone beeped, and he took it out to see a text message from Inessa.
Your daughter wants to video chat with you before bed.
Layne tapped his lips together a few times. While it was tempting to sneak off into the bathroom and have a quick conversation with Cameron, he couldn’t risk it. Layne didn’t know yet how his cover story would pan out for him, but he had to keep his options open. If anyone overheard him, that would limit possible later moves.
No can do. Tell her I love her and will bring her candy for the morning.
He made a mental note to stop by a grocery store on the way back. Hopefully, this wouldn’t take too much longer.
The bartender handed Layne his drink, and he took a sip. Not the worst whiskey sour he’d ever had. He held it aloft as he strolled around the room, only taking sips from the drink every now and again. It was more valuable as a prop than as an actual beverage.
He meandered through the silent auction area, cataloging the various items up for bid. He stopped in front of each station, pretending to evaluate its merits. But, he placed no bids. Layne didn’t know Louie Pastori’s handwriting yet, so better not to risk it.
And then, Layne saw him closer to the stage. Jonah Bramble.
Layne hadn’t laid eyes on him in six years, not since leaving New Orleans. Not since the last day of the operation there, in the apartment complex behind that bar in Congo Square. Six years, and he looked exactly the same. Layne knew Jonah had a brother in Denver and visited often, but Jonah hadn’t ever reached out. After what had happened in New Orleans on the last day of the op, neither of them were going to make plans. Probably best for them to go their separate ways.
But now, a burning curiosity drove Layne to cross the room. He had to know why Jonah “Thorny” Bramble was now going by the name Wade Nicholson.
Layne set out on a course across the room for his old partner. He’d been talking to a lanky-but-muscular Middle Eastern man, and they separated when Layne was within twenty feet.
Jonah looked directly at him. And, the weirdest thing happened. Layne saw no hint of recognition in Jonah's eyes. No change at all in his expression as Layne closed the distance between them. He looked at him as if he were no different than the hundred other strangers in the room.
Layne came to a stop five feet away. “Hello, Thorny.”
Jonah's head tilted as his eyebrows came together. “Um, hello? Have we met?”
4
“Yes, we have met,” Layne said, not sure how to proceed. Jonah's surprise seemed genuine, but it had to be a ruse. He had to be deliberate in his current ignorance, didn’t he?
“I’m afraid I don’t recall.” Jonah stuck out his hand. He still had that Arkansas twang in his voice, same as he’d always had. “Wade Nicholson. I’m a therapist here at Hillcrest. And you?”
Layne shook. He considered giving his real name, but since they were both pretending, he figured he should keep up his cover. At least, he could see if it caused a break in Jonah's outward appearance. “Louis Pastori.”
“Nice to meet you. Did you bid on anything?”
“I had my eye on that guest spot on the KHRD radio appearance, but it looks a little too expensive for me.”
Jonah shrugged. “It’s all for a good cause.”
“Maybe I’ll go back and take another look. The night is young.”
Jonah's expression didn’t change. “And what do you do, Louis?”
Layne made a split second decision. “I’m a therapist, too. Hoping to fill the vacancy at Hillcrest, actually.”
“That’s great,” Jonah said, his face lighting up for the first time. “Can I introduce you to my boss?”
“That would be perfect.”
Jonah leaned around Layne and frowned as his eyes searched the room. “Where did he get off to? He was here a second ago.”
“Busy guy?”
“He’s giving a speech for the fundraiser in a little bit. Lots of hands to shake, babies to kiss, the whole nine yards.”
“Is this a fundraiser or is he running for president?”
For a few beats, Jonah appeared confused. There was a
blankness that lived behind his eyes Layne didn’t remember ever being there before. Jonah had always been snarky, quick-witted, full of sarcastic replies. But this version standing before Layne seemed almost like a knife that hadn’t been sharpened in too long, asked to undertake a cutting job it couldn’t handle.
Jonah gave a quick chuckle. More out of seeming politeness than anything else. “No presidential run, as far as I know. I think he’s busy enough running Hillcrest that politics might make his head explode.”
“Oh, well, we don’t want that. He might not be the most effective boss without a head.”
Jonah stood there for a second as if the words were taking too long to travel from his ears to his brain. Six or eight years ago, Jonah would’ve come back in an instant with a reply like, “Without his head, his management skills might actually improve.” But, this new version of “Wade” only stood there, with a bland smile on his face. After a few more seconds, he cleared his throat. “What brings you to California?”
“Looking for a mid-sized town where I can settle. Outdoorsy stuff, access to bigger cities within a reasonable distance, low crime.”
“The whole package?”
“The whole package. Redding seems like a good fit.”
After a pause, Jonah's head tilted, and his eyes widened. “Oh, wait. There he is.” He beckoned someone forward. A moment later, the same sturdy Middle Eastern man from before turned their twosome into a threesome. “Louis, meet Farhad Jahandar. He’s the clinical director here at Hillcrest.”
Farhad greeted Layne with a hardy shake of the hand. “Pleased to meet you.” Deep voice. Fresh breath, recently minted. Farhad was a tall man, well-built, with broad shoulders and bulging biceps under his tux. Not quite as beefy as Layne, but he wasn’t too far off. He had dirt-brown skin and a dense thicket of black hair, with thick eyebrows like caterpillars above his eyes. He looked like the sort of person who could go from a five o’clock shadow to a plump beard in about three days.
And his eyes were as black as night as he stared intently, which some people might find intimidating, but Layne took as a challenge. He met Farhad’s gaze and didn’t back down.
Jonah cleared his throat. “Louis here is going to apply for the open counselor position.”
Farhad’s bushy eyebrows climbed. “Really? Do we have your resume on file?”
“No, not yet. I wanted to have a look at the place first.”
“And what do you think?”
Layne nodded. “I like what I see and would love to interview as soon as possible.”
“LPC? LCSW?”
“LPC,” Layne said. A whole world of complication was stockpiling before him. A fake resume, fake credentials, fake info to pass a background check. Compiling all this information in a believable manner could take days, if not weeks.
Farhad passed across a business card. “Once we have your resume, I would be happy to set something up. I could even talk to you on Monday afternoon if you can forward the information by the start of the business day. Our caseload has exploded recently, and we’re eager to bring on fresh blood to help out. I’m sure Wade could give you all the dirty details.”
Before Layne could respond, Jonah's eyes dimmed, and he swayed on his feet. Only a few inches, but Layne worried he might fall. Farhad grabbed Jonah by the elbow to stabilize him. His face had gone pale, cold and clammy in an instant.
“You okay?” Layne asked.
“Just got dizzy for a second,” Jonah said. He lifted his champagne flute. “I’m not used to the fancy bubbly. Maybe I should go give my barking dogs a rest?”
“Sure,” Layne said. “Whatever you need to do. Good time for me to take another look at that silent auction.”
“I’ll open the side door for you,” Farhad said. “I should prepare for my speech, anyway.” He nodded at Layne. “Please to meet you, Louis, and I look forward to speaking with you. Let’s get it done as soon as possible, yes?”
Layne said his goodbyes as Farhad placed a hand on Jonah's back and escorted him toward the edge of the room. Something about the exchange didn’t sit right with Layne. It felt off, long before Jonah had become dizzy.
Layne watched them cross the room. Farhad swiped a keycard against a panel next to a door near the back. And, when the door opened, the Middle Eastern man looked around. Nervous eyes. Layne took a step to the right, keeping a floral arrangement between him and Farhad.
Layne knew things weren’t right here. But, unfortunately, that was all he knew. This Farhad Jahandar character required further investigation.
And, as the door was shutting, Farhad removed something from his jacket pocket. A small, cylindrical device, the length of a pen. When he held it up and pressed it to Jonah's neck, Layne could see what it was. A syringe.
A split second before the door shut, Layne watched Farhad inject Jonah with the contents of the syringe.
5
Layne scrolled along the laptop trackpad to reach the text of the article. Farhad Jahandar joined the staff at Hillcrest Family & Children’s Services a little more than one year ago. Iranian born, he had been in America since his late teens. Undergrad at Stanford, graduate work at the University of Illinois. His doctoral work focused on a study of the efficacy of drug counselors in recovery vs. those not in recovery. The entire text of his thesis had been posted online, but Layne opted not to dive into it. Too much else to do.
The article did not give any context as to why Farhad might have injected Jonah Bramble—masquerading as Wade Nicholson—with a needle at the fundraiser last night. Moments before, Jonah/Wade had seemed unstable, lightheaded. He hadn’t been his old self, for sure. He seemed slow and absent, a few seconds behind the conversation.
But, even if the syringe was meant as a treatment for some illness, Farhad was not a medical doctor. He shouldn’t have been administering medication. And, given that he had taken Jonah to a side room to do it, that had been a clandestine arrangement. These events were all red flags.
Jonah Bramble had retired from Daphne’s team around the same time as Layne, and he had moved out west and gone more-or-less underground not long after. He and Layne had lost touch, even though Layne knew Jonah visited Denver often since a brother of his lived there. But, how he had transitioned into working in mental health and changing his name, these facts weren’t available.
Layne needed answers. Jonah was involved in something. Maybe without his consent, which only complicated matters.
Layne wished he didn’t have to go to the trouble of faking the info necessary for a job interview. It was an extreme step. But, as far as he could see, there was no other good way to get close to Jonah. He didn’t belong to a gym, or a book club, or any social way for Layne to approach him. Hillcrest was the best option to check out both Jonah and Farhad at the same time.
Cameron burst through the open door connecting Layne’s room to Inessa’s. She clutched a spaceship made of LEGOs in one hand and her jammie bottoms in the other, both held aloft. The little girl hadn’t gotten dressed yet this morning. She had gone so far as to take the bottoms off, but her pants had not found their way on yet.
“Crash!” Cam yelled as she slammed the LEGO spaceship into the bed. It broke into a hundred pieces. “Daddy! Play with me!”
“I will, little one. Just a minute. Daddy is still working.”
Inessa appeared in the doorway, arms crossed. Her blonde hair swept up, wearing tights and a t-shirt. Her standard attire before going out on a modeling shoot. “What are you working on so intently on the bed there?”
“Do you really want to know?” Layne asked.
Inessa bit her lip, then blew out a sigh. “No. I don’t. Whatever it is, I hope it will not take you away from time with your daughter.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ve got a whole day for us planned.”
“Good. I will be back shortly after the golden hour. Before bedtime.”
Cameron looked from her mom to Layne, and her eyes brightened. A goofy and wide grin spr
ead across her face. “Daddy? Is it you and me today?”
“All day, little one. We’re going to have tons of fun.”
Cameron threw her arms into the air and hooted, and Inessa rolled her eyes as she returned to her room. Cam swept all the LEGO pieces to the floor and tossed her jammie bottoms into the air.
A moment later, Layne’s phone rang. He hoisted it to see an unavailable number on the caller ID, but he knew who he’d find on the other end. He tapped to accept the call, then said, “Just a moment.“
Layne held the phone to his chest and called out to Inessa, “I have to take this.”
She ducked back into the room, lipstick clutched between her slender fingers. “Fine. But I am leaving in ten minutes. No emergencies this time. Today is the main photoshoot, and I cannot be late.”
“No emergencies, promise,” he said, then left the room and leaned against the railing over the walkway. He looked down at the pool in the center courtyard of the Redding Mountain Lodge. Voices of the people at the pool echoed up, bouncing off the glass roof. Reflections from the water threw white and blue lassos around the walls of the interior.
“Hello, Daphne,” he said as he lifted the phone to his ear.
“I heard your ex and her trademark Slavic tone in the background. She sounds irritated. Trouble in paradise?” Daphne Kurek’s smoky-yet-smooth rasp always triggered something in Layne, especially if he hadn’t heard her voice in a while. At times, lust, at others, resentment. Often both at the same time. Engaging with Daphne was a constant reminder of how Layne could feel multiple things toward a person, mixed together in a big soup.
“No, everything is fine. I’m just tagging along on a family trip to spend a little time with my daughter. Playing with LEGOs and going to the park.”