Dave nodded. “What else?”
“It was the same when I hotwired the car for Logan in…after Brandon took a shot at me.”
Curses. Did Dave notice the misstep? There was no real reason for him to know she had a couple of small holes in her memory.
She kept going, trying to think back a little further. “The incident at the bus station, of course.”
Dave nodded, scribbling away in his little book again. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go ahead and see what happens.”
He nodded towards the sax clutched tightly in Quincy’s hands and she brought it back up. She felt utterly stupid. She had no idea how to play the saxophone. Just like she’d had no idea how to play the fiddle. Or hotwire a car. Or stop a woman from bleeding out. And yet, she’d done those things just the same.
Quincy closed her eyes and focused. Just like before, the noise in her head disappeared. With her eyes shut, it was hard to tell if everything around her was out of focus but when everything inside of her narrowed down to that instrument in her hands, she knew it had.
She began to play.
Chapter 24
Dr. Cans
The car was waiting as Dr. Cans left her apartment complex at exactly 6:30 sharp. The wind was cold as it whipped around her legs, fashionably bare despite the weather. As the driver smoothly opened the back door, she took a cursory glance around, checking out the various shadows and crannies that surrounded the building. The area was well-lit, which only seemed to make the places where the light couldn’t reach even darker.
She slid across the leather seats and Mr. Smith was already there, ready with two glasses of what looked to be Merlot. He handed one to her.
“I’m so glad you could join me, Dr. Cans.” He smelled like expensive cologne and cigars. “A nice Tua Rita Toscana,” he said, lifting his glass slightly. “It’s no Château Pétrus, but it will do for the occasion.”
Wines weren’t really her strong suit, but she had done some research. The Tua could go for upwards of $400 dollars a bottle and the Château, well, it typically sold for well above that. The man had a taste for the finer things in life. She was glad she had thought to pack the ridiculously expensive, completely useless dress she was wearing. He was definitely the type to notice.
“It’s Allison.” She pretended to take a small sip of her wine. “If we’re dining and drinking together, you should be able to call me by my first name. At least in private,” she added, a hint of playfulness in her voice. She had no intentions of actually drinking while out with the man who controlled the entire research project and the patients involved, but he didn’t have to know that.
“I’m glad we have the opportunity to sneak away for awhile,” he agreed easily, taking a slow sip. She parodied the action, although she was careful not to touch a drop. Tua was an especially heavy wine and she needed a clear head tonight.
“You don’t need to sneak away,” she reminded him. “You aren’t confined to the property like the rest of us are. Tell me,” she teased, “why is that?”
He smiled, enjoying the repartee. She suspected that, being the boss, he didn’t get to experience it often.
“Ah yes,” he bantered back, “but you see, the Rhinehardt Corporation is my baby. I would protect her with my life. I have no such assurances for my employees.”
“A valid point.” She swirled the wine around her glass and held it to her nose. It smelled like…chocolate. Sweet, with vanilla and oak notes layered in. “I believe you mentioned your grandfather started the business?”
“He did.” Mr. Smith swirled his wine, too, topping his glass off after another drink. “He clawed his way to America from the slums of Ireland in the 1920s and worked his way to a powerful pharmaceutical conglomerate.”
“A difficult proposition for an Irish immigrant during that time, I would imagine,” Dr. Cans remarked. “How did he do it?”
“With ingenuity,” Mr. Smith replied. It was easy to see in the self-satisfied expression on his face that he was proud of this particular bit of family history. “He got a job laying track for one of the rail companies out west and paid close attention to the owners and business men who would visit the sites. The way they strode around in their fancy suits, watching the work but never touching it. Clean and above the mess that surrounded them. My grandfather decided quickly that he would be one of those men, no matter what it took.”
“No matter what it took,” Dr. Cans mused. “That sounds like a story I’d like to hear.” She smiled over her glass, encouraging him to continue.
“He did what you might expect an ambitious man to do. He watched, he listened, he learned how the other men acted and how they spoke.” Another drink. “He saved up enough money to buy a single three-piece suit. He told the store clerk he was buying it for his employer. It was the only way they would sell to a poor Irishman.”
Dr. Cans leaned forward and filled his glass once more. “I’m sure it wasn’t cheap.”
“No,” Mr. Smith said, “it cost him everything he had. He stole food from the rail supervisor’s quarters to survive until the next pay check. He was always proud of the sacrifice.”
“I suppose this suit was vital to his plans?” she prodded.
“He had listened to the other men and learned what a successful businessman did and said. He always said looking the part was easy. Learning how to sell it was harder. He had a thick Irish brogue, for one.”
“Voices can change,” Dr. Cans said easily. “Accents, languages. They aren’t so hard to master.”
“No, and he had been practicing. He spent his next paycheck on a cheap hotel, where he could shower, shave, and have a full meal, like any other American man. Then he took six bottles of water spiked with coal dust to a couple of the nearest apothecaries. ‘Nature’s miracles,’ he told them. ‘Minerals are the wave of the future. Good for digestive health. Powdered coal will settle any stomach ailment that troubles you.’”
“He sold them snake oil,” she said with a smile.
“That he did.” Mr. Smith smile again, that same self-satisfied expression across his face. “He sold all six bottles and made enough money to keep the hotel room, like a gentleman might.”
“Where did he get the bottles?” she asked in curiosity. “The coal dust would be easy but the bottles could have been tricky. He didn’t exactly have enough spare change to buy sodas.”
“He didn’t need to. Most shops and restaurants at that time sold glass bottles of soda. People rich enough to afford them would drink them and toss the bottles out. When you’re rich, you don’t see opportunity, you see trash. My grandfather was an innovator, and he wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty.”
“You respect that quality in him, don’t you?” Dr. Cans asked. “You like that he did whatever was necessary to get what he wanted.”
“He made a plan and was determined enough to see it through,” Mr. Smith said. “I learned how to do the same.”
“I can see that.”
Mr. Smith continued to sip his wine while Dr. Cans gazed out of the window. They had left the small municipal roads awhile ago and were now weaving smoothly in and out of heavier traffic on a major thoroughfare. She assumed the restaurant they were going to was in Milwaukee, but she hadn’t asked. She had been with the Rhinehardt Corporation for almost a month now. It was nice to be anywhere that wasn’t there. She hadn’t known going in if she would have the chance.
“Tell me about yourself, Allison.” Mr. Smith cut in to her musings, her name sounding deep and rich in his cultured tones, “I’d like to know a little more about your background.”
She could tell the wine was doing its job. His gaze was lingering just a little too long on the length of her leg to be polite. Her dress was tucked neatly away from view beneath a black woolen pea coat but it was clear he was curious about what lie underneath. She was hopeful between the wine and her carefully-chosen outfit, he would be distracted enough to allow her to reveal as little as possible. He was a man used to b
eing in charge. Untouchable. She did not have the same leeway.
“About me? Let’s see.” She pretended to think, taking a moment to raise the still-full wine glass to her lips. “I was advised of a potential opening for a clinical psychologist by an old professor of mine, a Dr. Henry Faustus?”
He didn’t blink at the name but nodded encouragingly for her to go on. He clearly didn’t know the name, not that she had expected him to. She hadn’t pegged him as the type to do much reading for pleasure. Certainly not the classics.
“Dr. Faustus was my faculty doctoral supervisor,” she explained. “He had overseen my research in both PTSD and traumatic brain injuries. He thought I might be a good fit.”
“Yes,” Mr. Smith agreed. “Your resume was quite impressive. Your experience working with patients with both conditions was one of the key factors in your hiring, along with your extensive research capabilities. You’ve been very successful, and at such a young age.”
“Maybe our passion and tenacity for achieving our goals is what makes us a good fit.”
Mr. Smith raised his glass in salute and she did the same. Yes, they were both passionate and tenacious. She was fairly certain that was where their similarities ended.
“I know your work history,” Mr. Smith prompted, “but I don’t know anything about your personal life.”
“What personal life?” she asked glibly. “If a personal life was important to me, I wouldn’t be working for you, would I?”
It was meant in jest, but she saw his eyes shift and he nodded slowly. “An unfortunate reality of working for Rhinehardt,” he agreed, “but I’m hopeful we can change that. For you, at least.”
She didn’t like the speculative look that had come into his eyes. “In fact, after dinner I thought you might enjoy visiting my home.”
No, she really didn’t like it at all.
“A very flattering offer,” she allowed. She couldn’t very well tell him that she’d rather die than become involved in that type of relationship with him. Working for the Rhinehardt Collaborative made that a distinct possibility. He was her boss, though. Her life was literally in his hands.
“I wasn’t kidding when I said I have no personal life. Not now and not before. My work is my life.” She shrugged. “Which is part of why you hired me, I think.”
“I can appreciate dedication to the company,” Mr. Smith said. “I would think you could make an exception for your boss. Loyalty to the company is loyalty to me, after all.”
Every dead human resource officer in the world would be rolling in their graves at this fun turn in the conversation. Too bad they weren’t in the real world.
“Loyalty to you is exactly what I’m demonstrating,” she said smoothly. She wouldn’t win this debate with an argument. He would need to be gently persuaded. It had to be his idea.
“The doctors before me accomplished nothing. The patients are in the same state of uselessness they were in when you first found them.” It was a harsh assessment but true. “Their noncompliance isn’t the issue.” She had told the patients the same thing, and she believed it. “There are ways around that. There are three things you need to get this job done.”
“And those things are?” Mr. Smith asked. He was watching her closely, hanging onto her words.
“You have to be observant to get the information you need,” she began. “Once you know what to look for, the patients will tell you more than they intend to.”
“And the second thing?”
“You have to be willing to get your hands dirty, something I know you can appreciate.” She might not always like it, but she accepted that there were some things that had to be done.
The ghost of a smile crossed his face. She was right. He did appreciate her like-mindedness.
“The only other thing you need is time.”
Mr. Smith’s smile disappeared. “Time,” he mused. “Time is something I would prefer not to give.”
“Which is why a professional relationship now will provide you with longer-lasting dividends in the future,” Dr. Cans replied smoothly. “In order to weaponize a concept, you have to understand it first. Understanding the concept takes observation and creating the weapon requires a conscience that doesn’t sweat the big stuff. Both of those things take time.”
“Another sacrifice for the good of the company,” Mr. Smith said, and Dr. Cans let out an unconscious breath. “I applaud your dedication. In fact, there is always room at the top for like-minded people who value progress and the bottom line.”
Mr. Smith poured the last of the wine into his glass and swallowed it down. “I think you could do quite well here, Allison. Quite well indeed.”
She raised her own glass in toast as the car came to a stop. She thanked the driver and stepped out into the cold of the night. She’d not only averted a potentially disastrous personal situation but her rejection had cemented her in the eyes of the only man whose approval mattered.
Catching sight of a homeless man huddled against the elements, his back pressed firmly up against the brick wall of the bank just to the left of the restaurant, she tucked her hand inside Mr. Smith’s elbow and squeezed slightly. She stepped away and knelt down beside the man, tucking a bill inside the empty jar at his feet.
“Thank you kindly, ma’am,” he wheezed. He sounded much older than he looked, which wasn’t old at all. “And might I say, you do look lovely tonight.”
The compliment was blurred by the rasping of his throat and Dr. Cans managed to smile tightly. She rejoined Mr. Smith, who was watching her curiously, and the maître d’, who looked mortified.
“My apologies, sir,” he stammered. “I’ll have someone remove the…gentleman…right away.”
Dr. Cans took Mr. Smith’s elbow again with another small squeeze. “Mr. Smith is a generous man,” she said. “He can’t bare to see anyone in distress.”
Mr. Smith looked at her wonderingly, clearly fascinated by the exaggerated comment.
“A kind man, indeed,” the maître d’ agreed quickly. “Please, allow me to escort you and your lovely companion to your table.” He ushered them forward grandly. “I’ll instruct our sommelier and maître d’ fromage to bring you our finest wine and cheese selections, on the house.”
Dr. Cans smiled up into Mr. Smith’s bemused face. “Kindness is simply a tool that engenders respect. It never hurts to have another card to play.”
“Allison, my dear,” Mr. Smith said, laughing outright. “There really is a reason for everything you do.”
“There really is.” She glanced back over her shoulder. The homeless man had disappeared.
Chapter 25
Quincy
Quincy tossed the book aside in frustration. Her head didn’t hurt, exactly, but she was more keyed up than she had been after the first session. Unfortunately, reading the ins and outs of Abnormal Psychology just wasn’t going to cut it tonight.
She flopped over onto her stomach and buried her face in the pillow she’d picked up at the dollar store down the road. It wasn’t Serta-soft, but it wasn’t the cardboard hand-me-down she’d found waiting for her when she’d gotten here, either.
She wondered what Logan was up to. Maybe he’d go for a jog with her. Or he’d let her follow him around on patrol. It was going to be a long night otherwise. The light sounds of Dave’s snoring assured her she was the only one having this problem. Of course she was. She was the only one who heard voices and had a pathological inability to sleep.
And she was uncomfortable. Her t-shirt rubbed against her shoulders and her hair, sweat-soaked from the tossing and turning she had done. She sat up in frustration, grabbing a random hair tie from the floor beside her mattress and wadding the sweaty strands up into a knot on top of her head.
Now what? She was wide awake and antsy. She could track Logan down. Or, she could do something she probably shouldn’t. Yeah, that was exactly what she was going to do.
Quincy grabbed her computer from beside the mattress and pulled up a random so
cial media site. Amy was 30 years old. It stood to reason she would have social media accounts. It took a matter of minutes to create a dummy account, which Logan would wholeheartedly disapprove of, and then she was cruising the site, looking at all the Amy Madisons registered.
Bingo. It took awhile but finally, Amy Madison from Poughkeepsie, New York. Loving wife, mother, and daughter. Reader of classic literature. Quincy smiled. Something they had in common. She wondered if, wherever Amy was, they let her have books. Quincy could imagine very little worse than being trapped without books. It was the only escape she would have if she were the one stuck inside the company.
As Quincy continued to peruse the pages, one thing became very clear. Amy loved her family. She was a proud soccer mom who doted on her son, and she was missing his life. The thought made Quincy’s heart clench. Amy had people who loved her, depended on her. RNB had stolen that from her. No, the company had stolen it. They couldn’t keep doing what they were doing; someone was going to have to do something about it.
On a whim, she ran a social media search for the other patients. Miguel Alvarez, a truck driver who ran a haul from New Mexico to Idaho, rarely posted himself but did show up in other peoples pictures. Usually at various sports bars during big games.
Andre Michaels made posts here and there but usually in relation to his business. He owned a mid-sized construction company based out of Chicago. It was clear he took pride in his business and the Mighty Mite football team he coached on the side.
Claire Montgomery had no personal social media profiles. Odd. She was older than the others, sure, but very few people these days, barring the very elderly and the odd hold-out, didn’t have some kind of social media. On a whim, Quincy ran a Google search and hit pay dirt: Claire Montgomery was a retired opera singer. That much Quincy had already known. What she hadn’t known was that Claire was a fairly prolific opera singer that specialized in Italian dramas and tragedies. Interesting. Quincy ran a quick search on the opera company Claire had performed with for the last 15 years and found a list of performances; she had performed in everything from The Barber of Seville to Madame Butterfly and Faust. Prolific, indeed.
Burning Bridges (Shattered Highways Book 2) Page 16