This mention of insurance really agitated the administrator. Mr. Grantham asked if he, the administrator, would ask Mr. Linney if he would answer two questions from Mr. Grantham, and the whole thing would take less than thirty seconds.
Out of the question, snapped the administrator. They had strict policies.
A voice answered softly, and she stepped into the room. The carpet was thicker and the furniture was made from wood. He sat on the bed in a pair of jeans, no shirt, reading a thick novel. She was struck by his good looks.
"Excuse me," she said warmly as she closed the door behind her.
"Come in," he said with a soft smile. It was the first nonmedical face he'd seen in two days. What a beautiful face. He closed the book.
She walked to the end of the bed. "I'm Sara Jacobs, and I'm working on a story for the Washington Post."
"How'd you get in?" he asked, obviously glad she was in.
"Just walked. Did you clerk last summer for White and Blazevich?"
"Yes, and the summer before. They offered me a job when I graduate. If I graduate."
She handed him the photo. "Do you recognize this man?"
He took it and smiled. "Yeah. His name is, uh, wait a minute. He works in the oil and gas section on the ninth floor. What's his name?"
Darby held her breath.
Linney closed his eyes hard and tried to think. He looked at the photo, and said, "Morgan. I think his name is Morgan. Yep."
"His last name is Morgan?"
"That's him. I can't remember his first name. It's something like Charles, but that's not it. I think it starts with a C."
"And you're certain he's in oil and gas?" Though she couldn't remember the exact number, she was certain there was more than one Morgan at White and Blazevich.
"Yeah."
"On the ninth floor?"
"Yeah. I worked in the bankruptcy section on the eighth floor, and oil and gas covers half of eight and all of nine."
He handed the photo back.
"When are you getting out?" she asked. It would be rude to run from the room.
"Next week, I hope. What's this guy done?"
"Nothing. We just need to talk to him." She was backing away from the bed. "I have to run. "Thanks. And good luck."
"Yeah. No problem."
She quietly closed the door behind her, and scooted toward the lobby. The voice came from behind her.
"Hey! You! What're you doing?"
Darby turned and faced a tall, black security guard with a gun on his hip. She looked completely guilty.
"What're you doing?" he demanded again as he backed her into the wall.
"Visiting my brother," she said. "And don't yell at me again."
"Who's your brother?"
She nodded at his door. "Room 22."
"You can't visit right now. This is off limits."
Chapter Twenty-Four
"It was important. I'm leaving, okay?"
The door to 22 opened, and Linney looked at them.
"This your sister?" the guard demanded.
Darby pleaded with her eyes.
"Yeah, leave her alone," Linney said. "She's leaving."
She exhaled and smiled at Linney. "Mom will be up this weekend."
"Good," Linney said softly.
The guard backed off, and Darby almost ran to the double doors. Grantham was preaching to the administrator about the cost of health care. She walked quickly through the doors, into the lobby, and was almost to the front door when the administrator spoke to her.
"Miss! Oh, miss! Can I have your name?"
Darby was out the front door, headed for the car. Grantham shrugged at the administrator, and casually left the building. They jumped in, and sped away.
"Garcia's last name is Morgan. Linney recognized him immediately, but he had trouble with the name. First name starts with a C." She was digging through her notes from Martindale-Hubbell. "Said he works in oil and gas on the ninth floor."
Grantham was speeding away from Parklane. "Oil and gas!"
"That's what he said." She found it. "Curtis D. Morgan, oil and gas section, age twenty-nine. There's another Morgan in litigation, but he's a partner and, let's see, he's fifty-one."
"Garcia is Curtis Morgan," Gray said with relief. He looked at his watch. "It's a quarter till four. We'll have to hurry."
"I can't wait."
Rupert picked them up as they turned out of Parklane's driveway. The rented Pontiac was flying all over the street. He drove like an idiot just to keep up, then radioed ahead.
Matthew Barr had never experienced a speedboat before, and after five hours of a bone-jarring voyage through the ocean he was soaked and in pain. His body was numb, and when he saw land he said a prayer, the first in decades. Then he resumed his nonstop cursing of Fletcher Coal.
They docked at a small marina near a city that he believed to be Freeport. The captain had said something about Freeport to the man known as Larry when they left Florida. No other word was spoken during the ordeal. Larry's role in the journey was uncertain. He was at least six-six, with a neck as thick as a utility pole, and he did nothing but watch Barr, which was okay at first but after five hours became quite a nuisance.
They stood awkwardly when the boat stopped. Larry was the first one out, and he motioned for Barr to join him. Another large man was approaching on the pier, and together they escorted Barr to a waiting van. The van was suspiciously short of windows.
At this point, Barr preferred to say good-bye to his new pals, and simply disappear in the direction of Freeport. He'd catch a plane to D.C., and slap Coal the moment he saw his shining forehead. But he had to be cool. They wouldn't dare hurt him.
The van stopped moments later at a small airstrip, and Barr was escorted to a black Lear. He admired it briefly before following Larry up the steps. He was cool and relaxed - just another job. After all, he was at one time one of the best CIA agents in Europe. He was an ex-Marine. He could take care of himself.
He sat by himself in the cabin. The windows were covered, and this annoyed him. But he understood. Mr. Mattiece treasured his privacy, and Barr could certainly respect that. Larry and the other heavyweight were at the front of the cabin, flipping through magazines and completely ignoring him.
Thirty minutes after takeoff, the Lear began its descent, and Larry lumbered toward him.
"Put this on," he demanded as he handed over a thick, cloth blindfold. At this point, a rookie would panic. An amateur would start asking questions. But Barr had been blindfolded before, and while he was having serious doubts about this mission, he calmly took the blindfold and covered his eyes.
The man who removed the blindfold introduced himself as Emil, an assistant to Mr. Mattiece. He was a small, wiry type with dark hair and a thin mustache winding around the lip. He sat in a chair four feet away and lit a cigarette.
"Our people tell us you are legitimate, sort of," he said with a friendly smile. Barr looked around the room. There were no walls, only windows in small panes. The sun was bright and pierced his eyes. A plush garden surrounded a series of fountains and pools outside the room. They were in the rear of a very large house.
"I'm here on behalf of the President," Barr said.
"We believe you." Emil nodded. He was undoubtedly a Cajun.
"May I ask who you are?" Barr said.
"I'm Emil, and that's enough. Mr. Mattiece is not feeling well. Perhaps you should leave your message with me."
"I have orders to speak directly to him."