“We all look,” Preacher said. “It will be faster. Cammie, you take this house. I’ll check the guest house. Jack, you get the outbuildings.”
I found my father tied up in the back of the woodshed.
Not dead.
Not yet.
10
Fogel followed the man in the white three-piece suit through the door into a long hallway—white walls, white ceiling, white marble floor. Everything was so white, it was damn near blinding. They passed three doors (all closed, all white) before the man ushered her into the only open door on the left side.
“Please, take a seat. Would you like a cup of coffee, or perhaps something to eat?” the man said, closing the door behind them.
The office was also white.
Ceiling. Walls. No windows.
The only color came from a framed photograph on the desk—a young man wearing a blue graduation gown, pointing at a diploma.
The man in white smiled when he noticed her looking at the picture. “That’s my boy, William. He graduated from Penn State last month, and I’m proud to say he will be joining us here as part of the Charter family next week. Graduated top of his class. Quite an overachiever, that one.”
He pointed at one of the two empty chairs in front of the white desk. “Please, sit.”
Rounding the desk, he lowered himself into a plush white leather chair. “I’m Robert Trudeau. How can I help you?”
Something seemed off about the man’s eyes. He made eye contact, but rather than look at her, he seemed to lookthroughher. As if focused on some distant object in the room behind her.
Fogel turned and looked at the wall. There was a white credenza with another of those white paintings hanging above, nothing else. She turned back. “Mr. Trudeau, what exactly do you do here?”
“Robert, please.”
“Robert.”
“Yes?”
“What exactly do you do here,” she repeated.
“Pharmaceutical research.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He waved a hand through the air. “We have a number of government-related contracts. I’m afraid you don’t have the proper clearances to discuss what we do here.”
“How do you know?”
Trudeau smiled. “I know.”
A white MacBook sat on his desk. He glanced at the screen, clicked a few keys, then returned his attention to her. The smile on his face appeared fixed, as if painted on. “Ms. Toomey said you were here to investigate a murder. Can you elaborate on that?”
“Multiple homicides, actually.”
The man leaned forward. “Really? Who died?”
“I’m afraid you don’t have the proper clearances to discuss who died,” Fogel said.
