Page 51 of The Grave Artist
But, most importantly, who hired him?
A creak behind her. She whirled around.
Carl Overton was staring at her. His gaze traveled to the open window, then returned to her. “You shouldn’t be here.”
He must have heard the pane squeak.
She realized he’d closed the door behind him and swallowed the lump in her throat. “I had to see.”
He gave no reaction. His expression hardened a fraction, and for a moment it was as if he didn’t believe her—about what she was doing here in the first place and what she wanted the names for.
And worse, that he resented her mission altogether.
“How did you get in? The storage room is supposed to be locked.” He walked toward her, and she stepped back, nearer to the window.
Before he reached her, a noise from the hallway drew Overton’s attention, stopping him in his tracks. The door opened and a member of the cleaning crew stepped inside. She glanced at the two of them, then began to empty a waste bin.
Overton moved past Selina, then closed and locked the window. He gave her a meaningful look. “My office.”
He left. She followed.
Inside, he returned to his desk and said, “I didn’t know what dates you wanted for the client list.”
Was this the reason he’d gone to find her? Wasn’t it obvious? He clearly knew when Roberto died and who his clients were at the time.
She gave it some thought and said, “For the twelve months leading up to his death?”
A slow nod. He resumed typing. Several sheets hissed from the laser printer beside the desk.
He handed them to her.
And for the first time, a thought occurred. Yes, Roberto had invested badly—but only he and his clients had suffered. Was Overton wholly innocent of the decision? The men had very likely discussed the fund. What had the senior partner’s opinion of it been?
And why had Overton not invested in the fund too?
She decided that maybe he had, but didn’t recommend that his own clients putalltheir savings into it.
She scoffed to herself. This investigator stuff was making her suspicious ofeveryone.
Overton regarded her carefully before saying, “I wish you all the best with your mission.”
“My mission?” she asked softly.
“Finding your stalker, of course.”
“Oh, sure. Thank you.”
Chapter 24
“What is this?” Eric Williamson whispered, staring at the documents the congressional liaison attorneys had just delivered.
Mehlman blinked, apparently because it was obvious. “It’s a subpoena to appear before the Congressional Subcommittee on National Security.”
Words failed him momentarily. The appearance was set for tomorrow morning at nine. Factoring in a five-hour flight to DC, and a three-hour time zone difference, he would have to leave now. As in, right now.
About fifty pages of exhibits, reports and sworn affidavits and other supporting documents accompanied the short subpoena.
He glanced up at them. “The hell’s this about?”
