Page 62 of Grissom
“Are you ladies laughing at me?”
Alex huffed, “You think? You called less than five minutes ago.”
“Oh, heavens no,” sweet Kelsey replied. “We’re just talking and reliving some of the traumatic events us girls survived. You know, like getting shot and falling into the White River on Mount Rainier. But you don’t remember that, do you?”
“No, sorry. Sure don’t. I think I was there…”Somewhere.If only he could remember.
“You were there the day we took Michael Keane down,” Alex cut in gruffly. “In those repurposed shipping containers east of the Jefferson Memorial, remember?”
“I… I don’t. I’m sorry, ma’am, err, boss, but… fuck. I don’t.” Grissom could feel Alex’s eyes drilling into the side of his head, but the truth was out. His memory was shot. His one and only source of income, working on The TEAM, might be, too.
“Don’t use that word with my wife.”
“Oh, sorry, shit. I mean—”
“Shut. Up.” Alex bit out with venom. “She’s my wife, a lady.”
“I know, Boss, I just—”
“It’s okay. Honest, I’ve heard it all before. We both understand what you meant, Grissom, don’t we, Alex?” she asked.
Alex, on the other hand, had turned into a pissed-off bear. “Don’t use that language around my wife ever again. Understood?”
“Copy that, but Boss—”
“But what!”
“Tell me, please, what else I can’t remember.”
“Good idea, Alex. Talking to Grissom might help both of you. Bye now.” With that cheery sendoff, Kelsey disconnected.
While Grissom concentrated on traffic, Alex stared at the dash. It took a minute before he finally turned toward Grissom. For the rest of the drive to the Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport, Grissom learned how Kelsey had been targeted by a sniper during the Stewarts’ vacation in the Northwest last fall. How she’d been shot and had fallen into a raging river, then been quickly rescued by a ruthless cabal run by the now deceased Secretary of State Tristan Obermeyer. As well as Michael Keane, also deceased, the man Obermeyer had promised the US ambassadorship to Ireland, and the still-missing Wirths, old man Lancaster and his son Miles, both connected with the Irish Mafia in Boston. According to the press, neither had been seen since the FBI took out Obermeyer and Keane. Judging by Alex’s tone when he mentioned the Wirths, Grissom knew there was more to the story.
The more Alex explained, the more ragged Grissom’s emotions grew, until he blurted, “Why’d I crash my bike? Were you there that night, too? Was I drunk? Because I don’t, can’t remember shit.”
“You were roofied,” Alex said bluntly. “Your counselor thinks it’d be better if you remembered things on your own. But I don’t give a shit, and you need to know, damn it. Everything. They found scopolamine in your system that night. The bitch you married tried to kill you. I know because that’s the same night she trashed your house, took your sons, and fled to Central America with Estes.”
Scopolamine? Shit.
A mighty thunderclap rocked the SUV as Grissom’s brain blinked off-line. Scopolamine was known on the streets as the zombie drug. While it had sound medicinal value when used as an anesthetic, others used it for its mind-altering, hallucinogenic properties. Scopolamine rendered an unwilling victim susceptible to total mind-control, followed by a rock-solid case of amnesia, that made it impossible for law enforcement to catch the real villain. A man under its influence became a tool to commit murder, rape, even suicide. All it took was a couple drops in a guy’s drink and he became a zombie. Hookers in big cities across the world, New York City, Paris, and Rio de Janero, used scopolamine to divest foolish businessmen of their wallets, cash, credit cards, and identification. It was a damned dangerous drug, known to cause respiratory failure, hallucinations, and heart attacks when the victim was overdosed.
Pam had meant for him to die that night. He’d married a gawddamned cold-blooded killer. She’d abused and tormented Tanner. Might’ve killed Luke, the son she’d claimed to love. And now she was behind Tuesday’s disappearance. His brain couldn’t take anymore. Knowing this was all his fault sent the SUV swerving to the shoulder, kicking up a cloud of dust and spraying gravel.
With mere seconds to spare, his muddled brain came storming back online with a vehement,No! More!Pamhadfailed. Tanner and Lukeweresafe. Grissomhadsurvived, and he was pissed as fuck!
He righted the SUV in the nick of time, avoiding bouncing into the field beside the highway. Damned if Alex wasn’t staring at him like a son of a bitch when the joyride ended. Those blue eyes of his were sharp as daggers, cutting through Grissom. Seeing everything. For once, he didn’t mind Alex’s razor-sharp scrutiny. He had nothing to hide.
“We good now?” Alex clipped sarcastically.
“I remember,” Grissom admitted, quietly processing everything he’d just recalled. Not only the horrific things that had happened to Kelsey, but the anguish Heston Contreras had endured when he’d thought he’d lost London, his soon-to-be wife, to that asshat Obermeyer and his gang of rapists. How Obermeyer had used London and several other women, for target practice. Grissom’s fists clenched as he recalled the rage boiling out of Alex when Kelsey’d gone missing in that glacier-fed river. Then was found—by Alex—but not expected to live. Then was drugged by some woman working for the Wirths in the hospital’s intensive care unit. She’d been in damned rough shape.
Grissom remembered the desperate hunt for London. He’d been inside one of Keane’s repurposed shipping containers. Grissom knew precisely what happened to the bastards who’d dared target London. He also knew what had happened to Obermeyer, Keane, and the Wirths. He knew where a couple of them were buried. Only wished he’d been the one who’d taken them out.
“I remember everything, Boss,” he semi-repeated. “Including the drink Pam poured me the night I rear-ended that truck. She’d acted all sorts of coy, and honestly? I thought it was beer. Thought she was being nice. But it was apple juice. I almost tossed it in the sink. Should have, but I was dumb. Thoughtmaybe she’d changed. Nope. I do remember her asking me to run to the market for… something. Don’t recall what, but she… She knew damned well that I’d take my bike. Hell, she might’ve told me to crash it for all I know, Boss.”
Alex had his cell phone in one hand, his other hand cupped over his ear, while talking into his headset and thumb-dialing a number. “Thanks, Maverick. We’re a mile or two out,” He turned back to Grissom. “’Course she tried to kill you. That’s what Doc Windhall believes, too. Moreno’s in the Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport parking terrace.”
He brought his phone to his other ear. “Shut down whatever plane Sal Moreno’s boarding, Mother. Do it now. He’s most likely bound for New York City.” Alex paused a second. His jaw tightened. “You don’t have to tell me. I know most private jets fly out of Leesburg, but Maverick followed him to Reagan. Son of a bitch! Stop arguing with me and keep Moreno on the ground! Stop every outgoing flight if you have to. That son of a bitch has Tuesday Smart!”
