Between the Lies (Book One - The Northern Lights Series) (14 page)

“Ms. Morgan.” Newman’s voice held no mercy.

“Yes, Agent Newman. How can I help you?” I asked.

“We need to meet, and you will likely want your attorney with you. Can you arrange that for some time today?”

“If Michelle is available, what time works best for you?”

“Two o’clock this afternoon.”

“Either she or I will call you at the number on your card to confirm.”

“Fine.” He clicked off, leaving me ticked off.

I took a few deep breaths before calling Michelle. It was my feeble attempt to curb both my fear and my anger.

I expected her to be in the throes of grief, but she said she was working from Alan’s office and would contact Newman.

“Two o’clock is fine on my end. What about you?” she asked.

“I’m free then.”

“Good. I’ve been meaning to call you. How are you weathering the stalker’s latest invasion?”

“Between Harper, her people, Lloyd, and even Newman’s eagle eyes on me, I’m feeling confined, but safe. Except for when my imagination is working overtime.”

“That sounds normal. You’ve been through a lot in a short period of time. If you’d like to come down a few minutes early, please do. I’m alone in here today. The workers are in my space, Alan didn’t have any meetings, and Justine is at a training conference out of town. There’s a temp at the front desk, but I’ll let her know you’re coming.”

It happened every time I walked into Alan’s office. The air seemed weighted to me. I imagined the walls were heavily insulated to buffer any distracting noises, but the quiet always felt like a hand pressing the air out of my lungs.

The office door was open, and Michelle was sitting on the couch, talking to the temp who was seated on a chair across from her.

Michelle didn’t jump up when I walked in. Instead, she rose, her movements a beautiful combination of fluid grace and confidence. “Thank you for the conversation, Ms. Beck,” she said to the other woman. “And please email me your resume. Claire Worthington recommended you highly. I trust her opinions and look forward to seeing if your goals and my needs mesh.”

“I will, Mrs. Lyons. Thank you.”

“When special agent Newman arrives, please show him in, and would you mind bringing in a beverage tray as well? The coffee is made and set up on the tray. I think it would work nicely if you follow him in with it, if possible.”

“Certainly,” Ms. Beck said before closing the door.

“Thank you,” Michelle said. Her gratitude was genuine, but was also a gracious dismissal.

“Please come in, Olivia. Thanks for coming early,” she said, turning her focus to me.

She motioned for me to join her. “Let’s sit here. Would you prefer a chair? I find couches so uncomfortable. Perhaps we could leave that space for Newman?” There was a hint of sarcasm in her voice. Her grin revealed her amusement.

I sat on the edge of the leather chair, ready to spring up the moment he entered.

“Are you afraid of Newman?” Michelle asked.

“He makes me nervous.” My response came out in a whisper. “I have no idea what he thinks he has on me now. His conviction that I am guilty of something criminal scares me.”

“He has that way about him,” Michelle admitted and then asked, “Do you mind if I give you some advice?”

“Give away.”

“First, sit back a ways in your chair. It’s okay not to sit all the way back or relax fully, but try not to perch. When he arrives, we will both stand up. I will take a couple of steps toward him as I greet him. You can stand and face him, but stay in front of your chair. Make him come to you, and when he does, offer to shake his hand. We will respect his position and concerns, while we refuse to be controlled or intimidated by him. He may not like it, but he won’t be able to criticize our civility and unity.”

I nodded. On the surface I agreed, but felt a red hot anger rise momentarily as I wondered to myself when I was going to stop obeying a Lyons.

“Are you okay, Olivia? Your face looks a little flushed.”

“I’m fine, just a little flustered by this whole thing,” I lied.

She looked at her watch and continued, “Body language is important, but it’s not something we can force. You will be nervous, and it will show. That’s okay. It would be unnatural if you weren’t unsettled being questioned by him. Don’t worry if your palms are sweaty; that doesn’t mean you’re guilty, only that you’re uncomfortable being the focus of an FBI inquiry. Unless he has evidence of something criminal, you have nothing to worry about. If he crosses a line, I’ll be the one to stop him. If you are unsure about responding to a question, don’t hesitate to look at me. If you don’t want to answer something, let him know you’d be glad to get back to him at a later time with your response. The most important thing you can do is breathe.”

There was a gentle knock at the door, and then Ms. Beck opened it to announce and admit Newman. After he entered, she pushed an elegant cart in behind him. Her presence forced him to move in our direction. I realized each movement was as carefully choreographed as a ballet. Michelle welcomed him with an outstretched hand and a brisk welcome. He shook my hand too, his eyes reminding me of the way I felt the time Gus had pointed his double-barreled shotgun at me.

Michelle interrupted his attempt at intimidation by asking if he wanted something to drink. He declined. I asked for a glass of water, although the shaking in my stomach made it impossible for me to take a sip.

“Please have a seat,” she said, indicating the couch with her open hand. He sat down all the way back, very comfortable in his own skin if not on the furniture. And very sure of his agenda.

“How may we help you today, Special Agent Newman?” Michelle asked.

He lifted one side of his mouth.

“You can take a look at these,” he said as he slid a file folder across the polished coffee table in my direction.

Without hesitation Michelle reached for it. I watched her flip through the pages in silence with practiced ease as if she had all day.

“Those are some copies from Mickey’s journals and some of his old files. It now appears he was building a case against you in the death of your father, Gus Smith.”

Before I could respond, Michelle asked, “Are these all of Mickey’s journal entries?”

“No. Just a few to give you an idea of why I’m pursuing this private investigation into Ms. Morgan’s past, and why I believe it is her motive for killing Mickey.” He leaned toward me and asked, “He knew too much, didn’t he?”

I took a breath, looked at Michelle and she asked, “I notice you said private investigation. Does this mean FBI has decided not to pursue Ms. Morgan as a suspect in agent Olson’s death and that you are investigating Mr. Smith’s demise on your own?”

“My boss believes there is no case against Ms. Morgan. I disagree,” he admitted.

“I need you to clarify the FBI’s official position on this, Agent Newman. Are you saying Ms. Morgan is no longer a person of interest in this case?”

“That’s correct,” he admitted.

“Thank you for coming to tell us this news personally. We appreciate it. Is it reasonable to assume that Mickey’s personal property will be released to his beneficiary?” Michelle said, her tone sugary sweet.

“As soon as the paperwork is complete, yes.”

“And the items you took from his house?”

“Against my protests, because Ms. Morgan is no longer being officially investigated, anything not directly related to this case will be released to her,” he said.

“This is excellent news for my client,” Michelle said with a bright, but professional smile.

“You don’t see a problem with the sentences I highlighted for you?” Newman demanded.

Michelle took a moment to glance at the pages he handed her. “Not at all. Mickey writes of his deep concern for his friend. Nothing more and nothing less. Is this all you wanted us to know?” she asked.

“Yeah. And I’m supposed to ask where Ms. Morgan wants the boxes delivered.”

“She or I will notify you when that’s decided. My client is in the process of finding a new residence so it may take us a few days to get back to you. Was there anything else you wanted to discuss with us?” Michelle asked, standing.

I didn’t trust my legs so didn’t mirror her action. He stood, turned to me and said, “I know you had something to do with that fire.”

Adrenaline surged through my body. I rose to my feet. I looked up at him and said, “I had nothing to do with that fire.” Relief washed over me as I spoke the truth.

Michelle’s voice turned sharp as she said, “Agent Newman, the FBI frowns on what I believe they call ‘rogue agents.’ If you do investigate her without the backing of the FBI, threaten, intimidate, or in any way pressure my client from this point on, I will notify your superiors, and your inappropriate behavior will be on the record. I understand your determination to solve your friend and co-worker’s murder. However, I will not let you abuse your power or the laws that protect the innocent in this country. We both offer you our condolences in the loss of your agent and friend. I know your loss is great. Agent Olson was a credit to the FBI and a faithful friend. As a fellow agent, you don’t want this case to grow any colder than it already is. If you focus your considerable determination and talent as an agent on the case, you will find Mickey’s killer. If Ms. Morgan and I can help in any way, we will. We want justice to prevail as much as you do.”

He said, “Right,” and walked away without shaking her outstretched hand.

She followed him to the door and as he walked though, she said, “Good luck in your other investigations, Agent Newman.”

He said nothing.

She closed the door. “I hate it when men pout, don’t you?”

Her phone rang and after listening for a moment, she said, “It’s Alan. May I tell him what just happened here?”

I nodded, and she returned her attention to her husband.

“Go ahead, Alan,” she said.

Her face tightened. “I’ll be right there. Olivia is here with me. We just met with Special Agent Newman. Although the FBI and the police are still looking for Agent Olson’s killer, Olivia is no longer a person of interest in his death. Yes. She’s been here for the last half hour and was in the apartment before that. I’m leaving now.”

She turned to me. “I have to go. Aggie is in critical condition. They think she was accidently given a medication she is allergic to.” Michelle talked while packing up her briefcase and handing me the file folder Newman left.

“I hope she will be okay.”

“Alan said she had been transferred to the hospital but was expected to recover. I love that old woman. Another personal loss right now might be too much to bear.”

I turned to leave when Michelle said, “I am going to ask you a personal question. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I ask not as your attorney, but as Alan’s wife.”

“Sure. . .?”

“I am spending a lot of time in this office while mine is being worked on, and this question keeps nagging at my mind. Did you ever have sex with Alan here in the office?”

“No. Only in the apartment. No place else. Ever.”

“Okay. Good. That’s a relief. I’m truly embarrassed I asked, but I had to know.”

“No problem.”

Ms. Beck knocked and opened the door. “Mrs. Lyons, your driver is here.”

“Thank you. I’ll be right out.” She turned to me and asked, “Will you walk with me?

“I’m sorry our afternoon ended on this note. We need to talk again soon. There are some things I want you to know about Mother Lyons. She wasn’t always the ruthless woman she portrayed in public.”

I didn’t say anything, so she continued, “I think our meeting with Newman went well. Do you have any questions or concerns?”

“What should I do with Mickey’s things? The house isn’t ready for me to live in yet, and the apartment doesn’t feel safe.”

“You’re right. I’ll contact John Bowman, Newman’s boss, and let him know we aren’t ready to collect them until after you get settled.”

The lady had friends in high places, which seemed to be in my best interest.

“If all goes well, are you free this evening?” Michelle asked when we reached the foyer.

“I am. What do you have in mind?”

“Alan is flying out tonight for some big meeting, and if possible I’d like to show you some things while he’s gone. Hopefully, I’ll be able send the car for you around eight thirty. While we walked she fussed with her cell phone. “I just sent John Bowman, head of the FBI office here in St. Paul a text, so that’s taken care of. Expect a call from me soon regarding tonight.”

“I’m so glad you could come,” Michelle said as she led me up the stairs. Instead of stopping on the second floor where Mrs. Lyons had died and where those frowning old fogies looked down on all who passed, we kept climbing.

“This was where Ida Louise Lyons was free to be herself,” Michelle said, opening the door to a large room full of easels, canvasses, brushes, and a worn palette. The wood floors had paint spattered on them, as did the walls.

Michelle wandered around the room and narrated. “She loved to paint and often did so in her nightgown with her hair hanging free. Did you know her hair went to her waist?”

A shake of my head was the only response required.

“She kept it pinned up most of her life as requested first by her father and then her husband. But never here. And she painted in her bare feet,” Michelle’s voice broke, but after taking a deep breath, she was back on track.

“During the day this room is full of what she called ‘the right light.’ She played the classical music that best fit her mood.” She pointed to one of the paintings. “That one was done to
Ride of the Valkeries
by Wagner. He was always the one she chose on her darkest days.”

A canvas full of blacks and blues rested on one easel.

“Where is that?” I asked.

“It’s our backyard. She hated it out there although she never said why. When we dined out there, she often shivered and said she felt like she was being watched. She hated the boat house most of all. She said there was evil out there. This is the house she was born in and she must have played out there as a child. No matter how often I asked, she refused to tell me why she felt that way.”