outcome.
Or was it?
Shapiro now had her thinking about malpractice, which only made her concern over Joe’s whereabouts all the more grave. Clearly Alan Shapiro would have taken a different approach when it came to Charlie’s information gathering. If only Joe had shown up for his therapy session, she might not be so troubled.
Rachel waited outside the conference room and used her mobile to try Joe’s home number again. She hung up after seven rings.
Where was he? she wondered.
Chapter 11
W earing a scowl, Charlie walked into Chaps Sports Bar in Ken-more Square. The room was smoke-free, and Charlie, who wasn’t much for frequenting bars—he worked most nights well past last call—wondered how much more time he’d be spending in them since losing his job.
He spotted Randal Egan slouched over the bar, clutching a half-drunk pint glass of Guinness stout. Randal and Charlie had been friends since high school. A soccer teammate who’d grown up in Waltham, Randal was the better of the two at staying in touch and regularly sent Charlie e-mail, even while buried in law books. After a few years in private practice, he’d ended up taking a job with the FBI in the Boston field office for less than half his pay, saying he felt a need to do something more tangible to help people. He’d been there ever since. “A lifer,” he often joked. Charlie agreed—Randal was a lifer when it came to helping people.
Charlie had few people left to turn to. He had called Lawrence in IT from the car. As expected, Lawrence had reneged on Charlie’s search request, passing up the Sox tickets in exchange for keeping his job. Charlie assumed that as word got out, more and more people would turn their backs on him. Randal wasn’t like that.
Charlie approached the bar. He was still grappling with how he would explain to Randal what had happened to him without seeming totally insane. He felt he could trust Randal, but he wasn’t sure what benefit a full disclosure would bring, other than release.
The bottom line was, he had to talk to somebody or he’d explode.
“Hey, stranger,” Charlie said, placing a firm hand on Randal’s broad shoulder.
“Giles! Giles! Holy shit. What’s up, amigo!” Randal stood and gave Charlie a warm embrace. He called to the bartender, who was washing glasses at the other end of the bar. “A Guinness for my friend here, when you have a minute,” he said.
“And a shot of Jack,” Charlie added
“Whoa. Okay. I got it, fella. And a shot of Jack,” Randal called out.
The bartender grunted and began pouring the Guinness from the tap. He reached for the Jack on the top shelf.
“Thanks for coming to meet me,” Charlie said. “Sorry I’m a bit late. Parking in Kenmore isn’t easy.”
“Tell me about it,” Randal said. “I’m way down Beacon.”
“You look great, man. How have you been? It’s been a while.”
“Yeah. It’s been a while. Too long,” Randal said, poking Charlie’s shoulder with his finger. “Everything is good with me. Jenny and the kids are fine. But it’s you I’m worried about. Midafternoon cocktails aren’t exactly your MO, if you know what I mean.”
Charlie nodded. “I just needed to talk to somebody, Randal. I didn’t know where else to turn.”
The boy who’d played varsity striker three years at Waltham and fullback for BC was still present in Randal’s dark Italian eyes and smooth olive complexion. The familiarity comforted Charlie, especially in a world where nothing seemed familiar anymore. The bartender dropped two shots in front of Randal and went to finish the Guinness pour.
“Talk,” said Randal, pushing a shot toward Charlie, who picked up the fingerprint-stained tumbler and downed it with a single gulp. Without being prompted, Randal ordered another.
“I’ve been fired,” Charlie said.
“What? What for?”
“Let’s see … surfing porn and corporate espionage,” Charlie said.
“Oh, is that all?” Randal laughed as though that
Or was it?
Shapiro now had her thinking about malpractice, which only made her concern over Joe’s whereabouts all the more grave. Clearly Alan Shapiro would have taken a different approach when it came to Charlie’s information gathering. If only Joe had shown up for his therapy session, she might not be so troubled.
Rachel waited outside the conference room and used her mobile to try Joe’s home number again. She hung up after seven rings.
Where was he? she wondered.
Chapter 11
W earing a scowl, Charlie walked into Chaps Sports Bar in Ken-more Square. The room was smoke-free, and Charlie, who wasn’t much for frequenting bars—he worked most nights well past last call—wondered how much more time he’d be spending in them since losing his job.
He spotted Randal Egan slouched over the bar, clutching a half-drunk pint glass of Guinness stout. Randal and Charlie had been friends since high school. A soccer teammate who’d grown up in Waltham, Randal was the better of the two at staying in touch and regularly sent Charlie e-mail, even while buried in law books. After a few years in private practice, he’d ended up taking a job with the FBI in the Boston field office for less than half his pay, saying he felt a need to do something more tangible to help people. He’d been there ever since. “A lifer,” he often joked. Charlie agreed—Randal was a lifer when it came to helping people.
Charlie had few people left to turn to. He had called Lawrence in IT from the car. As expected, Lawrence had reneged on Charlie’s search request, passing up the Sox tickets in exchange for keeping his job. Charlie assumed that as word got out, more and more people would turn their backs on him. Randal wasn’t like that.
Charlie approached the bar. He was still grappling with how he would explain to Randal what had happened to him without seeming totally insane. He felt he could trust Randal, but he wasn’t sure what benefit a full disclosure would bring, other than release.
The bottom line was, he had to talk to somebody or he’d explode.
“Hey, stranger,” Charlie said, placing a firm hand on Randal’s broad shoulder.
“Giles! Giles! Holy shit. What’s up, amigo!” Randal stood and gave Charlie a warm embrace. He called to the bartender, who was washing glasses at the other end of the bar. “A Guinness for my friend here, when you have a minute,” he said.
“And a shot of Jack,” Charlie added
“Whoa. Okay. I got it, fella. And a shot of Jack,” Randal called out.
The bartender grunted and began pouring the Guinness from the tap. He reached for the Jack on the top shelf.
“Thanks for coming to meet me,” Charlie said. “Sorry I’m a bit late. Parking in Kenmore isn’t easy.”
“Tell me about it,” Randal said. “I’m way down Beacon.”
“You look great, man. How have you been? It’s been a while.”
“Yeah. It’s been a while. Too long,” Randal said, poking Charlie’s shoulder with his finger. “Everything is good with me. Jenny and the kids are fine. But it’s you I’m worried about. Midafternoon cocktails aren’t exactly your MO, if you know what I mean.”
Charlie nodded. “I just needed to talk to somebody, Randal. I didn’t know where else to turn.”
The boy who’d played varsity striker three years at Waltham and fullback for BC was still present in Randal’s dark Italian eyes and smooth olive complexion. The familiarity comforted Charlie, especially in a world where nothing seemed familiar anymore. The bartender dropped two shots in front of Randal and went to finish the Guinness pour.
“Talk,” said Randal, pushing a shot toward Charlie, who picked up the fingerprint-stained tumbler and downed it with a single gulp. Without being prompted, Randal ordered another.
“I’ve been fired,” Charlie said.
“What? What for?”
“Let’s see … surfing porn and corporate espionage,” Charlie said.
“Oh, is that all?” Randal laughed as though that
Similar Books
