men. The eight-foot conference table had claw legs and was inlaid with rosewood. The chairs were big and comfortably padded.
The room reeked of cigar smoke as Robert Conrad, Special Agent, talked and simultaneously exhaled. The odor did not seem to bother Patrick Monahan, the man sitting across the table from Conrad, but nothing ever did. No one ever knew what Patrick was thinking or doing; nobody really cared for that matter, and that was the way Patrick seemed to like it—one of the reasons Harrison had handpicked him to work closely with him.
Conrad, on the other hand, was a nervous fidgety man who, with his receding hairline and deeply creased skin, looked at least a decade older than his forty-six years.
At fifty-five, Harrison looked younger than both men sitting before him. Harrison was known for his pulse-fluttering looks, resembling that of a Greek deity. At least that’s what his ex-wife used to tell him before she left him for an uptight, mature gynecologist with eyes that bulged from their sockets. Harrison might be the one with the charisma and an aura that gained him the attentions and flirtations of scores of beauties, but the wealthy doctor had gotten the last laugh.
In retaliation, Harrison married Sheila Fabre, a woman a few years older than his eldest daughter. Unfortunately, the cost of keeping a young beautiful wife like Sheila satisfied was astronomical. His ex-wife would be in hysterics if she knew how dearly he was paying to keep Sheila at his side.
The smell of Conrad’s cigar floated past Harrison as he took a seat at the head of the table. The only thing that mattered to Harrison these days was getting laid every so often, and right now, tying up all loose ends surrounding the murder of Dr. Forstin. Rookie agent Jack Coffey needed to be taken care of once and for all. There were many ongoing investigations that needed Harrison’s attention, but this particular case happened to be stirring up a lot of commotion of late, keeping him awake at night. The director himself had called this morning for an update. The agency didn’t like having one of their own on the run. It made the agency look bad. Harrison had been confident that his problems would blow up in smithereens along with the plane that had crashed in the Nevada desert. But somehow Coffey and the Huntley woman had once again managed to slip through their fingers. Coffey needed to be taken out and if Conrad and Monahan couldn’t get the job done, he’d have to roll up his sleeves and do the job himself. A job he didn’t relish doing. He’d already gotten his hands bloodied once. Now, he was beginning to wonder when this crazy ride would slow down long enough for him to climb off the rollercoaster, so he could breathe again. Burning the candle on both ends wasn’t part of the deal when Dr. Elizabeth Kramer had first approached him a decade ago. She told him that Lou, the man in charge of the Cure For AIDS Foundation, was offering to shell out big bucks in exchange for his cooperation.
Harrison wasn’t fond of playing good agent, bad agent. He and Coffey had more in common than Jack would ever know. Jack Coffey wasn’t the only one who had joined the agency with lofty hopes of making a difference.
Harrison swallowed his regrets and stared Conrad down. “What have you got? Give me something to throw at the director. Something that will stick to the roof of his mouth and keep him quiet for a few days.”
“I’m keeping a close eye on A.J. Hanson,” Conrad said. “Other than the quick correspondence A.J. and Jack shared before the plane went down, the phone lines have been clear.”
It was quiet for a moment before Monahan added, “I sent Rick Harvey to San Diego to attend Dr. Forstin’s funeral this morning. I think you’ll be glad I did.”
Harrison leaned forward...waiting.
“After all of the monotonous rituals were taken care of, Rick Harvey gave his deepest regrets to Forstin’s wife. Upon realizing he was with
The room reeked of cigar smoke as Robert Conrad, Special Agent, talked and simultaneously exhaled. The odor did not seem to bother Patrick Monahan, the man sitting across the table from Conrad, but nothing ever did. No one ever knew what Patrick was thinking or doing; nobody really cared for that matter, and that was the way Patrick seemed to like it—one of the reasons Harrison had handpicked him to work closely with him.
Conrad, on the other hand, was a nervous fidgety man who, with his receding hairline and deeply creased skin, looked at least a decade older than his forty-six years.
At fifty-five, Harrison looked younger than both men sitting before him. Harrison was known for his pulse-fluttering looks, resembling that of a Greek deity. At least that’s what his ex-wife used to tell him before she left him for an uptight, mature gynecologist with eyes that bulged from their sockets. Harrison might be the one with the charisma and an aura that gained him the attentions and flirtations of scores of beauties, but the wealthy doctor had gotten the last laugh.
In retaliation, Harrison married Sheila Fabre, a woman a few years older than his eldest daughter. Unfortunately, the cost of keeping a young beautiful wife like Sheila satisfied was astronomical. His ex-wife would be in hysterics if she knew how dearly he was paying to keep Sheila at his side.
The smell of Conrad’s cigar floated past Harrison as he took a seat at the head of the table. The only thing that mattered to Harrison these days was getting laid every so often, and right now, tying up all loose ends surrounding the murder of Dr. Forstin. Rookie agent Jack Coffey needed to be taken care of once and for all. There were many ongoing investigations that needed Harrison’s attention, but this particular case happened to be stirring up a lot of commotion of late, keeping him awake at night. The director himself had called this morning for an update. The agency didn’t like having one of their own on the run. It made the agency look bad. Harrison had been confident that his problems would blow up in smithereens along with the plane that had crashed in the Nevada desert. But somehow Coffey and the Huntley woman had once again managed to slip through their fingers. Coffey needed to be taken out and if Conrad and Monahan couldn’t get the job done, he’d have to roll up his sleeves and do the job himself. A job he didn’t relish doing. He’d already gotten his hands bloodied once. Now, he was beginning to wonder when this crazy ride would slow down long enough for him to climb off the rollercoaster, so he could breathe again. Burning the candle on both ends wasn’t part of the deal when Dr. Elizabeth Kramer had first approached him a decade ago. She told him that Lou, the man in charge of the Cure For AIDS Foundation, was offering to shell out big bucks in exchange for his cooperation.
Harrison wasn’t fond of playing good agent, bad agent. He and Coffey had more in common than Jack would ever know. Jack Coffey wasn’t the only one who had joined the agency with lofty hopes of making a difference.
Harrison swallowed his regrets and stared Conrad down. “What have you got? Give me something to throw at the director. Something that will stick to the roof of his mouth and keep him quiet for a few days.”
“I’m keeping a close eye on A.J. Hanson,” Conrad said. “Other than the quick correspondence A.J. and Jack shared before the plane went down, the phone lines have been clear.”
It was quiet for a moment before Monahan added, “I sent Rick Harvey to San Diego to attend Dr. Forstin’s funeral this morning. I think you’ll be glad I did.”
Harrison leaned forward...waiting.
“After all of the monotonous rituals were taken care of, Rick Harvey gave his deepest regrets to Forstin’s wife. Upon realizing he was with
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