T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 03 - Southern Peril by T. Lynn Ocean Page A
Authors: T. Lynn Ocean
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said.
ELEVEN
Morgan didn’t know if the hidden microphone had served its purpose for his father, but it had certainly opened his eyes. He was glad he hadn’t destroyed it on first impulse. Truth was a good thing, and the tiny wireless microphone in the Green Table’s candleholder had served up the truth about Maria. Now it was time to set things right and remove the peppercorn-size electronic. Especially since a drug enforcement agent was snooping around.
Each time Morgan made an early morning trip to Argo’s, though, he got sidetracked. Once he’d even unfolded the ladder and pulled out a couple of tools. Maybe the phone rang, or he might have gone shopping for new restroom light fixtures, or perhaps some tables in the main dining area needed rearranging. He couldn’t recall, specifically, what diverted his attention every time he arrived at Argo’s with good intentions. Like any addict, he justified his lack of action by thinking of the next day. The Green Table’s secret wasn’t going anywhere. He could always get rid of it tomorrow,in the day’s maiden hours. Tomorrows were a great thing. They kept coming.
Meanwhile, he found himself ensconced in the small office more and more. A sympathetic friend, the office was his second home, his private domain. He felt hidden and safe from the world. He made it a point to be seen coming and going from Argo’s and sometimes told employees that he’d be out running errands when he was really nestled in his swiveling leather desk chair like a moviegoer playing hooky from work, snatching a break from reality. He came and went through the rear delivery door, and when the restaurant buzzed at full capacity, everybody was too busy to pay him much attention anyway. The thrill, the high, the sheer addictiveness of eavesdropping on strangers, had crept up in baby steps until it enslaved him like an opiate. The gratifying rush was the high point of his day. Some conversations were more interesting than others, but all were good escapes. Even the garden-variety birthday dinner groups proved more interesting than his own life.
“Have either of you ever wondered what would have happened if there were air bags back then?” Morgan heard one of the doctors say. He thought it might be Jonathan but couldn’t be sure. It was one of the Divine Image Group doctors. He squinted at the overhead view on the monitor. Yep, Jonathan, the one with the bald head who was the psychiatrist. The one who probably made his living by matching his patients’ symptoms to the current popular three-letter abbreviated disorder of the day. The three men were in for their usual Friday night meal. On Fridays, Morgan knew, the Divine Image Group closed shop at three o’clock. Which gave the doctors plenty of time to have a drink somewhere before hitting Argo’s when the doors opened at five.
“Man, oh man, this fish is good,” Leo said. “The only fish my wife knows how to cook is salmon, and she smashes that up into patties that taste like plasterboard.”
“I’m serious,” Jonathan said. “Think about it.”
Checking the monitor, Morgan noticed that the man’s food hadn’t been touched, although he was near the bottom of his third Scotch and soda. “Simple air bags could have changed everything when that car ran off the road and wrecked. If the driver had been cushioned”—he had trouble pronouncing the word—“he wouldn’t have been so disoriented. And if that were the case, he might’ve shot us straight out. Without bothering to talk first.”
The third member of the Divine Image Group, Michael, refilled wineglasses. Ordinarily the server would have hovered near enough to know exactly when the glasses were less than a quarter full. But earlier, the group had told Deanna they’d like privacy during their meal. “If you want to bring up today’s technology,” Michael said, “what about fiber samples and DNA matching and all that high-tech forensics garbage?
ELEVEN
Morgan didn’t know if the hidden microphone had served its purpose for his father, but it had certainly opened his eyes. He was glad he hadn’t destroyed it on first impulse. Truth was a good thing, and the tiny wireless microphone in the Green Table’s candleholder had served up the truth about Maria. Now it was time to set things right and remove the peppercorn-size electronic. Especially since a drug enforcement agent was snooping around.
Each time Morgan made an early morning trip to Argo’s, though, he got sidetracked. Once he’d even unfolded the ladder and pulled out a couple of tools. Maybe the phone rang, or he might have gone shopping for new restroom light fixtures, or perhaps some tables in the main dining area needed rearranging. He couldn’t recall, specifically, what diverted his attention every time he arrived at Argo’s with good intentions. Like any addict, he justified his lack of action by thinking of the next day. The Green Table’s secret wasn’t going anywhere. He could always get rid of it tomorrow,in the day’s maiden hours. Tomorrows were a great thing. They kept coming.
Meanwhile, he found himself ensconced in the small office more and more. A sympathetic friend, the office was his second home, his private domain. He felt hidden and safe from the world. He made it a point to be seen coming and going from Argo’s and sometimes told employees that he’d be out running errands when he was really nestled in his swiveling leather desk chair like a moviegoer playing hooky from work, snatching a break from reality. He came and went through the rear delivery door, and when the restaurant buzzed at full capacity, everybody was too busy to pay him much attention anyway. The thrill, the high, the sheer addictiveness of eavesdropping on strangers, had crept up in baby steps until it enslaved him like an opiate. The gratifying rush was the high point of his day. Some conversations were more interesting than others, but all were good escapes. Even the garden-variety birthday dinner groups proved more interesting than his own life.
“Have either of you ever wondered what would have happened if there were air bags back then?” Morgan heard one of the doctors say. He thought it might be Jonathan but couldn’t be sure. It was one of the Divine Image Group doctors. He squinted at the overhead view on the monitor. Yep, Jonathan, the one with the bald head who was the psychiatrist. The one who probably made his living by matching his patients’ symptoms to the current popular three-letter abbreviated disorder of the day. The three men were in for their usual Friday night meal. On Fridays, Morgan knew, the Divine Image Group closed shop at three o’clock. Which gave the doctors plenty of time to have a drink somewhere before hitting Argo’s when the doors opened at five.
“Man, oh man, this fish is good,” Leo said. “The only fish my wife knows how to cook is salmon, and she smashes that up into patties that taste like plasterboard.”
“I’m serious,” Jonathan said. “Think about it.”
Checking the monitor, Morgan noticed that the man’s food hadn’t been touched, although he was near the bottom of his third Scotch and soda. “Simple air bags could have changed everything when that car ran off the road and wrecked. If the driver had been cushioned”—he had trouble pronouncing the word—“he wouldn’t have been so disoriented. And if that were the case, he might’ve shot us straight out. Without bothering to talk first.”
The third member of the Divine Image Group, Michael, refilled wineglasses. Ordinarily the server would have hovered near enough to know exactly when the glasses were less than a quarter full. But earlier, the group had told Deanna they’d like privacy during their meal. “If you want to bring up today’s technology,” Michael said, “what about fiber samples and DNA matching and all that high-tech forensics garbage?
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