huge fees his clients were willing to pay.
Tonight he sat on the leather sofa in the den of his McLean mansion. The floor-to-ceiling drapes were open, and he could look out over his property.
The television played softly across the room. One of those programs he liked on Animal Planet where a macho guy ran around jumping into alligator pools or sticking his hand into scorpion holes. Charles was always hoping one of the fools would get chomped to death. Or stung by a stingray, like that Australian guy.
The show was good background for cleaning his Glock model 17L, a sweet little handgun if he’d ever seen one.
He glanced at the clock. It was ten and time for Anderson Cooper. The boy came across as steady and reliable. Charles had made that a rule of his own life.
He had no illusions of his own power. Or his own tragedies. After his wife and son had died in a terrorist attack in Egypt, he’d vowed to devote himself to the greater good of humanity. As he saw it. His goal was a stable society—with power in the hands of the people who knew how to wield it.
He stayed in the background, quietly giving substantial amounts of money to causes he thought would make a difference. Like his college scholarship fund for disadvantaged kids. A lot of people had written them off, but he understood that the better chances those kids had in life, the more likely they were to stay out of trouble.
Charles switched channels then sat up straighter when he saw the concerned expression on Cooper’s lean face.
“White House advisor John Ridgeway suffered a fatal heart attack this evening while catching up on some work in his office.” The anchor’s words hit him like rocks slamming against a cement wall.
Carefully Charles set the handgun on the table in front of him.
Ridgeway was dead. Supposedly he’d died alone in his office.
Charles’s mind flashed back to November six months ago, when an intruder had blown himself up—along with Dr. Richard Cortez—at the Bio Gens Laboratories in Bethesda, Maryland.
Cortez had been a close friend and colleague. When he’d heard the news, Charles went back and looked at the deaths of some of his clients. Pat Richmond in Massachusetts. Joe Barlow in California. Ted Pierson in New Jersey.
Richmond had died in a hit-and-run accident. Barlow had been at home when a burglar broke into his Beverly Hills mansion. Pierson had drowned in a boating accident.
He’d wanted to dismiss those deaths—and half a dozen others—as unrelated. That was before the pipe bomb at Bio Gens Labs. Two people had died. Cortez and someone else—presumably the bomber.
Charles had obtained a sample of the DNA from what was left of the bodies. And what he discovered had brought cold sweat to his skin.
The police had never solved that mystery. Now what about Ridgeway? Were the authorities going to get a crack at the case—or was a grand cover-up in motion?
“MAYBE YOU’D BETTER explain what you mean about his using you for something else,” Brady said.
He watched Grace drag in a breath and let it out.
“I was in the office complex, but your brother was with another woman when he died. They went into another office together. They made love. Then he gasped, and I assume he had a heart attack. There must have been security guards right around the corner. As soon as it happened, a couple of them rushed in—followed by Ian Wickers who runs security at the Ridgeway Consortium.”
“I know who Wickers is!” He glared at her. “You expect me to believe someone else was with my brother?”
“Earlier, I was working with him on notes for his autobiography. We had a standing appointment every Tuesday night.”
Just what Lydia had told him.
“Did you know he was working on an autobiography?” Grace Cunningham asked.
“He hadn’t shared that with me.”
“Probably he didn’t want to tell you anything until he had a publisher lined up.”
That sounded pretty cynical. Yet the observation fit. John wouldn’t want to make a big announcement until he’d signed a multi-million-dollar book contract.
She continued with her version of the evening’s events. “After our sessions together, he always left me and went to meet someone else.”
He kept his gaze fixed on her. “That’s an interesting story. Why should I believe it?”
CHARLES HANCOCK TYPED in his password—Paladin. It was from an old TV show, where a guy in a black hat rode around the old west righting wrongs.
He’d loved the show when he was a kid. So he’d appropriated the title. Paladin wasn’t the Lone Ranger. He didn’t always play by the rules. But he got things done.
The way Cortez had.
The doctor’s death had been a personal tragedy. But Charles would find the right man to take over the research. Someone with vision. Someone who understood the importance of maintaining stability in the government of the United States—and ultimately the world.
All the Bio Gens protocols were in the computer. Waiting for the right moment to start the project up again.
But right now he was into damage control.
His source at the consortium had confirmed his suspicion that Ridgeway hadn’t been alone when he’d suffered his fatal heart attack. It seemed that he’d been playing Russian roulette with his health. He’d been with a woman, but Ian Wickers was keeping that information inside the building.
Good. That suited Charles’s purposes perfectly. The fewer people who knew what had really happened, the better.
He had the woman’s name. Karen Hilliard. He drummed his fingers lightly on the computer keyboard. He hated giving in to conspiracy theory. However, in this case he knew it was justified. When you put Ridgeway’s death together with the murders across the country and then the explosion at Dr. Cortez’s lab you came up with an unfortunate pattern.
The man who had blown himself up—along with Cortez—had been a rare bird. He’d called himself Billy Carmichael. But that was the name he’d taken after he’d disappeared into thin air.
Charles knew his real identity from the DNA sample he’d obtained. Billy Carmichael was one of the babies who had been conceived in a petri dish at Bio Gens Labs—then sold to childless couples desperate for children. Couples who bore all the expenses of raising one of Cortez’s little darlings yet didn’t know what a remarkable youngster they sheltered.
He switched to another database—the children. He didn’t usually go into it unless he had a request from one of his clients.
Now he plugged in Karen Hilliard’s name. He didn’t find her, but he had a pretty good idea who she was. Three years ago, one of the children—now grown—had gone missing. A young woman named Kate Winthrop.
Charles’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the computer screen. He had no conclusive proof, but he’d be willing to bet that Kate Winthrop and Karen Hilliard
