Lost and Found (Masters and Mercenaries: The Forgotten Book 2) Read online

  Cathy’s eyes widened. “No. No. No. And if you’re thinking about breaking your self-imposed celibacy at Comic Con with some guy dressed up as Khal Drogo, unless he is actually Jason Momoa, I forbid it. And I control your schedule and your lunch orders and your whole life. You’ll be picking anchovies off your pizza for a year.”

  “Well played,” she admitted. “I was only thinking about it because it was easy. No real names exchanged. No whiny man clinging to me. I wouldn’t have to ever see the inside of his apartment.”

  Cathy’s brows rose. “What does that have to do with it?”

  Cathy had married her high school sweetheart. She hadn’t had to play the dating game. “I’ve found these things go one of two ways. Either I walk into his place and it’s what you would think a frat house would look like after a kegger, or it’s incredibly neat. The first one tells me dude doesn’t care what I think. The second lets me know he’s smart and he’s weaving a web of organization and cleanliness around me. He’s baiting the trap with Lysol, but it’s false. That trap is going to close and I’ll be stuck in there with his dirty socks that he leaves wherever he takes them off or worse, he never actually takes them off at all and I get his stinky, trapped-in-a-pair-of-socks feet forever.”

  “Should I point out the current hypocrisy coming out of your mouth?” Cathy asked with a kind of shocked disbelief. “I clean your office, you know. I’ve been to your apartment.”

  She knew where stuff was. And she probably needed to hire a cleaning service for something more than when her family was coming into town. “See, I know all the tricks. So all I need is a hot geek who’s super good at sex, wants to clean my apartment, and he can cook, and he mostly just wants to support me.”

  “You understand that you’re looking for a wife, right?”

  “Bingo.” She pointed Cathy’s way. “Except I’m not. I’m looking for a good time. I’m looking for a reason to not spend my weekends and late nights here. The program is up and running. Paul has somewhat settled down. My own research is going well. What I am lacking is a booty call.” Maybe she didn’t have to go about it the normal way. She was thinking like a chick. “Do you know any escort services?”

  She could pay for it. It might be simpler.

  Cathy gasped and shook her head. “Absolutely not. You are not hiring a hooker. I’ll look through my friends and set something up for you.” She was still shaking her head as she walked toward the door. “You’re incorrigible, you know.”

  “You are preaching to the choir, sister.” She strode to her office door.

  “And you didn’t say no. I’m going to take that as a win,” Cathy said, settling her bag over her shoulder. “Have a lovely night. Call me if you need anything. And I’m sending you a surprise. I think you’ll like it.”

  Cathy ran out like any minute Becca would change her mind and the world would go back to the way it had been.

  She probably would change her mind. The lawyer would only be interested in her until he realized she was as married to her job as he was, and she wouldn’t change her mind and become a good housewife. When she wouldn’t drop everything to pick up his dry cleaning, he would find some woman who would.

  The hooker would be easier. The hooker might actually be cool with picking up her dry cleaning if she left him a big enough tip.

  Was a dude who took money for sex called a hooker?

  She stopped at the door to her office.

  Dr. Rebecca Walsh

  Head of Neurology Research

  God, she hoped one day it would say Dr. Rebecca Walsh, chick who cured Alzheimer’s and dementia.

  Tears welled hard and fast and she forced herself to remember her mother as she’d been. Graceful, happy, intelligent. She closed her eyes and saw her mother sitting at her desk, a lone light illuminating the book she was reading. She always took notes for her lectures. In her mind’s eye, she saw her mother turn to her and smile, welcoming her even though she was working. Her mom looked like an angel.

  And then another image struck, one of her mother being held down as she tried to get out of bed. She’d screamed and fought and looked at Becca, hatred in her eyes.

  She shook off the image. That hadn’t been her mom. It hadn’t. It had been a disease. She’d said she wasn’t angry, but she’d lied. She was violently angry at the disease that had robbed her mother of her mind, her memories, her dignity.

  She took a deep breath and pushed through. That was her life. Pushing through. She’d been born for this, born to fight this fight.

  But even gladiators took the night off every now and then.

  She glanced down at the reports on her desk. Cathy had done exactly what she’d asked. She had the accounting reports for the last few quarters. Now there was a mystery she wanted to solve.

  Something was up with the accounting. Perhaps it was nothing more than a mathematical error or the misapplication of funds to one account or another, but there was a million dollars missing. It had been taken out in small figures. A hundred here, nine hundred there. There was a requisition for a seventy-five-thousand-dollar piece of medical equipment, but she couldn’t find the delivery receipt. It all added up to one big suspicion. Becca intended to figure out where it had gone.

  She gathered up the files. She’d had them printed out because she didn’t want anyone to know she was looking into it.

  Her cell rang and she sighed in relief. She didn’t have to think about it for another couple of minutes. Her dad. He called as she was finishing up work every day he wasn’t in surgery. She put her earbuds in and answered the call.

  “Hey, Pops. What’s going on?” She grabbed her tote bag and shoved the paperwork in.

  “Hi, Peanut.” His warm voice came over the line. “Are you on your way to the subway?”

  “I’m walking out now,” she replied, doing exactly that. “We’ve got a good ten minutes. How was your day?”

  He started to talk and she locked her office, ready to head home.

  * * * *

  Paul Huisman strode down the steps of the building that bore his name. Not his truly, as his father and grandfather would remind him, but rather of his family. He himself hadn’t proven that he was worthy of the name yet. As though a medical degree from Harvard wasn’t good enough, there was some other elusive thing he needed to find in order to make his family proud.

  He’d done everything they’d asked of him. He’d gone to the right schools, done his residency at the best hospital, married the woman they’d asked him to, and produced a genius-level child, and they’d still given the position he’d worked for all his life to a woman ten years younger than him.

  He hated Rebecca Walsh with a passion, and he was going to finally do something about it.

  Perhaps what his family had been waiting for was a show of ruthless will. They were about to get it.

  A limo pulled up in front of the building and he sighed. Hopefully it would move along quickly because this was the best place to catch a cab. He couldn’t stand the thought of getting on the subway. Being stuck in traffic would be far better than sharing space with the riffraff.

  He would hire a car and driver, but his fucking father had cut him off after Miranda divorced him. One more failure in his family’s eyes. He couldn’t help it that the bitch hadn’t been able to handle his work schedule and needed some desperate, clingy man to make her feel alive.

  He was going to ensure that the woman didn’t emasculate his son. He wasn’t sure how to do it, but he couldn’t stand the way Emmanuel whined and cried and was scared of his own shadow.

  The door to the limo came open as a perfectly good cab drove by, ignoring Paul’s outstretched hand.

  The driver of the limo was a big man whose tailored black suit looked barely large enough to encase his muscular body. He wore a black hat and hustled to move around the car. “Dr. Huisman?”

  He pulled his hand back down. “That’s me.”

  “My employer would like to have a moment of your time.” The dr
iver wasn’t Canadian. Not at all. That accent was pure Boston, and not the educated kind. He’d spent years in Massachusetts studying, and he knew a Southie when he heard one.

  “Your employer is?” If his father had sent a lawyer, then he’d likely discovered the plot against Rebecca Walsh and his whole life might end here and now. Nausea threatened. He had no idea what his father would do if he figured out how he’d planned on getting rid of his golden girl.

  Still, he managed to remain calm. Perhaps his father had somehow discovered the missing money and tied it back to Walsh and wanted to discuss how to fire her. If he could get the bitch thrown in jail, it would be all the better.

  The driver opened the door and he glimpsed a man he’d never met before. Definitely not a lawyer. Lawyers wore suits, not skinny jeans, short-sleeved button-downs with bow ties and suspenders. The man in the limo looked like he’d walked straight out of a hipster modeling session right down to the IPA he held in his right hand.

  “Hello, Dr. Huisman. Why don’t you let me give you a ride,” the man with the dark hair said. “We can talk along the way. I believe we have some mutual interests, and you’ll find we can help each other out. You’re interested in eliminating Rebecca Walsh so you can take her place, correct?”

  Fuck. This might be a trap, but he was going to have to find out where it led. Someone definitely knew about his plans. He had to get into that limo if only to find out how much this stranger knew. Besides, he wasn’t sure the massive driver would take no for an answer. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching.

  “Dr. Huisman, we’re totally safe. I assure you I know exactly where Dr. Walsh is, and she won’t be a problem. If you’re worried about your father, I can tell you exactly how to handle him. Did you know he’s got a mistress in Montreal?” the man asked.

  He eased into the limo, the nausea more than a mere possibility now. Bile rose hard and fast, and he only barely managed to swallow it down. “My father always has a mistress. My mother doesn’t care. No one does. Don’t you think if I could unseat the man, I would? But no one prioritizes morals anymore as long as the foundation brings in money and continues to be respected. The cancer team won a Nobel Prize last year. Do you honestly believe the fact that my father cheats will overshadow his recruiting abilities?”

  The door closed behind him. He didn’t see a weapon on the man, but the very fact that he knew about his plot to regain his position was far more frightening than any weapon that could be used against him.

  The mystery man offered him a beer. “It’s a little hoppy, but I like the way it finishes.”

  “I don’t drink.” Ever. He wouldn’t allow himself to be out of control. He’d watched his own brother drink his life away.

  The man simply put the second beer down and took a swallow of the first. “Your loss, man. They only offer this sucker once a year. I find the seasonal nature enhances the experience. Anyway, I’m sure your father’s other mistresses were lovely women, and anyone could understand how a powerful man needs his indulgences, but they usually become less willing to overlook an affair when a powerful man has one with a Chinese operative who’s known for specializing in corporate espionage.”

  He felt his body still in utter shock even as the limo pulled away. “What?”

  The man across from him looked thoughtful. “Is it corporate espionage? I think so. I mean I know it’s a research group and it’s supposed to be nonprofit, but the very word nonprofit is an oxymoron. I like that word. I always have. I genuinely look forward to using it in sentences. As I was saying, you’re all funded by corporations. They give you money so they can have early access to the data and research. It’s like that everywhere now, even here in Canada. I won’t even get into the States. We’re kind of the Corporate States of America when you think about it, and that’s a problem for me.”

  “I’m sorry, you’re American?” The words weren’t quite penetrating his brain. His father’s latest mistress was a spy?

  Could he prove that?

  “Oh, I’m one hundred percent red, white, and blue,” he said. “I work for a division of our government interested in some of Dr. Walsh’s former colleagues. You remember a woman named Hope McDonald?”

  The name sent a chill down his spine. He’d met her at a few conferences, but one night he’d talked to her at the bar. She’d flirted with him and he’d been under no illusions that the woman was interested in anything but the Huisman Foundation and his access to it. After a few whiskeys, she’d told him the strangest tale. All nonsense, of course.

  No one could steal a person’s memories. No one could erase minds and make slaves of soldiers.

  Could they?

  “I know her. Knew her. She died a couple of years ago.” Under somewhat mysterious circumstances. He hadn’t looked too deeply into it, had merely been relieved he wouldn’t have to deal with her again.

  “Did you know Dr. Walsh worked with her when she was fresh out of med school? She’d written a paper while she was at Johns Hopkins about possibilities for breaking down the plaques in the brain that strangle healthy nerve cells.”

  “I’m well aware of how the disease works,” he shot back. “I am also researching new drugs and therapies for dealing with Alzheimer’s.”

  “But she’s further along than you are, isn’t she? So much further.” The man’s voice had taken on an oddly sympathetic tone, soothing almost. “You can’t help it. Everyone listens to her. Her ideas aren’t really new.”

  “They’re derivative.” He’d always said it. She was standing on the backs of the truly brilliant. Just because she’d solved a few problems shouldn’t make her the darling of the neuro world, but she’d been exactly that for years. She was the shiny new thing they all followed.

  “Who would take over her research if she, say, was found to have stolen a million dollars from the foundation? From what I understand, the foundation itself owns the research done here. If she went to jail, Huisman would retain the intellectual property, I assume.”

  That was precisely how it would work. “I would take it over.”

  He would take it over, and no one had to know they hadn’t been his ideas in the first place. Everyone knew they worked together. He could easily slip into her role, and by the time he was ready to publish, no one would remember she’d ever existed.

  “Yes, you would, my friend, and from what I understand, she’s close,” he said as the limo stopped at a red light. “But she knows something is going on and you’re about to get found out. Did you know she asked accounting for the bank statements on the account you took the million out of? I assume it was you. If it wasn’t, please accept my apologies and I’ll drop you off.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  The man finished off his beer and sat back. “Like I said, we have a mutual interest in Dr. Walsh and her research. She believes she’s found a way to reverse the effects of the proteins that cause Alzheimer’s. Dr. McDonald used many of Walsh’s techniques in her own research, though in a very different way. I believe between Dr. Walsh’s current research and getting my hands on McDonald’s old research, I can find that cure and then I’ll be in a position to help my country in a way no one can imagine.”

  The man knew how to ask for the world. Paul was in a corner and he wasn’t sure he could find his way out. “I have no idea where Dr. McDonald’s research is. She’s dead.”

  A slow smile crossed the man’s lips, a Cheshire Cat-like grin. “Yes and a few weeks before she died, she sent a box to Rebecca Walsh. Unfortunately, she was getting a divorce at the time and the package went to her husband’s house. By the time I tracked it down, she’d settled in here and it had been delivered to her. It got caught up in customs for a while, but I have every reason to believe she has it. I had someone recently search her apartment and it wasn’t there. I need you to figure out where she would have put it and get it and all of her current research to me. I had another plan in place, but then you fell into my lap. You’re a godsend, Paul. I
f you can get me what I need, I won’t have to deal with some unsavory characters, if you know what I mean.”

  Perhaps the corner wouldn’t be so hard to maneuver out of. He could search her office. He knew the building like the back of his hand. Maybe this didn’t have to be the end. “And I get?”

  “You get my aid in achieving your goal,” his own personal Mephistopheles explained. “You’re going about it all wrong and it’s time to up your game, my man. The players have recently changed and you’re going to have to move quickly because there’s nothing these guys love more than riding in like white knights when a lady is concerned. You need help or you’re going to be the one going to jail. It’s your choice. I can help you or find someone else who’s willing to help me.”

  “I want proof that my father is sleeping with a spy.” He might come out of this with far more than a department head job. He might come out of it with the whole foundation in his hands.

  All he had to do was crush a couple of people.

  “You’ll have it,” his new partner said, satisfaction dripping from his tone. “Now let’s talk about how we strengthen the case against Walsh. We have to be careful. She’s made some new friends, and while they’re idealistic morons, they can be deadly when they want to be. The key is to make the narrative work for us.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means it’s time for the real game to begin, Dr. Huisman.” He sat back. “And you should call me Mr. Green.”

  The limo rolled on as Mr. Green began to talk.

  * * * *

  An hour later, Becca stopped outside the bistro on the ground floor of her building. There was a couch sitting in front of the windows where patrons watched the street as they drank their coffees and teas. The couch was a new addition, and if the moving van was any indication, it wouldn’t be permanent.

  Across the street, the pub was already filling up, and in another hour or so, it would be rocking for the rest of the night as university students and the young professionals who lived in the neighborhood blew off steam.