True Evil. Greg Iles
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in again. But that was closing the proverbial barn door after the horse had bolted. What had Morse discovered while she was here? There was no obvious evidence to find. The case-related data on Rusk’s hard drives was encrypted (even encrypted, it was a violation of Glykon’s rules), but Rusk had a feeling that Morse knew her way around computers. Probably around business records, too. His discreet inquiries into her CV had revealed a law degree from Tulane and a year working in South Florida with an FBI/DEA task force. Perfect preparation for unraveling one side of his operation. Morse had also spent five years as an FBI hostage negotiator. This had surprised him, until his source explained that there were more female hostage negotiators in the Bureau than males. It seemed that women were better at peaceful resolution of conflict than men. That was a surprise. An experienced divorce attorney, Rusk had met women with the predatory instincts of velociraptors—females malicious and manipulative enough to give Machiavelli remedial classes in the provocation of wars.
Despite a promising start, Alex Morse had proved unequal to the job of hostage negotiator. Her father’s death and her mother’s cancer had evidently pushed her into a zone where her judgment abandoned her, and she’d gotten somebody killed. She’d almost died herself, Rusk thought wistfully, and her butchered face bore the evidence of her brush with death. But the bottom line was, her emotions had short-circuited her professional restraint. She’d acted wholly on instinct, without regard for the consequences, and this disturbing precedent could not be ignored.
Glykon had to know about Alex Morse.
And Morse wasn’t their only problem. Internal threats were always more dangerous than those from without, and right now a nuclear bomb was ticking beneath their partnership. “A client,” Rusk muttered in disbelief, swigging from his tumbler. “A goddamn rogue client.”
He started at the sound of his door, which had opened just enough for his secretary to lean inside. It was only mid-May, but Janice was already deeply tanned, making her look closer to thirty than thirty-five, her true age. She met Rusk’s eyes with utter openness, the look of an intimate confidante.
“Almost everybody’s gone,” she said. “You want to do it before I go home?”
Rusk weighed her offer. Janice was older than his wife, and while not as beautiful as Lisa, she was much more accomplished and enthusiastic in bed. It was a perfect arrangement. Janice’s husband was a cost accountant who bored her silly but was a good father, and Janice did not aspire to higher social station. Moreover, Rusk paid her almost three times what other secretaries earned in the capital city.
“Are you all right?” Janice asked, stepping fully into the office. She was wearing a khaki skirt and white linen top that her bra showed through. Her calves and forearms rippled with muscle acquired from tournament tennis and obsessive workouts at the gym.
Rusk nodded, but he knew she could read him in all weathers.
“Is it your father?” she asked tentatively, knowing this was a chronic sore spot.
“No. There’s just a lot going on right now.”
Her gaze remained on him, but she didn’t push. “Do you want me to just use my mouth?”
Rusk studied her eyes, which held only concern, and estimated the chances that his wife would want sex tonight. What the hell? he thought. I could die in a car crash on the way home. He summoned a smile for Janice.
She walked over, knelt before his chair, and unzipped his trousers. She could usually bring him off quickly when she wanted to, but today he sensed that it might take a while. He looked down at the photo of Alex Morse and let his mind wander. It was the timing that he couldn’t believe. He was forty years old, and if business continued at its present pace, he would surpass his father’s net worth within the year. Andrew Jackson Rusk Sr.—known as A.J. to his friends (among these, a list of governors stretching back fifty years)—was seventy-five years old and still practicing as a plaintiff’s attorney. A.J. had earned millions in three recent cases that had garnered national media attention—two of them in Jefferson County, where the all-black juries handed out fortunes like party favors. It was tough to keep up with that kind of racket when you handled divorce cases—even the big ones—but Andrew had managed it. Which was good, because his father never let him forget that they were competing.
“Careful with your teeth,” he said.
Janice mumbled something and kept working at him.
A.J. senior had labored to grind every trace of softness, idealism, and compassion out of his son, and for the most part he’d succeeded. When Andrew junior saw the father-son basketball game in The Great Santini for the first time—Robert Duvall bouncing the ball off his son’s head—he’d found himself unable to breathe. And because his own personal Bull Meechum had not died in a fiery plane crash, the competition had not ended when Andrew reached adulthood. It intensified. Instead of joining his father’s law firm, Andrew had joined that of his first wife’s father—a mistake it had taken him several years to acknowledge to himself. His divorce from the senior partner’s daughter had ended his tenure with that firm, but A.J. had not offered him a job after he was cut loose. Rather than join a lesser firm, Andrew had formed his own, taking every potential money case that walked in the door. Most of those had turned out to be divorces. And in that milieu he had discovered his gift. In subsequent years, he had often faced lawyers from his father’s firm in court, and he’d triumphed in every battle. Those victories had been sweet, but it wasn’t quite the same as licking his old man. But this year, he’d been telling himself, this year he was finally going to cut Big A.J. down to size.
“Will you rub my nipples?” Janice asked.
Rusk looked down. Her free hand had disappeared beneath her skirt. He reached down and absently pinched her. She moaned, then gripped him with her hand and went at him with renewed fervor. He looked at the top of her head, where the dark roots showed beneath the blond color job. Every solitary gray hair frizzed out in a direction of its own—
“Stop,” he said.
“Wha …?” she gurgled.
“I can’t do it.”
Her head came up, and she smiled with almost maternal encouragement. “Yes, you can. You need it. Just relax.” She lowered her head again.
“I said stop.”
He shoved her shoulders back hard enough to disengage from her mouth, but Janice would not be put off so easily—not when she was aroused. She stood and stepped quickly out of some blue panties, then hiked up her skirt and sat down on him. He didn’t help her, but neither did he push her off, despite a rush of nausea. He let her do what she needed to do, focusing on her muscular thighs as she worked up and down. Janice’s grunts grew steadily louder, but it didn’t matter. He’d had the walls professionally soundproofed. He took his eyes off the wet tangle where he disappeared into her and focused on Alexandra Morse’s picture. He imagined the FBI agent sweating over him like this. Then he inverted the image in his mind: now he was doing Special Agent Alex in a very painful way—making her pay dearly for all the inconvenience she had caused—
“Oh,” Janice groaned. “Now it’s hard.”
An image of Glykon suddenly filled his mind.
“Come on,” urged Janice, a hint of panic in her voice. “Keep it up, baby. Think about whatever you have to.”
He focused on Morse’s eyes and gripped the breasts in front of him. They were good-sized but flabby; Janice’s two kids had taken their toll, and surgery never quite brought boobs back to their prematernal state, no matter what the surgeons promised. Alex Morse had no children. Her tits would be firm and high, like Lisa’s. And her IQ would be 50 percent higher, at least. Rusk closed his hands with savage force. Janice screamed in pain, but the scream drew out to a long moan as she broke through and peaked, gritting her teeth against his neck to keep from biting him, which she always wanted to do. Rusk was amazed to find himself climaxing after all; he shut his eyes and forced the leering visage of Glykon from his mind.
“I