Worst Case Scenario by Michael Bowen Page B

thing you did was clear your desk by Friday afternoon.”
    â€œWhere was she working most recently?” Marjorie asked.
    â€œSelf-employed. Summarizing depositions for shorthanded law firms, mostly. Some technical writing, putting stuff written by propeller heads in language ordinary people could understand.”
    Gallagher settled back on his perch at the windowsill and drank more beer. Two Buds after confronting Michaelson in the lobby, Gallagher seemed considerably more sober now than he had then. He also appeared calmer, meeting Bedford’s death no longer with shock but with a deep, gradual, sorrowing acceptance.
    â€œI’m afraid I haven’t been able to provide much consolation,” Michaelson said apologetically.
    â€œThat’s okay.” Rising, Gallagher dropped the now-empty bottle into a wastebasket and stretched his long arms and legs a bit. “Just talking about Sharon has helped a lot. I really appreciate your putting up with me.”
    â€œThat’s entirely all right,” Michaelson said. “I do have one bit of information for you, and one piece of advice that you can take for whatever you think it’s worth.”
    â€œShoot.”
    â€œMs. Bedford looked me up yesterday evening. She wanted my help in going after one of the jobs she was interested in. She had a very definite idea about what I could do for her, and she wanted to see me after I got back to Washington.”
    â€œDoesn’t sound despondent to me,” Gallagher said.
    â€œI agree. When a physically healthy young woman dies alone in a locked room, you can’t help thinking of suicide, but I’d require a great deal of convincing to accept that hypothesis in this case.”
    â€œThank you,” Gallagher said. “That helps. It truly does.”
    â€œYou may find my advice less appealing,” Michaelson said. “I suggest that you wait—that you give the police a few days to investigate Ms. Bedford’s death before you jump in.”
    â€œJump in how?”
    â€œHiring a private investigator. Tracking down a witness or two and bracing them. Peddling a conspiracy theory to the press.”
    Gallagher chuckled and eased his hips comfortably back against the wall. Raising his left hand, he idly stroked a fringe of overlong whisker-stubble at the back of his jaw.
    â€œWhat in the world makes you think I have anything like that in mind?” he asked in the kind of voice people use to ask how fast they were going, Officer.
    â€œWild guess,” Michaelson said, smiling.
    â€œYou’ll have to do better than that if you expect me to pay attention.”
    â€œYou’ve spent most of fifty years going hard after whatever really mattered to you. I think Sharon Bedford was the most important thing in your life for the last year or so, and to have her ripped away from you so brutally has to be devastating. You need to believe there’s something you can do about that. You can do something about a murderer, but you can’t do anything about an embolism that popped up in the wrong place or some other random absurdity. Right now there’s only one explanation for her death that you’re psychologically capable of accepting—and that’s a bad frame of mind to be in when you’re making tactical decisions.”
    â€œI want to show you something,” Gallagher said, pulling out his wallet. “Sharon mailed it to my home address Thursday—the day she left for the conference here.”
    He handed Michaelson a roughly hand-sized piece of paper that he extracted from the wallet. Marjorie leaned over as Michaelson held the paper in the light so that they could both read the blue ink notations on it:
    101248
    152237
    KISSINGER
    4939
    HIGHWAYS TO INDIANS
    2612
    â€œDo you have any idea what this is?” Michaelson asked.
    â€œIt’s a paper she generally kept posted on her refrigerator door with a little ladybug magnet,”