LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Maybe. I don’t know. You said this person is somehow connected to a patient I’m treating?”

      Rachel felt a knot form in her stomach. “Yes. A relative.”

      “What’s the motivation? Is it really research, or is it a personal inquiry?”

      Rachel hesitated a beat. She wanted to lie and say it was for research, knowing Shapiro would take no exception to that.

      “More personal.”

      Shapiro shook his head. “Slippery slope,” he said. “I mean, you don’t really know what they’re after. What if they take whatever information you share as actual medical advice? Not saying it could happen, but suppose something were to happen—a car crash, whatever. A shady malpractice attorney might try to use a meeting in a professional setting without a professional relationship against you. These days I’m a big fan of caution.”

      Rachel nodded her head slowly. Her lingering doubt about inviting Charlie into her office had just mushroomed into full-blown anger at herself for allowing it to happen.

      What was her motivation?

      Did she find him attractive?

      Perhaps, but that was not a conscious factor in her deciding to let the interview continue. More likely, curiosity had got the better of her. There was something about Charlie Giles she found irresistibly intriguing. According to Joe, Charlie was awash with confidence, but to Rachel, he appeared adrift, scared even.

      There was no doubt in her mind that something chemical was happening to Charlie. She was convinced he was in mental distress, perhaps even suffering the onset of some sort of psychotic breakdown. Without thorough testing and a complete medical workup, forming an uneducated diagnosis was not only unprofessional, but it could be dangerous. All she did, she reassured herself, was to give him the names of some doctors to call, including a neurologist. That seemed a harmless outcome.

      Or was it?

      Shapiro now had her thinking about malpractice, which only made her concern over Joe’s whereabouts all the more grave. Clearly Alan Shapiro would have taken a different approach when it came to Charlie’s information gathering. If only Joe had shown up for his therapy session, she might not be so troubled.

      Rachel waited outside the conference room and used her mobile to try Joe’s home number again. She hung up after seven rings.

      Where was he? she wondered.

      Chapter 11

      Wearing a scowl, Charlie walked into Chaps Sports Bar in Kenmore Square. The room was smoke-free, and Charlie, who wasn’t much for frequenting bars—he worked most nights well past last call—wondered how much more time he’d be spending in them since losing his job.

      He spotted Randal Egan slouched over the bar, clutching a half-drunk pint glass of Guinness stout. Randal and Charlie had been friends since high school. A soccer teammate who’d grown up in Waltham, Randal was the better of the two at staying in touch and regularly sent Charlie e-mail, even while buried in law books. After a few years in private practice, he’d ended up taking a job with the FBI in the Boston field office for less than half his pay, saying he felt a need to do something more tangible to help people. He’d been there ever since. “A lifer,” he often joked. Charlie agreed— Randal was a lifer when it came to helping people.

      Charlie had few people left to turn to. He had called Lawrence in IT from the car. As expected, Lawrence had reneged on Charlie’s search request, passing up the Sox tickets in exchange for keeping his job. Charlie assumed that as word got out, more and more people would turn their backs on him. Randal wasn’t like that.

      Charlie approached the bar. He was still grappling with how he would explain to Randal what had happened to him without seeming totally insane. He felt he could trust Randal, but he wasn’t sure what benefit a full disclosure would bring, other than release.

      The bottom line was, he had to talk to somebody or he’d explode.

      “Hey, stranger,” Charlie said, placing a firm hand on Randal’s broad shoulder.

      “Giles! Giles! Holy shit. What’s up, amigo!” Randal stood and gave Charlie a warm embrace. He called to the bartender, who was washing glasses at the other end of the bar. “A Guinness for my friend here, when you have a minute,” he said.

      “And a shot of Jack,” Charlie added

      “Whoa. Okay. I got it, fella. And a shot of Jack,” Randal called out.

      The bartender grunted and began pouring the Guinness from the tap. He reached for the Jack on the top shelf.

      “Thanks for coming to meet me,” Charlie said. “Sorry I’m a bit late. Parking in Kenmore isn’t easy.”

      “Tell me about it,” Randal said. “I’m way down Beacon.”

      “You look great, man. How have you been? It’s been a while.”

      “Yeah. It’s been a while. Too long,” Randal said, poking Charlie’s shoulder with his finger. “Everything is good with me. Jenny and the kids are fine. But it’s you I’m worried about. Midafternoon cocktails aren’t exactly your MO, if you know what I mean.”

      Charlie nodded. “I just needed to talk to somebody, Randal. I didn’t know where else to turn.”

      The boy who’d played varsity striker three years at Waltham and fullback for BC was still present in Randal’s dark Italian eyes and smooth olive complexion. The familiarity comforted Charlie, especially in a world where nothing seemed familiar anymore. The bartender dropped two shots in front of Randal and went to finish the Guinness pour.

      “Talk,” said Randal, pushing a shot toward Charlie, who picked up the fingerprint-stained tumbler and downed it with a single gulp. Without being prompted, Randal ordered another.

      “I’ve been fired,” Charlie said.

      “What? What for?”

      “Let’s see…surfing porn and corporate espionage,” Charlie said.

      “Oh, is that all?” Randal laughed as though that were the punch line.

      Charlie didn’t flinch.

      “No, really. What for?” Randal asked.

      “I told you,” Charlie said.

      Two more shots came along with the Guinness round Randal had ordered. This time Randal downed one before Charlie even lifted his off the bar.

      “Are you serious?”

      Charlie nodded.

      “What were you thinking?” Randal asked.

      “I’m thinking I don’t remember any of it. I’m thinking that fucked-up things are happening to me.”

      “Like what?” Randal asked.

      Charlie told him about the e-mail exchange and subsequent meeting with Anne Pedersen. Then about the PowerPoint presentation that supposedly Jerry Schmidt had authored but that somehow it had his name and not Jerry’s in the document’s “created by” property, and how Anne Pedersen apparently didn’t even work at SoluCent to begin with. He confided about the strange cryptic notes he’d been leaving himself, about his meeting with Dr. Rachel Evans at Walderman, and lastly about the morning’s confrontation in Mac’s office.

      “I’m screwed,” Charlie said. “Totally screwed.”

      Randal let out a sigh. “Your family history isn’t good, Giles. Tell me again what that doctor said.”

      “She’s not an M.D., but she’s an expert on mental health, especially schizophrenia,” Charlie said. He couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. How could he, an MIT graduate, a successful entrepreneur, be schizophrenic? It wasn’t fathomable. And yet there was his family history to account for. A father and brother

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