Gus went through a thousand flyers in a single morning. He tacked them up on walls and billboards at bus stops, gas stations, grocery stores--anywhere someone might see them. Momentum and a blank mind kept him going. When he finished, one thought crept up on him: What if she had just walked out on him? That didn't seem likely. Not after last night's newscast. It was only logical that she would have called and at least put Morgan's mind to rest that her mommy was safe, no need to worry. Which meant the converse was true: there was reason to worry.
It was precisely that kind of worry that had driven him to the gun shop. Gus was no stranger to firearms. One of his clients was an avid skeet shooter, and Gus had discovered he was a natural on their first of many weekend outings. He had owned a pistol for home protection some years ago, until Morgan proved to be an overly curious toddler. Now seemed like a good time to replace the old 9mm Smith & Wesson. Hopefully, Beth would be home before the waiting period for handgun purchases elapsed. If not--if she was the victim of foul play--Gus and his daughter weren't going to be next. At least not without a fight.
As to Morgan, he had other worries as well. In the late morning he called Carla to see if they had talked all about him on the way to school. Despite her denials, Gus suspected that if the well hadn't already been poisoned, it was now bubbling over with toxins.
His flyer-posting campaign had started downtown and worked north, so he stopped for lunch in north Seattle near the University of Washington. An eclectic mix of bookstores, newsstands, pubs, shops, and inexpensive eateries lined University Way Northeast, the "Ave" as it was called locally. Gus stopped at Shultzy's Sausage, THE BEST OF THE WURST, according to the sign outside.
He ate his steamed bratwurst in silence, unfazed by the noisy students and business people at nearby tables. He hardly noticed the vagrant at the counter finishing off the last few bites of a hotdog some overstuffed patron had left behind. His worries were getting the better of him, making him irrational. He was kidding himself about the gun. If Agent Henning was right--if Beth was the victim of a serial killer--Gus would be no match for a psychopath who killed for sheer enjoyment. He had no specific reason to think he would come after him or Morgan, but there was no assurance that he wouldn't. If he was serious about protection, it was time to act serious.
He pulled his directory from his briefcase and scrolled through his client list. Gus could have called a dozen corporate executives who knew everything there was to know about private security. He settled on Marcus Mueller, a bona fide corporate mogul who hadn't gone anywhere without a bodyguard since fellow Seattle gazillionaire Bill Gates got hit in the face with a cream pie in Belgium. According to his secretary, Marcus was lunching with his wife at the Seattle Yacht Club. Yachting season didn't start until the first Saturday in May, but the salmon steaks in the clubhouse were flavorful year round.
If it had been anyone else but Marcus, Gus might not have interrupted a husband-wife lunch date. But it was likely a business lunch. Mrs. Mueller called the shots in that family. It was her father who had started the company that her husband now ran. And he ran it well. That was the reason Gus wasn't terribly worried about the firm's appointment of Martha Goldstein as "interim" managing partner. As long as he had Mueller--whose company accounted for nearly twenty percent of the firm's billings--Gus could wrestle back his control. It was just a matter of forging new alliances with all those partners he kept busy.
Gus reached him on his cell phone. His timing was good. Leslie was in the restroom, so he had Marcus all to himself.
"Marcus, I need a favor."
. "Oh?"
It was a cautious "oh," a little surprising from a man who had promised never to forget the lawyer who had saved his corporate ass from a criminal antitrust indictment. Gus said, "It's a safety matter. I'm a little concerned about my daughter, Morgan."
"What happened?"
"It's just ... ." Gus hesitated on the details. It wasn't good for business to let a major client know how screwed up your personal life was. "You heard about Beth, I imagine?"
"Yes. I, uh, saw the newscast."
Gus wondered which one he'd seen--with or without the abuse allegations. He didn't probe. "With all that's going on, I think it might be smart to have someone looking after Morgan. A bodyguard, I mean."
"I understand. I'm very concerned for Beth."
"We all are. If anything were to happen to Morgan--well, I don't even want to think about it."
"If you're that scared, can't you send her out of town to stay with relatives?"
"I don't think sending her away, is the best thing. It's good for her to be around her friends at school. I'd like to keep things as normal as possible."
"Putting a bodyguard on her is hardly going to make her feel normal."
"We don't have to tell her he's a bodyguard. We can call him a driver or male nanny, whatever."
He chuckled. "Most of the guys I'd recommend are built more like the rock of Gibraltar than Fran Drescher."
"I'm not looking for the bouncer type. I'm thinking more along the lines of a private investigator."
"You're a wealthy man, but I hate to see anyone spend more than he has to. A good P. I. will cost more than just a bodyguard, and he probably won't give Morgan any better protection."
"I need more than just protection."