True Evil. Greg Iles

      “How your wife got her money.”

      Chris sat back down and looked at Agent Morse. How much did she know about his wife? Did she know that Thora was the daughter of a renowned Vanderbilt surgeon who’d left his family when his daughter was eight years old? Did she know that Thora’s mother was an alcoholic? That Thora had fought like a wildcat just to get through adolescence, and that making it through nursing school was a pretty amazing achievement given her background?

      Probably not.

      Morse probably knew only the local legend: how Thora Rayner had been working in St. Catherine’s Hospital when Red Simmons, a local oilman nineteen years her senior, had been carried into the ER with a myocardial infarction; how she’d become close to Red during his hospital stay, then married him six months later. Chris knew this story well because he’d treated Red Simmons during the last three years of his life. Chris had known Thora as a nurse, of course, but he came to know her much better during Red’s years in heart failure. And what he learned was that Red truly loved “his little Viking”—a reference to Thora’s Danish ancestry—and that Thora had been a brave and loyal wife, a woman worthy of deep respect. When Red died two and a half years ago, he left Thora an estate valued at $6.5 million. That was big money in Natchez, but it meant little to Chris. He had some money of his own, and he was young enough to earn plenty more.

      “Agent Morse,” he said in a neutral tone, “I’m not going to discuss my wife with you. But I will tell you this. Thora doesn’t stand to gain or lose anything if we get divorced.”

      “Why not? She’s very wealthy.”

      “She has money, yes. But so do I. I started saving the day I began moonlighting in emergency rooms, and I’ve made some lucky investments. But the real issue here is legal. We both signed a prenuptial agreement before we married. If we were to get divorced, each person would leave the marriage with exactly what he or she brought into it.”

      Agent Morse studied Chris in silence. “I didn’t know that.”

      He smiled. “Sorry to punch a hole in your theory.”

      Morse seemed suddenly lost in thought, and Chris sensed that for her, in that moment, he was not even there. Her face was more angular than he’d thought at first; it had its own odd shadows.

      “Tell me this,” she said suddenly. “What happens if either of you dies?”

      As Chris thought about this, he felt a hollowness high in his stomach. “Well … I believe our wills kick in at that point. And those override the prenup. At least I think they do.”

      “What does your will say? Who gets those lucky investments you made?”

      Chris looked at the floor, his face growing hot. “My parents get a nice chunk.”

      “That’s good. And the rest?”

      He looked up at her. “Thora gets it all.”

      Morse’s eyes flashed with triumph.

      “But …,” Chris protested.

      “I’m listening.”

      “Thora is worth millions of dollars. What would be the point? Kill me to get an extra two million?”

      Morse rubbed her chin for a few moments, then looked up at the narrow window set in the top of the wall. “People have been killed for less, Dr. Shepard. A lot less.”

      “By millionaires?”

      “I wouldn’t doubt it. And people are murdered every day for reasons other than money. How well do you know your wife? Psychologically, I mean?”

      “Pretty damn well.”

      “Good. That’s good.”

      Chris was starting to dislike Agent Morse intensely. “You think my wife murdered her first husband, don’t you?”

      Morse shrugged. “I didn’t say that.”

      “You might as well have. But Red Simmons had a long history of heart disease.”

      “Yes, he did.”

      Morse’s inside knowledge of events was pissing him off.

      “But no autopsy was done,” she pointed out.

      “I’m aware of that. You’re not suggesting that one should be done now, are you?”

      Agent Morse dismissed this idea with a flick of her hand. “We wouldn’t find anything. Whoever’s behind these murders is too good for that.”

      Chris snorted. “Who’s that good, Agent Morse? A professional assassin? A forensic pathologist?”

      “There was a mob enforcer some years ago who prided himself on this kind of work. He was a very reserved man with a massive ego. He had no formal medical training, but he was an enthusiastic amateur. He’s nominally retired now. We’ve had some people following him, just to make sure.”

      Chris couldn’t sit any longer. He rose and said, “This is nuts. I mean, what the hell do you expect me to do now?”

      “Help us.”

      “Us? That’s only about the third time you’ve said us in this whole conversation.”

      Agent Morse smiled more fully this time. “I’m the lead agent. We’re spread pretty thin on these kinds of cases since 9/11. Everybody’s working counterterrorism.”

      Chris looked deep into her eyes. There was sincerity there, and passion. But he saw something else, too—something not so different from what he read in the eyes of those patients who tried to con him out of drugs every week.

      “Murder’s a state crime, isn’t it?” he said slowly. “Not a federal one.”

      “Yes. But when you kill someone, you also deprive him of his civil rights.”

      Chris knew this was true. Several decades-old race murders in Mississippi had been dragged back into the courtroom by trying previously acquitted Ku Klux Klan killers for violating their victims’ civil rights. But still … something seemed wrong about Alexandra Morse’s story.

      “The first victim you told me about—if these are murder victims—was your sister, right? Doesn’t that create some sort of conflict? I’m not supposed to treat family members for anything serious. Should you be investigating your own sister’s death?”

      “To be perfectly frank, no. But there’s no one else I trust to do it right.” Agent Morse looked at her watch for the first time. “We don’t have time to get deep into this, Dr. Shepard. I’ll speak to you again soon, but I don’t want you to deviate from your normal routine. Not in any way that your wife or anyone else would notice.”

      “Who else would notice?”

      “The person planning to kill you.”

      Chris went still. “Are you saying someone might be following me?”

      “Yes. You and I cannot be seen together in public.”

      “Wait a minute. You can’t tell me something like this and just walk out of here. Are you giving me protection? Are there going to be FBI agents covering me when I walk out?”

      “It’s not like that. Nobody’s trying to assassinate you with a rifle. If the past is any guide—and it almost always is, since criminals tend to stick to patterns that have been successful in the past—then your death will have to look natural. You should be careful in traffic, and you shouldn’t walk or jog or bicycle anywhere that there’s traffic. No one can protect you from that kind of hit. But most important is the question of food and drink. You shouldn’t eat or drink at home for a while. Not even bottled water. Nothing bought or prepared by your wife.”

      “You’re kidding, right?”

      “I realize that