Page 21 of Equalizer
The security building was a small wooden cabin not far from the show office. The manager could have easily just pointed it out and let Owen find it himself, but clearly he wanted to make his point.
Harry stuck his head into the cabin. “Is Steven here?” Other voices sounded, and Harry opened the door wider and made room for Owen to enter.
A tall, broad-shouldered blond man bustled into the room, took one look at Owen, and paled.
“Owen?”
Owen found himself staring at a ghost from his past who was very much alive. “Hello, Steven.”
He knew many men with that first name. It never occurred to Owen that this one would be someone he had served with out West, and during one particularly long, dreary winter, been closer than most friends.
Steven shook off his shock. “Thanks, Harry. I’ll take it from here.”
Harry looked from one man to the other, clearly figuring that there was a story here he didn’t understand. “I’ll let the boss know. He’s supposed to be escorted everywhere.”
Steven gave a curt nod. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Once Harry left, Steven glanced back at the security office and frowned. “Walk with me, Owen.” He clearly didn’t want their conversation to be overheard.
“Been a long time.” Steven led Owen toward the center ring, where men on horseback practiced their routines for the upcoming show.
“Looks like you did well for yourself after you got out.” Owen was genuinely happy that his old friend had found a good position.
“It’s a good fit, military background and all,” Steven replied. “But look at you. Secret Service?”
Owen shrugged. “Right place, right time, right opportunity. Like you said, it’s a good fit.”
They were quiet again, listening to the thunder of hoofbeats and the shouts of the riders.
“Did you know I was here?”
Owen shook his head. “No.”
“Would you have come if you did?”
Owen was quiet for a moment. “It’s business, Steven. I need to know about the man who died. What happened to the body?”
Steven startled. “What do you mean?”
Owen could tell Steven was playing for time to figure out how to react.
“The performer who died?—”
“Drew. His name was Drew,” Steven said.
Owen nodded. “Was Drew’s body stolen?”
Steven’s eyes widened. “Jesus, Owen. How the hell did you know that?”
“It’s why I’m here in Chicago, investigating a rash of body thefts. The performer would have been a prime corpse and a tempting target,” Owen replied.
“Do you know who’s doing it? Are you going to bust them?”
“It’s a little more complicated,” Owen said. “And I can’t share details. But it’s bigger than one person stealing and selling cadavers. I was hoping you’d have information about who had access and whether anything was disturbed when the body was taken.
“Someone had to get into your compound, know where the body was being kept, and get out with it,” Owen pointed out.“That’s a lot for one person on their own. Which tells me that they had help—and might have paid off people with the show to look the other way.”
“When Drew got thrown, our show doctor was on scene and pronounced him dead,” Steven said. “It was late in the day, so we wrapped him in blankets and took him to the storage shed, figuring we’d call the cops and the coroner in the morning. But when we went to do that, he was gone.”
