“The name sounds familiar.” Her brow furrowed. “Isn’t he that scientist who tried to prove that sleeping on feather pillows increased fertility rates or some such nonsense? I remember reading about it in the newspaper.”
Nate smiled. “He’s the one.”
“Quite the eccentric,” she said. “Are you certain he can be trusted?”
“Yes.” Nate didn’t elaborate. He wasn’t going to justify his actions to this woman. She either trusted him to do his job or not. “I asked him to send Carleen Wimmer an invitation to participate as a research subject in his latest sleep study—with a generous stipend, of course.”
“I assume she accepted,” Mrs. Hamilton said dryly, “since she’s certainly not averse to sleeping for money.”
“She did,” Nate acknowledged. “Harlan gave me full access to the personality profile she filled out—though I have no way of knowing how much of it is true. But I’ll be meeting her tonight in Harlan’s laboratory.”
“Won’t that make her suspicious?”
“Not if I’m just another one of his guinea pigs. I’ll find some way to introduce myself and get to know her.” Nate rose to his feet, ready to end the interview. “Then you’ll have the answers to all your questions about her.”
She stared at him for a long moment. “You’re a very confident young man, aren’t you?”
“I know how to do my job.”
“Quite handsome, as well,” she continued, looking him up and down, “in a rough sort of way. And you have the presence and athletic physique that many young women seem to find appealing these days. Perhaps you are the right man for this job after all.”
Nate walked over to open the office door for her. “I’ll send you an update in a few days.”
“Sooner, if possible, Mr. Cafferty.” She picked up her purse. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
Nate watched her walk daintily to the black Lincoln Town Car parked in front of his office. She might look the part of the refined lady, but beneath that austere exterior was a woman not afraid to get dirty.
Now it was up to him to find the dirt.
2
MIA HALF EXPECTED to find something out of Frankenstein’s laboratory when she went in search of the Longo Research Center later that evening. She held her overnight bag in one hand and a map of the estate grounds in the other. The map had been given to her by the guard at the front gate, right after he’d taken her car keys.
Walking almost half a mile in the crisp autumn air gave her plenty of time for second thoughts about impersonating Carleen. She’d read about Harlan Longo’s eccentricities in the newspaper, which were often accompanied by stories about his generosity to various charities. But traversing his estate by foot in the waning twilight gave her a disturbing glimpse of the man throwing this slumber party.
He’d built a moat around his sprawling mansion, along with a rustic suspension bridge leading to the research center. A rowboat peopled with two rubber blow-up dolls floated on the stagnant water. One of the dolls even held a fishing pole. Chickens roamed freely on the grounds and roosted in an old yellow school bus that still had the words Paddington Middle School printed on the side.
By the time she reached the solid steel door of the Longo Research Center, she had no doubt old Harlan was crazy. Now she was beginning to wonder about her own sanity for volunteering to sleep in this madhouse every night for the next three weeks.
A rusty horseshoe hung on the door, right under the words LONGO RESEARCH CENTER spelled out in bright red letters. After searching in vain for a doorbell, she lifted the horseshoe and rapped it three times against the door. When she heard the heavy footsteps on the other side, she braced herself for a humpbacked Igor to greet her.
But the man who opened the door stood straight and tall, a mane of smooth white hair brushing the shoulders of his white lab coat. “Greetings!”
“I’m…Carleen Wimmer,” she said, slightly unnerved by the two security cameras trained on her. “Mr. Longo is expecting me.”
The man grinned. “Indeed, I am! Please come in, Carleen Wimmer. Welcome to my laboratory.”
She stepped through the door, surprised to find it actually looked like a laboratory on the inside. The sleek, modern decor impressed her. Black and white ceramic tiles formed a wheel shape on the floor, leading to a center hub that contained a round stainless steel desk that was the focal point of the large room. Each one of the tile spokes of the wheel led to a door, about twelve in all, which she assumed were entrances to the individual sleeping suites.
The doors were all closed and the hub, filled with gleaming chrome fixtures, was curiously empty of people. Uneasiness filled her. “Am I the only one here?”
“So far,” Harlan replied. “I staggered the appointed arrival times so I could meet with each of my research subjects individually.”
She glanced at her watch. “I hope I’m not late.”
“You’re right on time,” he assured her, taking the overnight bag out of her hand. “Did you bring a pillow?”
“It’s in my bag.”
“Very good.” He reached out to pluck a small feather off the sleeve of her jacket. “I’m sorry about the long walk. Cars scare my chickens,” he said over his shoulder as he led her to one of the closed doors.
“That’s all right,” she said, following him. “All that fresh air will probably help me sleep better.”
He opened the door to the suite, an excited twinkle in his eye. “I hope you like what I’ve done with the room.”
The first thing she noticed was the jukebox. It stood in the far corner, close to the queen-sized bed. The soft strains of “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” filled the air. The song went well with the framed head shot of Elvis above the headboard and the gold lamé comforter that was embroidered with tiny guitars and musical notes. But she found the floor-to-ceiling mural of Graceland covering one wall to be the most impressive part of the room.
“Well?” Harlan asked, visibly proud of his decorating efforts. “What do you think?”
“I’m speechless,” she answered honestly.
Carleen had told her that she’d listed Elvis songs as her “comfort music” on the personality profile. Harlan had obviously taken that little tidbit and run with it.
“Look at this,” he said, leading her over to the jukebox. “It doubles as a biomonitor to record your vital signs. It even has retractable cables to hook you up to the machine.”
He pulled one out, demonstrating how the lead reached the bed. Then he let it go and it sprang back into the jukebox with a loud pop.
“Wow,” she said, wondering what other surprises awaited her.
He walked over to the bed and pressed a button on the headboard. “Feel free to ring anytime you need assistance. Myself or one of my assistants will be right outside in the control center. This facility is completely secure. The door to your suite automatically locks.”
That thought made her a little uneasy. “So I’ll be locked in?”
“Not at all,” he assured her. “If you wish to exit the room, all you have to do is press the button next to the door. That signals one of my assistants to press the corresponding button on the control panel and the door will unlock.”
“Got it,” Mia replied.
“You’ll be perfectly safe here,” he assured