The Secret Keeper

By Tom Bierdz

When Dr. Garrick agrees to safeguard a flash drive for a patient, his life spins out of control. Car accidents, an office break-in, and an injury to his assistant lead to chaos. A stunning woman arrives to fill in for his assistant. Grant falls for her. Is she a godsend or a spy?
The chaos intensifies to violence and murder. Grant learns that both his patient and the formula are not what they appear to be. Suspected of murder and caught up in an international spy ring with the Russians and Chinese, Garrick finds himself not only on a run from the spies but also from the police and the FBI.
Buy The Secret Keeper (a standalone) to start the pulse-pounding mystery today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Bierdz
• Release date: Oct 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9780998364766

Tom Bierdz

Tom Bierdz, a retired psychotherapist, was born and raised in Kenosha,WI. He earned a BA degree from Marquette University and a Masters degree in social work from the University of Chicago. He worked in public welfare in Milwaukee and Kenosha before becoming the Director of Catholic Social Services in Racine, WI. From there he went into the private practice of psychotherapy.Several years later he retired his psychotherapy practice, earned his insurance and stockbroker's license,secured a CFP degree and practiced as a Certified Financial Planner.Tom has been passionate about needing to express himself artistically. He dabbled with writing from time to time before giving it full energy during his retirement. Finally, he has committed to publish independently.He and his wife, Susan, reside in Washington State.

Book preview

Almanac

1

As a psychiatrist I knew that people were seldom who they seemed to be. How could I have known, when my patient arrived for his therapy session, he’d put in motion a scenario where no one was who they appeared to be, and my life would spin horrendously out of control?

Bobby buzzed to alert me that Mr. Du Blois had arrived for his appointment. I closed the file I’d been reviewing, shoved it into my desk drawer, and left my office to greet him.

Francois sat on one of my burgundy cushioned waiting room chairs, hunched over a scientific magazine he must have brought with him that he considered more interesting than the popular magazines that blanketed my table. He sported a gray hounds-tooth patterned beret tilted jauntily to the side of his head. His trademark. He owned at least a dozen of them, all in muted, conservative colors and patterns. He’d been coming to see me for over two years and, despite the climate or time of year, he always wore a tailored sport jacket with a silk cravat slung around his neck. Born in America he dressed like the French, where he would have preferred to have been born, and portrayed himself as such. He flashed me a toothy smile, pushed himself up from his chair with his umbrella that doubled as a walking stick, and shuffled to my office like a man much older. Francois was only seventy, but seemed to be aging rapidly. Since he hadn’t talked about his health in recent sessions, I made a mental note to bring it up in therapy. After presenting me with an avuncular shoulder tap, he lowered himself onto the center cushion of my burgundy sofa, the place where he always sat, claiming the center of attention and marking his place as the central figure in my cast of patients.

Brilliant, but paranoid as all get out, Francois began echoing the recurrent theme; that the new management was unfairly pushing him out of the corporation he had created and developed into one of the top security companies in the nation. The way Francois described it, his company Guardian Angel had been taken over by corporate raiders. They paid him in grossly inflated stock, took control of the company, and relegated him to a position on the board of directors where his voice was virtually silenced. He believed they were taking the company in the wrong direction and he felt powerless to do anything about it.

Suddenly, there was a lull in the conversation. Francois picked up the umbrella that had laid at his feet, placed it on his lap, and began wringing his hands around it. He slowly raised his head, caught my eyes with his deep-set, dusky eyes that shone bright inside a face that had become sallow and thin. I need you to do something for me, he said.

I nodded. If I can.

I’ve completed it…the formula I’ve been working on. I won’t let those bastards get their hands on it. Tapping his hand with the umbrella, he took a deep breath, then added, I’m getting ahead of myself. I know you’re aware that virtually all the knowledge and information we have is computerized nowadays. Everything from A to Z, assets to zeroes. It’s only a matter of time until everything is digitized and electronically recorded. While that’s generally beneficial, it magnifies the need for safer security. He uncrossed his legs, sat up straighter and spoke with authority as if he were addressing his board. It used to be that you could protect your valuables by hiding them somewhere at home or depositing them in a bank account or safe deposit box. On the computer they’ve become fodder for the criminal mind. It’s estimated that the global cost from computer hacking stretches toward two trillion dollars. Maybe more since security breaches are often an embarrassment and go unreported. Eighty to eighty-five percent of the value of corporations are intangibles, such as patented technology, proprietary data, and market plans. Knowledge is power.

Deeply inhaling to slow himself down, and dramatically paused to signal the importance of what was to follow, he continued, My formula protects only a small but important portion. It password protects computers via your DNA. As you may know everyone’s DNA is unique. Even if someone knew your password, they couldn’t access your computer without your DNA. Your credit cards, social security and investments become much more secure.

Fascinated by his discussion, I asked, How does it work?

He grinned mischievously. If I told you, I’d have to kill you.

That sent a chill through me, even though I knew he was jesting. There was something in how he said it that made me uncomfortable. I smiled.

Then, in a non-condescending manner, he said, Even if you were to look at the formula you wouldn’t understand it. Only a handful of people worldwide could interpret it.

I was just curious. I wouldn’t…

Of course not. I wouldn’t ask you to keep it for me if I didn’t trust you. I’ve been coming to see you for two years. I think I know you pretty well.

I withdrew back into my chair. You want me to keep it for you? Why?

You know I’m as paranoid as a soldier in Iraq. Then as quick as the flick of a light switch, his sheepish smile sprung into anger. I won’t let the bastards from Guardian Angel get a hold of it. They’d claim it, steal it from me. He swallowed, catching the breath in his throat. I sense I’m in danger. I’m getting worked up as I talk about it. I know you want specifics. I can’t give them to you. His hand began to shake. He clasped the other hand around it to steady it. Whenever I feel this strongly about something, the worst usually happens.

I appreciate your trust in me, however, there must be someone else close to you that you’d feel comfortable leaving something so sensitive to rather than your doctor?

There’s no one. When you get to be my age family and friends predecease you. Viola passed several years ago and my son, Frankie was killed in one of our country’s stupid wars.

I recalled previous sessions where Francois discussed the loss of his wife and son. It happened long before he was a patient of mine, but the residue, like surgical scar tissue, always remained.

There must be other family? Relatives? I insisted.

Relatives. I’m sorry to say, that except for the children, they’re only after my money. But I can’t really blame them. I spoiled them. Asked little of them.

No prodigies?

None, sad to say. There might have been… His face blanked, his eye fixed on the floor. He was recalling a memory of the past.

When he lifted his head, I said, Safe deposit box.

My memory is not what it used to be. I’d forget where I put the key. Maybe even forget the bank.

I didn’t think he had any memory problems, but I wasn’t about to call him on it.

No, it has to be an outsider. He bent closer. I’ve spent hours…days, actually, exploring who I could leave it with…You’re bound by doctor-patient confidentiality. You’re the keeper of secrets.

With my mouth agape, before I could protest further…

Besides, he said, his quivering lips betraying his forced smile, I have a brain tumor. It’s like…you remember the game, Pac-Man?

I nodded. I used to play it.

The tumor’s like that. Slowly and deliberately as it grows it’s like a Pac-Man eating away. Eventually… He shrugged.

Can’t they operate? The brain tumor explained his physical deterioration.

I’ve been trying to convince Dr. Suzuki, he said, with a sigh of reservation. He claims it’s too risky, but we’re approaching that point where it’s fifty-fifty. He grimaced. If I die with or without surgery, I may as well go under the knife…or laser. There’s a chance with surgery, even if it’s a small one.

My eyes had clouded over. I blinked to clear them as if my eyelids were windshield wipers. Tomi Suzuki is the best. How come you never mentioned this?

I’ve only known this recently and I’ve been in denial. I’m sure you can understand…

Of course. I recalled his headache complaints but they didn’t seem to be so acute to cause me to refer him for a neurological exam. Did he not share with me or had I overlooked the obvious? I…uh…hate to bring this up…but if I decide to take it, what happens if you’re no longer around?

Energized by my consideration, he sat up taller, curved his lips into a smile. There’s a woman, Farah Javan. She’s Iranian, fled her country because of the oppression. She’s a modern woman. Refuses to wear a burka, or bow to men. I met her in Paris. I trust her implicitly, but I don’t want to burden her unless it’s absolutely necessary. Contact her if anything should happen to me.

He recited the contact information that I had written down.

Do you mind if I look at that? He checked over what I had written. Pleased, he smiled and handed it back. Thank you. He reached into his pocket and handed me a two-to-three-inch black rectangular object.

Is that a flash drive?

Yes.

A wild guess. I knew only the basics about computers and how they worked.

He started to stand. One more thing. Don’t share it with that young… He stumbled restraining himself, then finally relented, …man. Grace I know. Bobby, not so much.

I understand. I picked up my calendar. Same time next week?

Yes.

I walked Francois out of the office. I assured him I’d take good care of his formula and reminded him that I’d written down Farah Javan’s information when he began to question me. I think he left confident that he could trust me to follow through if need be. Otherwise, I’d keep the formula until he asked me to return it.

Bobby stood in front of his desk, his rear resting on top, with his legs splayed out in front of him, one crossed over the other. He held a mobile device in one hand, rapidly turning pages with a finger of the other hand. Bobby, twenty-two, was my brother-in-law who had graciously responded to my SOS to fill in for Grace, my regular secretary-receptionist who was rushed to the hospital for observation after collapsing while making dinner at home. I continued to refer to him as such even though I was divorced from Hanna, Bobby’s sister. Bobby attended culinary school at the local community college and filled in for Grace when he didn’t have class. He had come to my rescue before when Grace had celebrated her twenty-fifth wedding anniversary with her husband in Europe. He stopped and looked up at me when I entered the business office.

Frenchy doesn’t like me, does he?

Why?

Just the way he looks at me, like I’m some kind of… He shook his head. I don’t know, a piece of shit.

Don’t take it personally. He’s just paranoid. It took him a long time to get used to Grace. He doesn’t like change. Absently, I shuffled the flash drive from hand to hand wondering where I should put it. Maybe if you sat on a chair behind the desk, instead of on it, you wouldn’t draw strange looks.

Bobby chuffed, flashed me one of his disarming grins. He owned the sweetest smile. Surely, Francois would have been captivated by that facial expression that grabbed everyone’s attention, both male and female.

Guess what I’m into, he asked.

Trouble?

I’m serious. Something new. Something you’d never guess.

Then why should I? I was playing with him now. I enjoyed bantering with Bobby.

He sighed loudly, shook his head. You’re getting more like my sister every day.

It’s said that people who live together begin to look and act like the other. But Hanna and I have been divorced now for almost four years. I laughed. Okay. You’re dating someone new.

Sort of…but that’s not it.

I put my finger to my chin. Hmm. You’re invited to the White House to cook for the President.

Grinning. Close, but no cigar.

Nascar wants you to race your Mustang

No.

I give.

One more guess. His impish grin widened. I’ll give you a hint. NRA.

You signed the petition for background checks.

No, I got a gun.

What? I thought you were against gun violence!

I am. What’s that got to do with owning a gun?

Well…I mean… I had gotten worked up. I was breathing hard, felt a rumble in my stomach.

I’m becoming a chef. Thought it’d be cool to hunt my own duck or quail. Maybe you should stop stereotyping. All gun owners are not evil and all guns are not bad.

He was right. I had overreacted. But all guns are dangerous. I calmed down.

Well, I guess I can’t ask you to go hunting with me. I didn’t know you felt so strongly.

Yeah, too many innocents…

Bursting with excitement, he placed his phone on the desk. Can I, at least, show it to you?

You brought it here?

He pointed. In the desk drawer.

How does a shotgun, or whatever you use to shoot quail, fit in your desk?

It’s a hand gun. He bent over and began to open the bottom desk drawer. It’s a–

Stop! I’m not interested. Take that home and don’t ever bring it to work again.

Okay. He kicked the drawer closed. Did you want me to do something with that flash drive?

No, I said, realizing I still held it. I’m taking this to Carrie.

My office is the converted, upstairs flat of a two-story Victorian on the fringe of the Seattle downtown area that I rent from Mike McBride, Carrie’s father. Bobby’s comment about my stereotyping played on my mind as I scooted down the creaky stairs. Did it carry over to other areas as well? As a psychiatrist I needed to be non-judgmental. Perhaps some self-reflection was in order. I noticed the railing needed tightening and made a mental note to tell my landlord. Pity if one of my patients fell and got hurt. Last thing we needed was a lawsuit. I swung the door open at the bottom of the stairs, ambled across the covered porch, and entered the law offices of McBride and McBride. Carrie in? I asked.

Martha, the spry, little, old lady with the dimples in her cheeks, who was with the firm from the beginning, removed her dictation earphones and smiled warmly at me. She should be in her office. You can go in.

Wearing a pink, silk tailored blouse, a portion of her straight black hair draped over her right breast, Carrie sat behind her desk reading the paper. Petite, with a nicely proportioned body that almost reached five feet, she was stunning with flawless olive skin, perceptive mahogany eyes, and full pouty lips. She was a brilliant defense attorney and challenged any courtroom adversary who thought they could outdo her because of her size. She was a force to deal with and a tiger in the courtroom. Carrie was my best friend. We’d had a brief affair, over fifteen years ago after a Christmas party, when I worked for her father as a pseudo private eye when I was twenty-one and she a few years younger, before I went to medical school. We decided to become good friends instead of continuing as lovers, and although the sparks still occasionally fly, we’ve kept the relationship platonic. Our friendship has thrived and outlasted our own respective marriages.

She greeted me. Hey! What’s up?

I waved the flash drive at her. I came to see if I could use your safe. File cabinets were the most secure places to keep things in my office, but we frequently forgot to lock them. The file cabinets were also used by Bobby and Francois had me promise to keep the formula from him. Carrie’s safe seemed to be the best option.

What is it?

A formula for a security system. A paranoid patient asked me to keep it for him. I don’t have a safe place…

She rose from her desk, revealing her black pencil skirt and heels, and reached for the flash drive. She jammed the drive into her desktop computer and began to look at it.

Carrie what are you doing?

What does it look like?

It’s confidential.

I work with the underbelly, Grant. I’m not putting anything in my safe without checking it out.

It’s not a bomb?

How do you know? The Geeks get more clever every year.

I rolled my eyes. But… I watched her tilt her head, study it. I couldn’t resist peeking and looked over her shoulder. What is it?

Beats me. Looks like a complicated mathematical formula. Probably encrypted. Could be the formula for making a nuclear bomb.

Yeah. Right. I shook my head. When did you become such a drama queen?

She gave me a dirty look.

I told you it’s a security formula. Now can you lock it in the safe?

She took out the flash drive, opened the combination to the wall safe behind the Mt. Rainier painting, placed it inside, and spun the combination lock. Don’t think I’m going to store your furs now.

I laughed.

She shuffled over to me, took my hand. I wasn’t going to ask you, but now that you’re here… She pressed her lips together as sadness creased her face. Colby broke up with me.

I’m so sorry. I drew her close to me, cuddled her, and felt her tremble. What happened?

Maybe he didn’t want to buy me a present? She half-laughed, made an effort to make a joke.

Present? Then it dawned on me. I had completely forgotten. It’s your birthday! What a shit! To pick this time. I squeezed her tighter. You need a friend.

She pulled back, with an adept swish of her finger wiped the tear off her cheek. I made dinner reservations at the Broadmoor Country Club. I could cancel but I don’t want to stay home and cry in my wine.

I’d love to be your guest, on one condition.

She raised her eyebrows. Waited.

Wear that gold dress I like.

Done.

2

Carrie and I agreed to meet at the exclusive Broadmoor Country Club near the Madison Park area at eight pm. Although I’ve been a guest there a couple of times, I wasn’t a Country Club kind of guy. I was social, but not particularly outgoing. My impression was that the majority of the members belonged for the purpose of networking, making associations to benefit their careers. While there was nothing wrong with that, and it would behoove me to get my face out in the public for referrals, I found the connections too plastic and insincere. I’d prefer to have a handful of good friends, rather than hundreds of acquaintances. My referrals came from a number of physicians in the area and satisfied customers who told others.

I went home after work to wash up and change into a fresh white shirt. I wore the same blue suit and red-striped tie. After pouring myself a scotch on the rocks, I turned on the TV to kill time. Restless and bored, I jumped into my car, left early and took a circuitous route, reflecting on the events of the day. Except for Francois, nothing about my other patients stood out as unusual. Movement with most of them was minimal, but all in all, productive. I still couldn’t fathom how I had been conned into keeping Francois’ formula for his security system. Hiding and securing documents wasn’t part of my job description. I empathized with Francois, and wanting to help, responded to his need. For a few minutes I got carried away with the cloak and dagger mystery of it all before concluding that while he was paranoid, I felt Francois was grossly overreacting. I suspected nothing would come of this and Francois would someday ask for the formula long after I had forgotten I had it. I was more concerned with his health, and toyed with calling Dr. Tomi Suzuki to get an up-to-date reading on Francois’ brain tumor. But I would need to get Francois’ consent.

Traffic seemed to be slowing. Then I saw the flashing lights. It looked like there had been an accident ahead. Too impatient to wait for it to clear and thinking it could delay my arrival, I made a sharp right turn and took an alternate road. One, actually, more direct. Carrie was a dear, dear friend and I felt the anger surge. What kind of jerk could break off a relationship on someone’s birthday? Carrie and Colby had been on and off so often I labeled their relationship bipolar. I’d met Colby on a number of occasions and found him to be likeable, and full of fun with a good sense of humor. In public he always seemed to treat Carrie with kindness and respect. He was different in private, Carrie would tell me. He was moody, jealous of her relationship with me, and uncomfortable with closeness. He was divorced for more than two years but was still suffering from the sting and, I believe, had intimacy issues originating from before the divorce. The best that I could hope for was that Carrie could get beyond this, and finally accept that the relationship was over and move on with her life.

The Country Club lights served as a beacon illuminating the winding road surrounded by a championship golf course. I slipped Carrie’s gift into my jacket pocket as I motored into the asphalt parking lot and pulled into a wide space so my Porsche wouldn’t get dinged. I flipped up my suit collar, shoved my hands into my pockets, and began my trek to the club. It was the start of fall. Football season had just begun and the weather was chilly and damp. A family of four exited a car and scurried ahead, the little girl exclaiming loudly she was getting a Shirley Temple cocktail. Through the dining room window I saw wait staff drifting in between tables and heard the soothing, muted tinkling sounds of a piano.

Inside, I quickly glanced once around for Carrie. I didn’t expect to see her since I was early, and she was usually late. I took a dark, leather seat at the edge of the low-lit Tudor designed lounge with its dark, ceiling beams and wainscoting to wait for her. A couple of golfers still lingered at the bar beneath the televisions tuned to Mariner baseball and high school football. I declined a drink offer from a friendly cocktail waitress, chose to wait for Carrie. In addition to the bartender, there was another man who sat a short distance away, engrossed in his smart phone. When my eyes adjusted to the low light, I took him to be in his early to mid-fifties, sporting a white-stubble, unshaven contemporary look. I speculated that he was probably checking out the closing prices of his stocks. Distinguished in a tailored, camel cashmere, sport jacket and a white shirt sans tie, he caught me looking at him and gave me a wave and a Hi, then returned to his electronic device.

A short time later a young girl stood under the lights at the edge of the bar apparently looking for somebody. She wore a sleeveless red dress, cut six inches above her knees; it was thin, clinging, almost diaphanous and clearly displayed her black bra and black bikini panties underneath. Her make-up was garish with bright, red lips, and heavy eyeliner. Not finding what she was looking for, she strutted off clicking her heels.

A little much, wouldn’t you say? the man said, turning toward me.

Definitely.

Would you say she was only thirteen or fourteen?

Hard to tell the way she dressed, but I think you pegged it about right.

Jesus! These young girls nowadays dress like hookers. Then they wonder about date rape.

They don’t leave much to the imagination.

They throw it in your face. He got up from his chair and sat down on one beside me. Sorry, I didn’t mean to get carried away. It’s just that I have a twenty-three year old daughter, Brie and I’m actually waiting for her. She’s beyond the stage of that girl, and she never was that… in your face…but it was a bitch raising her. How do you protect them without coming across as an ogre? The rules are so different nowadays.

It’s not easy. It wasn’t easy doing therapy either with families where an adolescent girl was brazenly defiant.

You have a daughter?

No, I almost said I had a son, but I didn’t want to get into that conversation.

He held out his hand. Scott Parsons.

Grant Garrick

We shook.

What do you do, Grant?

I’m a psychiatrist.

The waitress sashayed up to Scott with another drink. Can I buy you one?

Thanks, no. My friend will be here momentarily.

He signed the check. She disappeared. If I knew you better, I’d ask you how to get my daughter to break up with the guy she’s seeing. He’s not right for her.

I smiled. I wasn’t going to volunteer.

I’m a VP with the Cable Companies. We’re a telecommunication giant. Into cables, microwave relay towers, optical switching stations, long-distance voice franchises, chunks of regional local loop, and satellites. Plus a few related odds and ends.

I’m very fond of our electronic world. I take it all for granted. Never give a second thought to how it all works.

Most people don’t unless you’re some kind of a nerd who salivates on the inner-workings of this invisible world. And I use nerd in the most respectful way as they keep the systems running. Security is a major problem. We depend on the white-hat hackers.

I assumed he was talking about the good guys who rooted out the bugs and viruses. With the mention of security my interview with Francois Du Blois popped into my head, "Do you know Francois