The Step Between
Page 17
She turned on the radio; she’d been listening to a Tina Turner CD on the way over and she turned up the volume and began to sing along with the pop diva. Anything but to think. She was halfway down the street, going in the same direction as Beth Childress had done, before she realized she’d arrived from the other direction. She didn’t know the neighborhood well enough to risk finding her way out and she wasn’t up to fooling with the onboard computer, so she stopped, backed into a driveway, and turned in the other direction. That’s when she saw the black car. It had been behind her and she hadn’t noticed. She slowed and tried to see the driver but he turned away. That’s when she realized that she was being followed. She slammed her foot down on the gas pedal and the Explorer leapt ahead. It was a powerful vehicle, with a powerful engine. The black car was well behind but gaining speed, and she wasn’t certain she knew where she was going.
She reached the corner, slowed, and looked both right and left, searching for familiarity. There was none. How had she come here? The directions were on a piece of paper in her pocket but she didn’t have time to read them. She made a decision and turned left, gunning the engine. She was halfway down a long, winding street before the nose of the black car appeared behind her. She kept up her speed, tapping the brake as she saw an intersection ahead of her. Then she saw the stop signs. And the two cars approaching from opposite directions. The first car reached the intersection, stopped briefly, and turned left, away from her. She and the second car would reach the crossways simultaneously. She’d determine a direction when she got there.
She screeched to a halt and looked at the other car, a gray hatchback, which had eased out into the intersection. “Move, goddammit!” she yelled and the driver gave her a hard stare. Then he pulled directly in front of her and stopped. The black car was coming up behind her now. She was trapped. The driver of the car in the intersection opened his door and got out, raising his arm as he did so. She leaned on the horn, slammed down on the gas pedal, and turned the steering wheel hard to the right. She heard a series of popping sounds and felt what she was certain was a bullet hit the back of the truck. Then the rear glass shattered. She swerved and lost control of the truck. It careened from side to side in the empty street until she righted it, grateful that people who lived in the suburbs most often had driveways and garages and opted to park their cars in them instead of on the street, as was the case in the city.
A man ran from his neatly trimmed front yard, carrying a pink tricycle in one hand and waving his fist at her, yelling at her to slow down. She did, all but standing on the brake pedal. The tires squealed. She threw the gear into reverse and backed up to him, electronically lowering the passenger window as she did.
“I’m being chased by two men! How do I get out to the main road, to the interstate?”
He didn’t hesitate: “Left at the corner, left at the next corner, then right, straight for half a mile. Who’s after you?”
She almost answered, then looked behind her. “Him,” she said, and screeched off. She was making the first left turn when she saw her savior run into the street just as the black car approached, and hurl the pink tricycle into the windshield.
Jake had assumed both their roles: he was pacing back and forth, which Carole Ann usually did, and he was cussing a blue streak, which he usually did. Between streams of cussing he kept asking her if she was sure she was all right. And she kept telling him that since she wasn’t dead, she was all right. But she was scared and she was mad and she was confused, and that made her even madder. And furthermore, she added, she was sick to death of this case. Or whatever it was. And that started Jake cussing another blue streak and pacing back and forth in front of the window, which meant he had to walk around the table. It didn’t seem to bother him, that constant detour. It would have driven Carole Ann to distraction; watching him was driving her to distraction. She could always retreat to her own office. If Jake ever wound down. But she knew he was just getting cranked up.
Changing tune, Jake alternated between chastising her for not utilizing the emergency call system within the Explorer—all GGI vehicles were so equipped—and reminding her how much better prepared to defend herself she’d have been had she had a weapon and known how to use it.
“Oh, right, Jake!” she snarled, really and truly angry with him. “And I could just careen along a residential street trading shots with some sick degenerate until we killed somebody. And my excuse would have been what? And don’t you dare tell me self-defense! That kind of behavior would be indefensible!”
The door exploded open and Paolo Petrocelli blew in, a look of wildness about him. “Are you all right?” he yelled at Carole Ann. “What the hell happened?” he said, still yelling, and getting close enough to her for scrutiny.
She sighed wearily. She had asked the technician to park the damaged truck out of sight, and to keep his mouth shut, until she and Jake could decide how to handle things: meaning until they could decide whether they’d report the incident to the police. And here was Paolo breathing fire. The rest of them would appear momentarily, she knew, a secret being an impossible thing to keep within GGI. And they were in the business of keeping secrets.
“As you can see, Paolo, I’m—”
“Some asshole took a shot at you!” Bob Heller sped into the room, followed by Patty Baker and Jocelyn Anderson in her chameleon manifestation, and Carole Ann had to do a double-take.
She spread her arms wide and performed a slow pirouette. “I’m still all in one piece, folks. No bumps, bruises, or bullet holes. No incontinence or fainting or other loss of bodily control . . .”
“Why didn’t you use the emergency call system?” demanded Paolo, sounding accusatory, and Carole Ann, still wound up from her annoyance with Jake, let him have it.
“I’m not accustomed to being pursued. I’m not accustomed to being victimized. The only thing I was thinking was how to get away. I wasn’t thinking about, or remembering, to call somebody on a phone. My priority was to keep from being abducted or being shot or turning over that damn truck and killing myself. I don’t need to hear from another soul what I could or should have done differently.”
Nobody else moved or spoke, but they all watched her as if expecting a transmogrification.
“Stop watching me. I’m fine. I’m all shook up but I’m fine. And Jake, if you say another word to me about why this proves that I need to be weapons qualified, I’ll hit you with something, I swear I will.”
“Here,” Patty said, and tossed an unopened pack of nuts and raisins at her. She caught it on the fly and, like a shortstop, hurled it at Jake, with more force than Patty had used. Jake caught the pack, tore it open, leaned his head back, and poured in a stream of nuts and raisins. The room broke up in laughter while he chewed. Carole Ann probably was the only one of them who knew that the chewing motion was keeping him from joining in the laughter.
“Did you get a good look at them, C.A.? Could you make an ID if you had to?” asked Jocelyn in her reasonable tone of voice.
She nodded. It would be a good, long while before the faces of those two men faded from her memory, if ever they did. And she knew that she’d forever remember the sensation of a gun aimed directly at her and the realization of mortality that it brings. She’d had that experience once before. . . .
Jake felt the shift in her and quickly turned the focus of the group away from her. “Since you’re all here, and uninvited, I might add, we might as well have our daily reporting session. Jocelyn, you can start. What’d you get from Sanderson’s place?”
She replied with her usual quiet assurance. “I lifted fingerprints from a dozen surfaces at least, including the phone, fridge, computer mouse, glasses in the sink, light switch plates, and a carton of Chinese food in the refrigerator.” She wore a wig of straight, shoulder-length black hair and a makeup job that was Hollywood caliber. Her black Chanel suit and Ferragamo pumps completed the message that translated as “class act” in any language. According to Beth Childress’s
personnel records, Jimmy Sanderson lived in exclusive Georgetown Park. Jocelyn had arrived at the doorman-controlled entrance in the rear seat of a GGI-driven limousine and had followed a resident into the building and onto the elevator, and not a soul had challenged her; in fact, she said with a grin, the doorman had tipped his hat to her and bid her good day.
In addition to the wealth of fingerprints, Jocelyn’s visit had yielded six answering machine messages, which she’d recorded, and dozens of files, which she downloaded from the computer. The micro tape recorder containing the phone messages she passed to Marshall; the stack of computer discs went to Patty.
“Good work, Jocelyn,” Jake said. “Marshall, you and Patty get busy. C.A. is waiting to find out what’s on those discs, aren’t you?”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Any indication, Jocelyn, that the police had been inside Sanderson’s?”
She shook her head. “Not at all. The place had a really normal, lived-in look. Not really dirty, but in need of some basic housekeeping. . . .” She hesitated, drawing out the thought behind the words.
“What else, Jocelyn?” C.A. pressed her to continue.
“It feels like more than one person lives there. Or at least has access to the place.” She took a moment to order her impressions. “This is the home of a well-to-do, educated man who also is a borderline neat freak. There’s a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf on one wall and every book there is perfectly aligned with the edge of the shelf. The books are in alphabetical order by subject. But on the floor next to this recliner, there’s a pile of newspapers and magazines all helter-skelter. No neatness or order. Then, in the kitchen, all the food in the cabinets and in the refrigerator—and this is quality food, not junk food—and the plates and glasses, all that stuff is organized, just like the bookshelves, and then there’s all these dirty dishes in the sink and these fast-food cartons . . .?” As she wound down, she left her thought up, hanging on a question mark, wondering whether she was making sense and if her colleagues understood.
Carole Ann nodded. “I’m with you. And you’re right: It sounds like either two people live in that apartment, or our guy belongs in a psychiatric casebook.”
She looked at Jake and he looked at Paolo, who explained that there were watchers covering every possible entrance to the Georgetown Park building, awaiting Sanderson’s return, and a remote camera on the road in the woods going toward Islington’s house. “No way to get close enough to that place to really watch it,” he said. “You know what it’s like up there, C.A. And because it’s winter, the woods are naked so there’s no place to hide.”
She nodded. “When will you see Teague again?” She knew that he’d told the Maryland investigator of their suspicions—fears—regarding the Jane Doe from the OnShore arson, and that a check of Annabelle Islington’s dental records was being made. She was dreading the conversation she knew she’d have to have with Ruth Simmons if their worst fears were confirmed.
“You know that kind of analysis can take a while,” he began, but was interrupted by Bob, who had replaced Jake as the pacer and was bristling with anger.
“Why the hell are we waiting for those assholes? Why can’t we run our own analysis? This Sanderson, whoever he is, has gotten too close, you know? And I’m not liking this shit one goddamn bit! What the hell are you doing, Jake?”
Jake stood up, walked around to the front of the desk, and grabbed Bob’s shoulder. “The best I can, Bob,” he said with startling simplicity. He released Bob and flicked his wrist at the assemblage and suggested that everybody go do whatever it was they either were doing or should be doing. Then, after the door closed, he turned to face Carole Ann. “Are you sure you’re all right? What happened with you when Jocelyn asked if you could ID those suckers?”
She began to explain how, as she recalled the man getting out of the gray hatchback and leveling the gun at her, she realized that it was not his intention to shoot her. “He took too long, Jake. If he’d wanted to kill me, I’d be dead.” She faltered then, but waved Jake away as he moved toward her. To be consoled and comforted at this moment would result in a break of her battered composure. “I think it was meant to be another warning. To stay away from Beth Childress, to stay away from OnShore and Seaboard. It keeps coming back to us and them.”
“Hold that point,” he drawled as he hurried over to his desk to answer the phone. “What?” he demanded of the instrument by way of greeting, then he stood listening, his face changing direction so often that Carole Ann couldn’t be sure if the news on the other end was good or bad. Finally he hung up the phone and began rubbing his hands together. “Well, well, well, and well,” he said. “Try this on for a fit: that Georgetown Park condo belongs to one John David MacDonald, a ‘development consultant’ by profession, president and CEO for the last sixteen years of OffShore Development, a wholly owned subsidiary of Richard Islington Properties, Inc., which is based in Scenic View, Ohio. Oh. And he’s a naturalized American citizen. Born in Canada.”
She began to pace, allowing the new information to take its place and to settle in. She stopped pacing and stood looking at Jake.
“Beats the shit outta me,” he said wearily before she could ask the question.
“We get answers but they don’t solve problems, they don’t lead us to a common denominator.”
“It’s got to be us, C.A., GGI. We’re the only common denominator in this whole mess.”
“If all this was about hurting us, there are dozens of simpler and more effective ways to do it. And do you really believe that the same mind that engineered Grace’s kidnapping would also kill three people and then torch a building to hide the murders? Or arrange that Keystone Kops debacle this afternoon? Even though it did scare the crap out of me, those guys weren’t trying to kill me. I told you, the one in the intersection with the gun waited until I’d driven away before he fired, and the one behind me—” She stopped suddenly as the realization of what she was about to say took hold: “He wasn’t trying to help the guy with the gun, Jake! That’s the part that wasn’t making sense. Listen: they were too far apart, too far away from each other to be working together. The one with the gun, he wanted to frighten me. The other one, in the black car, he was following me.”
“What the hell are you talking about!”
“I think all these pieces are connected but not by design. Somehow things got tangled. I haven’t worked it all out yet, but I think we’ve been going about it all wrong.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences, and you don’t, either. And if this mess really is one big accident, I’d sure as hell hate to be the guy in charge of whatever it was that went wrong. Can you imagine him sitting behind his desk, looking at this pile of shit? Hell, I almost feel sorry for him.”
As she often did, Carole Ann found herself amused by her partner; but it was only his manner of speaking that was humorous. “I guess when you put it that way, it’s probably a small miracle that only three people are dead. That we know of.”
“ ‘But truly as the Lord lives, and as thy Soul lives, there is but a step between me and death.’ ”
Carole Ann lowered her head a notch and peered at Jake as if over the rims of eyeglasses. Her determination not to comment or respond produced the desired result: he laughed. “It’s from the Old Testament. Samuel.”
“I’ve never heard you quote the Bible. Should I come to expect Scripture from you?”
He was still grinning as he shook his head. “Not from me. Consider this a fluke. Did you know that since I live a more normal life these days, Grace insists that I go to church with her? Most of what I hear goes in one ear and out the other. But Sunday, the minister used that quote in his sermon. I liked it. There’s only a step between us and death, C.A.”
“And should I be comforted by this revelation? Or scared witless?”
He grinned at her again. “You should make sure you learn how to shoot a gun, and, beginning now, we travel in teams wherever we go. No more of this solo shit.”
It had been years since she’d slept on the couch at work, and when last she’d done such a thing, it had not produced so disastrous a spinal result, since the couch in her office at the law firm had been a queen-size convertible. Not only did the GGI office sofa not convert, it was not really a sofa to begin with; it was a love seat. Carole Ann stood five feet nine inches tall in her bare feet. She did not compress easily. Nor, it would seem, did she unbend easily.
She had been “up” for forty-five minutes, long enough for a trip to the deserted employee lounge to shower and change clothes, and to return to her office and fold the blanket and return it and the pillow to the closet shelf. But she still was walking like one of her early ancestors. And her head hurt, too, but not from being folded into a too-short sofa; it hurt from her brain having been stretched in too many competing directions. And the pain was being intensified.