by John Saul
“Really,” Michael said, leaning back in his swivel chair and folding his arms across his chest. He might not like Tina, but being annoyed was one thing, gagging her another. “And exactly how do you think I can help you with that?”
“We want a little more responsibility in reporting from this station,” Sands said. “Tina Wong is out of line.”
“She’s reporting what she’s found,” Michael replied. “No more, and no less. And in case you’ve forgotten, the government does not control the press in this country. And certainly the LAPD doesn’t. We’re responsible to the public here, not to you.”
“That’s crap, and you know it,” Sands growled. “You answer to your stockholders, just like every other corporation. We’re the ones who answer to the public, and it doesn’t help us or the public when some showboating reporter starts making irresponsible—”
“Irresponsible?” Michael cut in, rising to his feet and glowering at the two detectives. “I see no lack of responsibility in Tina Wong’s reporting. Her sources have all been well documented, and I suspect she’s talked to a lot more people about all these cases than you have. If she’s been more sensational than you—or even I, for that matter—might like, it’s because she believes that every possible connection needs to be investigated if this killer is going to be found. And I don’t disagree with her.”
“Finding this guy is our job,” McCoy said, his own anger now showing in his face. “Your job is to report the news, not solve crimes and make up theories.”
“Please do not try to tell me what my job is,” Michael said coldly. “I’ve been on this job at least as long as you’ve been on yours. I know what my job is, and if you were doing your jobs, you would be out following up on every single thing Tina’s found instead of wasting my time and yours by trying to kill the messenger instead of dealing with the message.”
“I’m sorry you see it that way,” Sands said, glaring at him.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Michael said, deciding to toss them a bone, though there would be no meat on it. “I’ll talk with Tina, and I’ll personally review all the material she plans to air, all of which is standard procedure.”
“We’ll want to see that material before it airs, too,” McCoy countered.
“And that is not standard procedure,” Michael said, “and I can tell you it won’t happen.”
“We can go over your head,” McCoy said.
Michael waved a hand at his desk. “Would you like to use my phone?”
Sands forced a smile. “The police and the press have always had a pretty good working relationship. We don’t want anything to change that, do we?”
“None of us do,” Michael assured the detective, moving toward his office door. “So you two do your jobs and let us do ours. Understood?”
McCoy looked ready to leave, but Sands didn’t budge. “Look, Shaw—we’re asking you nicely to check her facts before she airs them,” he said. “Make sure they’re facts.”
“Believe me, I’ll do exactly what the law demands,” Michael replied as he opened the office door just as his intern appeared with the fresh latte. The two detectives glared at Michael, then walked out.
He closed his door and returned to his desk, suddenly feeling better about everything. The adrenaline rush of sparring with the two detectives was better than ten cups of coffee; but even better was the knowledge that Tina was genuinely onto something, and knew more about it than the police.
A newsman’s dream.
He grabbed the stack of messages again and started returning calls, starting with one from Scott.
He needed to tell him that he would probably be late for dinner, maybe by as much as a week.
The soft trill of the cell phone thundered in the quiet room, and adrenaline gushed through the body, flushing the face. The fingers picked up the phone and the eyes checked the caller ID.
PRIVATE CALLER
The client.
It had to be the client.
The fingers deftly flipped open the phone and brought it to the ear, but the angry tirade could already be heard, as if it had been in progress even as the phone was ringing.
“How could you have been so stupid?” the voice from the phone demanded. “Are you insane? How could you have left that girl alive? Alive! And you didn’t even tell me? Goddamn you, you perverted lunatic.”
The hand holding the phone trembled at the onslaught, and the mind braced itself for the rest of the tirade.
The voice from the phone dropped, but its tone became dangerous. “Now listen to me, and listen carefully. I will fix this, but it is absolutely the last thing I will ever fix for you. Ever. This is not part of the deal.”
The furious voice paused as the speaker took a breath.
The hand not holding the phone wiped perspiration from the forehead and the upper lip.
“Very well,” the voice on the other end of the line said. It was far calmer now. “Let’s go over the rules one more time. It’s very simple: I give you the orders and you fill them. That’s all there is to it. Do I have to actually say that you leave nothing to chance? Do I have to stipulate that once you have what I need, you finish your job? Next time something goes wrong, you contact me immediately. Immediately!” The voice dropped even further and took on a darkly menacing tone. “But of course nothing like that will ever happen again, will it?”
There was a pause, and the hand tightened on the phone. “No,” the voice whispered into the telephone.
Without even acknowledging the response, the other voice resumed, the words pouring through the phone. “I made you,” the voice said. “I made you and I can destroy you. I can destroy you any time I want.”
The mind shrank from the words, but the ears kept listening.
“There will be no more mistakes! None. You will simply finish this job. Finish it now! And then, at last, I will be done with you!”
The line went dead.
The fingers, trembling as if palsied, closed the phone and laid it gently on the desktop.
The accident in Bakersfield would never be repeated. Could never be repeated.
Indeed, it was almost inconceivable that it had happened at all.
Yet it had.
The right hand clenched into a resolute fist.
Not again.
Never again.
There was only one more item to be collected.
One more, and it would finally be over.
The debt would finally be discharged.
No more orders. No more demands. No more deadlines.
The fingers moved to the computer keyboard.
The eyes peered closely at the monitor, the fingers typed in a few quick keystrokes, and a few moments later pictures once again began to fly by….
19
ALISON GRIPPED THE TENNIS RACKET TIGHT AND CROUCHED, BOBBING back and forth as she awaited her father’s serve. He eyed her from the far line, bounced the yellow ball a couple of times, then abruptly dropped the racket to his side.
“Tell me again why can’t I come to your birthday party?” he called across the net.
She straightened up, sighed, and let her right arm relax. “I already told you—it’s a party for my friends! So come on and serve.”
“So now I’m not your friend?” Michael countered.
“You’re just trying to distract me from match point,” Alison called back, resuming her stance once again.
Her father finally served, but Alison knew the instant his racket connected with the ball that he was way off his game, and she slammed the return cross court to end the match. She held up her hands in victory, and heard a lone fan from the courtside café applauding her win. She turned to give Scott an exaggerated bow, then ran over to the net to hug her father.
“Okay, you whipped me,” Michael said as they walked over to Scott, who had ordered them both iced teas in anticipation of Alison’s victory. Michael eyed them dourly, noting that the ice hadn’t even begun to melt. “Some faith you had i
n my comeback,” he observed. “Was it that obvious I was running out of steam?”
“Always bet on the younger horse,” Scott replied, and grinned at Alison. “Well done, missy.” Then he turned back to Michael, the grin turning evil. “And you’re going to have to get back to the gym. She whipped your ass, old man.”
Michael shrugged. “She’s been doing that pretty regularly for the last two years. I should start worrying about it now?”
“And,” Scott went on as if Michael hadn’t spoken at all, “since it looked like you were carrying about twenty pounds too many out there, I ordered us all chicken Caesar salad for dinner.”
As if on cue, the waitress appeared with a tray of food.
Michael ignored the gibe, turning back to Alison. “About the birthday party…” he began again as the food was put in front of them.
Alison rolled her eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you? It’s for my friends!”
“I’m your friend.”
Scott rolled his eyes.
“If you were my friend,” Alison said with exaggerated innocence, “I would have let you win.”
Michael feigned hurt feelings.
“Would you stop worrying about that party?” Scott told him. “The three of us will do something fun for her birthday.”
“Like go to the beach,” Alison said around a mouthful of salad.
“Perfect,” Scott decided. “We only seem to get to the beach when we’re with you. Otherwise, he’s spending more Sundays at work than he is at home.”
“I’ve been busy,” Michael protested. “There’s a lot going on.” Then his expression darkened slightly, and his voice turned serious as he faced his daughter. “And I understand there’s a lot going on in your life, too.”
Alison tensed, certain she knew what he was about to say. His next words confirmed it.
“Your mother tells me you’re thinking about having breast implants.”
Scott dropped his fork and threw up his hands in exaggerated disgust. “Oh, dear God! Not this again!”
Alison stared first at her father, then at Scott. Had they been talking about it, too?
“Listen,” Scott said to Michael. “I know you’re her father, and I know you don’t approve of this, but she’s sixteen, or at least she’s about to be, and this is a decision she should be making with her mother. Boobs, as you well know, are none of our concern. Some men’s, yes. But not us. So get over it, all right?”
“But—”
“But nothing!” Scott waved a dismissive hand toward Michael, and turned to Alison. “Despite what your father thinks, I think your stepfather’s giving you a terrific birthday present.”
“But it’s surgery,” Michael said. “Elective surgery. It’s dangerous—”
“It’s dangerous just walking across the street,” Scott cut in. “And since only one parent has to sign off on it, I’m assuming it’s a done deal. So instead of trying to make your daughter feel bad, why don’t you just be happy for her?”
Michael sighed, but finally managed a crooked smile for Alison. “Look, I just want the best for you, that’s all. So I suppose if this is what you really, really want, you should probably go ahead and have it. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to worry about it. Okay?”
“Okay,” Alison agreed. “But I promise you, it’s going to be no big deal.”
Michael’s cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, sighed as he looked at the caller ID, then accepted the call. After no more than three words were spoken, he closed the phone, put it back in his pocket, and stood up. “I’ve got to go to the station,” he told them.
“Now?” Alison and Scott said in unison.
“I’m sorry, cupcake,” he said, bending down to kiss Alison. “This Frankenstein Killer thing is keeping everybody on edge.” He turned to Scott. “Can you drive her home?”
“Of course,” Scott replied. “What time will you be home?”
Michael shrugged. “Until Tina’s special airs, my time is no longer my own.”
Scott looked at Alison and lifted an eyebrow. “Like his time is ever his own.”
“Tell me,” Alison said.
“Look, I’m sorry. If it was up to me—” Michael stopped as he saw them rolling their eyes, and put some bills on the table for the check. “Thanks for the game, honey. And stay safe, okay?”
“I will,” Alison said, though she wasn’t sure if he was talking about her implants or the serial killer who seemed to be everywhere on TV lately. “’Bye.”
“See you at home,” Michael said to Scott, then headed off toward the parking lot.
“Must have been hard growing up with that,” Scott said as they watched him go.
“You get used to it,” Alison replied, and sipped her drink.
“Well, maybe it’s just as well he left us alone,” Scott said, “because I wanted to tell you about this.” He pointed at his chin.
Alison cocked her head quizzically. “What?”
“This cute little cleft in my chin? I’ve only had it for three years.”
Alison’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding!” The dimple in his chin was such an integral part of Scott’s face that she couldn’t imagine him without it.
“Not kidding at all. I always had this horrible weak chin, and I always hated it, and I finally decided to do something about it. So guess who I went to?”
“Oh, my God,” Alison blurted, already knowing the answer. “My stepfather?”
“None other. If you want the best, go to the best. And your stepfather is definitely the best. I told your father all about it, and I thought we’d settled it before we met you today. But apparently I didn’t quite convince him that it’s just no big deal.”
Alison smiled, then moved her dad’s salad out of the way and changed seats so she could sit next to Scott. “Okay,” she said. “Tell me what it was like. I want to know everything.”
ALISON CLOSED her history book and leaned back in her desk chair. No use trying to study any more tonight; she’d already read the last paragraph at least six times, and still had no idea what it said. All she could think about was what was going to happen Friday afternoon.
The minute she’d told her mother and Conrad that her father okayed the surgery—leaving out all his arguments against it, and the fact that Scott was actually the one who had convinced him—Conrad told her that he assumed she’d convince her father and had already penciled her in for Friday, right after school.
Friday!
This Friday.
Her mother had been thrilled and, if she was going to be absolutely honest with herself, she was, too.
At least at first.
But as Conrad talked about her being back in school on Monday, and completely healed by her party, her excitement slipped away.
Friday was the day after tomorrow, and somehow it all seemed to be happening too fast.
Way too fast.
But what could she do? She’d already made up her mind—in fact, she’d been ready to argue with her father for as long as it took to get his approval, or even go ahead without it. So what had changed?
But she already knew what had changed. It was the fact that it was actually going to happen on Friday afternoon. Someone from Conrad’s office was going to pick her up at Wilson and take her up to Le Chateau, and they were going to put her under anesthetics, and Conrad would operate on her.
And suddenly she was frightened. Just thinking about it made her heart beat faster and her skin feel clammy and—
Don’t think about it, she told herself. Just do your homework and go to bed and stop worrying.
She reopened her history book and found the paragraph she’d been reading over and over again. Her paper on the Boer War wasn’t actually due until Friday morning, so maybe instead of trying to work on it tonight, she should do something else.
Like try to relax.
Like that was going to happen.
Three sharp knocks on her bedroom door startled Alison ou
t of her reverie, and she reflexively pulled the book closer, as if that would convince whoever was in the hall that she’d been studying rather than worrying. “It’s not locked,” she called out. “Come on in.”
Conrad Dunn opened the door and held up three small bottles of pills. “Hey,” he said. “In the middle of something? Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Just trying to get through my history assignment,” she replied.
“And not getting anywhere with it, right?” Conrad stepped into her room, and when he didn’t close the door behind him, Alison felt a strange sense of relief, and found herself nodding in agreement with what he’d said.
“I thought so. Unless you’re completely different from everyone else, you’ve been sitting up here thinking about Friday afternoon and wishing you could change your mind.”
She stared at him. How could he have known what was going on in her mind? But before she could ask the question, he answered it.
“Happens to everyone. Until the surgery’s actually scheduled, it’s all just an abstraction. But then suddenly you know exactly what day and what time it’s going to happen, and it all becomes real. And scary. Which is one of the reasons I came up here—couldn’t let you go to bed terrified and feeling guilty about wanting to change your mind. If you want to change your mind, do it. I penciled in the appointment, remember? One word from you and it goes away.” Conrad crossed the room and put the three vials on Alison’s desk, and when she didn’t stand up, he crouched awkwardly next to her chair. “But if you don’t change your mind, I want you to start taking these. They’re homeopathic medicines that do absolutely amazing things to reduce bleeding and bruising from surgery, and there are others I’ll give you afterward that will speed your recovery time.”
She picked up the bottles one by one to read the labels as he explained each one.