by Martin Clark
“Yes, an impasse. If in fact we don’t own the rights already. When do you think you or Mr. Stone could either confirm or deny the holdings of these trusts? Legal tells me they’ve searched Virginia records and did find a few corporations associated with Miss VanSandt, but that most of them have lapsed.”
“Why would we tell you anything, sir? We’re wasting each other’s time. Joe is on the board of every trust or foundation Lettie ever created. There’s no chance he’ll give you any information, and an even smaller chance he’ll sell you the rights unless he knows the value of what the trust has. If you won’t tell us what it is that we own, we certainly won’t sell it to you.”
“I see. You’re not being unreasonable there. Yes. Well, how about this: We have a standard confidentiality agreement we use to cover any number of situations. I’ll have our lawyers fill in the blanks and include it with my package. Once you and Mr. Stone review and sign it, we can discuss Miss VanSandt’s formula in more detail. Fair enough?” He intoned almost every word without inflection or emotion.
“Sure. We’ll take a look at it.”
“Mrs. Stone, I hope you understand we’re doing our best to be ethical and transparent. You must realize it would be easy for us to avoid this rigamarole and use Miss VanSandt’s creations and no one would ever be the wiser. You and the rest of the world would never know the difference. We’re simply doing everything in our power to be a good corporate citizen. I can tell you that the application for the VanSandt formula is rather minimal and completely internal.”
“Really? It seems inconsistent, then, that you’d twice dispatch people up here to knock on Lettie’s door and badger her about her invention.”
“Pardon?”
“If this is so insignificant, and you’re just being charitable with us, then why did Benecorp send people here to strong-arm Lettie?”
“Ma’am, I promise you this is news to me. We did not send anyone to…to impose on Miss VanSandt.” The jagged jump between his words reminded Lisa of a skip in a Victrola record. “I myself talked with her on two occasions, and I can promise you the conversation from my end was polite and professional. She was rude, but I was as pleasant as any human could possibly be under the circumstances. She was highly profane. Irrational too.” Pichler began to speak even more softly. “We never had any other contact with her. We never had any further discussion about her property until she died and we located her son.”
“Huh.” Lisa had spent twenty years in courtrooms and earned a living from gauging the truth of people’s claims, protests, promises, assurances, denials, stories and oaths, and she was surprised that Pichler sounded so genuine and honest, so convincing. “You didn’t send people to Henry County to lean on her?”
“No.”
“Is it possible that you have competitors who know about Lettie’s invention?”
“I hope not.”
“Interesting,” Lisa mused.
“Why do you think Benecorp sent people to visit Miss VanSandt? When is this supposed to have happened? Did Downs tell you this?”
“I would consider that proprietary information, Mr. Pichler.” She said it flatly, without any spite or smugness. “Joe and I will review your package and get back in touch. I don’t see why we can’t settle this on terms we’re mutually comfortable with. I’m all for selling it to you if we can establish what’s what and if your company offers a fair price. Why wouldn’t we?”
“Thank you. I’ll look forward to hearing from you and Mr. Stone. I appreciate your willingness to negotiate with us.”
—
The package arrived the next morning, shortly before noon, and after she and Joe perused the court orders and law enforcement reports and confirmed the number for FBI Special Agent Bev Larson and spoke with her, Lisa asked if he still believed Dr. Downs. They were in her office, both seated on the client side of her desk.
“Well, I believe he’s not your average bear. But there was never much doubt about that, was there? Doesn’t mean he’s wrong or telling us a lie or hallucinating the whole scenario.”
“I agree,” she said. “Right now, I’m positive of several things. First, I’m positive that the e-mail from Lettie to Downs is authentic. Why would he go to the trouble to fabricate an e-mail? Second, the people who visited her were Benecorpers—the sketchy car rental info matches up. Third, she mentioned this feud with a drug company to you near the time she died. She—”
“Let’s not go overboard,” he interrupted. “She complained about hundreds of companies stealing her ideas. For all I know, this was another in a long line of fanciful gripes, and she never specifically named Benecorp.”
“Still, it’s a tiny piece, and they start to add up.” Lisa pursed her lips, shifted in her seat. “I have to say, though, that Pichler seemed truly surprised when I told him we knew his henchmen had been here to goon-squad Lettie. I’d bet the farm he was being honest with me.”
“You’re usually right. Your instincts are a helluva lot better than mine. So I’m assuming he’s telling the truth.”
“I say we sign the confidentiality agreements and see what they’ll give us.”
Joe smiled. “Nothing to lose. I’m guessing Mr. Pichler won’t be too thrilled when we finally admit there’s no transfer to any trust or foundation, and he and Benecorp owned everything from the drop.”
“Honest mistake,” she said. “We’ll sincerely apologize.”
“You sure are invested in this,” Joe said. “Gung-ho.”
“Why wouldn’t I be? The evidence is there.”
“Yeah. But I wish Downs didn’t have an ax to grind. That’s a red flag, Lisa.”
“Take him out of the equation and there’s still a lot we can confirm. More to the point, ask yourself: Why is this major corporation going to such elaborate lengths to discredit him? Over what they claim is a trivial matter? We absolutely should stick with this. If nothing else, it beats the heck out of prepping another reckless driving case or filling in child support guidelines. I’m glad you got the ball rolling.”
Joe nodded. “Just to be safe, I’m going to see if Toliver can obtain the e-mail records from the library. It’s still possible that Downs manufactured Lettie’s note to him.”
“I guess he also pulled numbers from thin air and hit a license plate that belonged to a hugely suspicious car with fraudulent renters? A car whose mileage would corroborate the e-mail?”
“I’m the cautious Stone, remember?” Joe was holding an incident report from the Miami Police Department. He laid it on his wife’s desk. “I think I’ll also pay Harlowe Fain a visit. A while back, he told me about Lettie’s spectacular last call to her dear friends at the 911 center. The tapes might have something worthwhile. I’ll listen to her last few conversations and see what was on her agenda.”
“That could take several months,” Lisa joked. “She was their most loyal customer.”
“Beyond that,” Joe said, “I’m not sure where we go next. Pretty soon, the jig’ll be up with Benecorp, and it’s not like we have much more than good old-fashioned suspicion.”
—
Lettie’s last call to Henry County 911 was a complaint about Clackers, the obnoxious balls-and-string toy from the 1970s. Harlowe Fain had compiled her greatest hits onto a CD. It wasn’t easy to winnow down the list, he told Joe, given the oodles of rich material from which to choose. He’d included the Clackers piece simply because it was her final report to 911. “Lord, I love not having to deal with her contrary ass,” he declared.
“Clackers?” Joe asked. He was standing in a hallway adjacent to Harlowe’s office.
“I shit you not,” Harlowe said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Why would you? Why would any rational person?”
“What did she want?” Joe asked.
“She’d bought a set of Clackers at a flea market and evidently the damn things busted. Can’t you just picture her, sitting there at her trailer with her gold tooth, wild-eyed, up to h
er neck in cats and dogs, probably juiced on meth, banging them balls together fast as she can go until they shatter? Lovely. Perfectly lovely.”
Joe laughed. “Oh, damn. I remember she had them in our waiting room once. Lisa came out and told her to quit it, and they had one of their many rows.”
“Well, she called us to report the problem and insisted we send the police to her place so they could ‘investigate.’ ”
“Investigate what?”
“Who the hell knows, Joe? My point exactly.”
“I thought you told me at the grocery store her last call was really memorable. Something about Babylon?”
“Did I? Well, if I did, I was mistaken. The Babylon call came earlier. It’s not on the CD. I’m checking with the city attorney to see if I can sell ’em, her crazy-ass calls, like a bloopers record. She’s dead, and it’s public record, so I don’t see any reason I shouldn’t be able to do it. Some of the exchanges are hysterical.”
“I’d be curious about any calls around September third of last year. Twenty ten.”
“I’ll pull them for you.”
“So she called that day?” Joe asked.
“Hell, Joe, she called almost every day. Why should September third be any different?”
Harlowe left and went into the control room and returned with numbers scribbled on a yellow Post-it. “She checked in with us for sure. Big surprise. Brenda’s locatin’ it for us right now. Do you want a copy, or just to listen?”
“Just a listen should be okay for now,” Joe told him. “Thanks.”
They went into the control room and stood behind Brenda Farmer’s computer and listened to Lettie and a weary operator as the recording of the call began.
“Oh, man, does that bring back bad memories,” Harlowe said.
“Tell me about it,” Brenda added without taking her eyes off the screen. She was wearing drugstore reading glasses. She clicked a mouse to increase the volume.
“Oh, yeah, yeah, here you go. You’re right, Joe. I did mention it. It’s not her last, but it was kinda different for her. Actually a little scary, even for Lettie.”
On the screen, a red line in a display marked “audio” bounced and rose and plummeted with the voices, creating peaks with sharp, pointed tips. Lettie interrupted the operator almost immediately. “You know, Betina Kirby, who the hell this is and where the hell I live, and I ain’t got the time to waste playin’ your little ten-questions game. Right now there’s a serious problem here at my place. A woman dressed in purple and scarlet means to do me harm, and I want protection. Do you know your Bible, Betina, or are you a heathen? Book of Revelation, Chapter Seventeen. You and everybody else needs to damn well be on notice that I just saw Mystery Babylon herself, standin’ right on my stoop, wearing her wicked gold and pearls, the Great Whore, and I’m sure you and all them other overpaid county employees sittin’ there half-asleep and drinkin’ coffee on the taxpayers’ nickel will make sport of me and gossip ’bout how crazy Lettie VanSandt is, but I want this on the record, don’t you dare erase it, ’cause when it all comes tumblin’ down, you been warned, and if I’m in fear of my life, you better believe I know my rights, and I won’t hesitate to defend me or my property. So are you goin’ to dispatch me an investigator, and not that scrawny Pritchett kid they sent last week, who wouldn’t know baby crap from apple butter? How’d he get hired, anyway?”
“Ma’am, Miss VanSandt,” the operator said, “I’m not sure I understand your complaint tonight.”
“Little smart-ass, aren’t you, Betina? ‘Tonight,’ huh? I catch your sarcasm. Fine. Send me a cop, or go screw yourself.”
“Is there a person with you now?” the operator asked, exasperated.
“Long gone, sweetie. I’m lookin’ down the road. The future.”
“And what’s the emergency?”
“I already told you, you little ditz. You’re Wallace Underwood’s daughter, ain’t you? You’re as thick as your daddy. Who’re you goin’ to send to investigate?”
“Miss VanSandt, I’ll relay all your information to the police, and they can make a decision what to do. And I don’t appreciate you talking ugly about my daddy. I don’t have to listen to it. Do you have anything else to report tonight?”
“ ‘Do you have anything else to report tonight?’ ” Lettie mocked her. “You’ll see soon enough, Betina Underwood.”
“Goodbye, Miss VanSandt. Least my daddy doesn’t live with a million dogs. Probably the only creatures that can abide bein’ around you.”
Joe shook his head. “Jeez, she was abusive. I never saw much of that side in the office. Did you ever prosecute her, Harlowe? There’s a statute on—”
“One try cured me of the notion,” Harlowe interrupted. “We can waste ten minutes on the phone with her, or we can waste hours sittin’ in court, then more time when she appeals to high court. It took darn near forever answering her subpoenas and making copies of calls for trial and complying with her ridiculous requests, which the judge had to allow. She represented herself. I guess you was otherwise busy. We simply considered it an occupational hazard. Take the relative short pain over the phone rather than hours of unproductive torture with the courts. Then there were the suits and FOIA requests she was always filing against us. I’d wager she spent as much time in court as you did.”
“Did she ever raise the Babylon topic again? What was her next call?”
“Not that I’m aware, but I didn’t listen to every conversation.”
“Well, I hate to be a nuisance, but could you make me a CD of all her calls following this one? No huge hurry, and I’d be glad to pay you for the research and copying.”
Harlowe smoothed his bush of a mustache, grinned through the thick whiskers. “Sure, so long as you aren’t plannin’ to tread on my material and steal my CD plans.”
Joe laughed. “You have my word, Harlowe.”
“I can get it done for you in a week or so,” Brenda told him. “Unless it takes longer than I expect, there won’t be a charge.”
“Appreciate it,” Joe said. “Were her complaints usually so ominous?”
“She covered a lot of ground over the years, Joe,” Harlowe said. “The weird deal here was how she’s worried with something happenin’ to her and asking for protection. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it’s Lettie who’s planning on dishing out the ass whippin’.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” Joe replied. “When people talk about their rights and defending their life in the same breath, it often doesn’t end well. Especially if you have Mystery Babylon all dressed up and knocking on your trailer door.”
Joe went home after stopping by the 911 office, but Lisa had to work late, almost until ten, putting together exhibits and sorting through depositions for a daylong equitable distribution hearing, and it was dark when she finally made it to the farm, and she rushed into the house and located Joe watching a black-and-white western, and she started talking over the movie, loud and excited, still holding her purse. “Joe, listen, you’ll never believe this, it’s crazy, but fifteen minutes ago I was cranking my car, and I heard a woman’s voice call my name, call it twice, ‘Lisa Stone, Lisa Stone,’ and I realized someone was in the backseat, directly behind me. It was completely horrific, every woman’s slasher-movie nightmare, and it was even worse when I turned and looked and it wasn’t a woman, but instead was this gross man with a beard and a leprechaun’s bowler hat. I freaked and grabbed for the door handle, but the safety belt and shoulder harness tangled me up, and I thought, Oh shit, this is it, and my purse was zipped so I couldn’t get to my Mace even if that would’ve helped.”
“Are you okay?” Joe stood and used the remote to mute the TV. He started toward her, and she could see he was alarmed, but she took a step away and pushed in his direction with both hands.
“Yeah, yeah. Let me finish. I’m fine now; I’m not hurt or anything. You don’t need to worry with consoling me and all that. Just listen.”
“Okay,” he said, puzzled. He sto
pped beside the sofa.
“Guess who it was? Guess who was sitting there in the car?” She barely paused. “Lettie. Lettie VanSandt.”
“Say again, please.”
“Lettie,” Lisa repeated, still energized.
“Lettie’s dead, Lisa. What’re you talking about?”
“Evidently she’s not.”
“I saw the burned shed, the sheriff collected the remains and the DNA matched. She hasn’t been around in months. Are you fucking with me?”
“I am not,” Lisa said.
“So walk through this with me. Slow down. You finish work and leave the office. You get in your car. It’s dark. Before you start the engine, you hear a woman’s voice—”
“Say my name. Twice.”
“It sounds like a woman,” Joe continued, “but when you turn and look, it’s a giant friggin’ leprechaun sitting behind you.”
“Close,” Lisa said. “It’s Lettie. In a disguise. A fake beard. A hat. A man’s jacket.”
“Okay, I’ll bite: What does the ghost of Lettie want from you?”
“It wasn’t a ghost, Joe. It was Lettie. She tells me she’s alive—obviously. She tells me Garrison tried to kill her—which is no surprise. She says she’s scared and hiding. And she hands me this.” Lisa reached into her purse and removed a small rectangle of cardboard—pinched it at the top corner—and gave it to Joe. “Be careful with it. We don’t want to lose any prints. She said she’d split the Wound Velvet with us sixty-forty if we can help her get the better of Benecorp and figure out what the formula actually does.”
Joe read out loud: “60LPV 40LS on VV 108 IF!” The note was written in black ink. The cardboard section was irregularly torn from a box—a partial circle was imprinted on it, the weight of a can. “Not the clearest contract I’ve ever seen. We’d play hell collecting on that, though Lettie’s damn honest when it comes to keeping her word.”
“I was completely floored.” Lisa was calmer. “Frightened to death, then shocked.”