by Martin Clark
“Where is she now?” Joe asked.
“She left. She wasn’t there more than a minute. She cut through our lot and headed down the alley by the sandwich shop. She told me she’d be in touch on a site called Number One Chat Avenue. I’m supposed to check at nine every Thursday night. The message will be from Roberto100.”
“You just let her go? Stroll away?”
“I was scared and stunned, Joe. It was a sneak attack. I barely could breathe, much less wrestle her to the ground.”
“And that’s it?” Joe asked. “Are you sure it was her?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“How sure?”
“Well, Joe, pretty damn sure. It was Lettie. Who else could it’ve been?”
“Give me a number, please,” Joe said. “How certain are you?”
“I don’t know—ninety-five percent. More, probably.”
Joe sat on the sofa’s arm. “We just turn up the heat on Pichler and Benecorp and, holy cow, a dead woman miraculously appears, at night, in a disguise, and recruits you, Della Street, her sworn enemy, to join her crusade against Seth Garrison. You’re stressed, thinking you’re about to be robbed or raped or killed, and it’s pitch dark. Why am I hugely skeptical and unconvinced? I’m not sure where the bear trap is, but this is a put-up job, Lisa. Lettie’s dead. This is somebody screwing with us.”
“I don’t think so. If I’m wrong, then this was the best fake ever.” Lisa jiggled the collar of her blouse, fanning air around her neck. “Let me pour a glass of wine and change clothes and we’ll pick it apart.”
“Well, one thing’s for certain. This doesn’t leave here. We need to lock this down and keep quiet until we can solve what happened. Agreed?”
“Agreed. That’s easy. Anyway, who would I tell?”
They sat at the kitchen table for half an hour, speculating as to how Lettie could be alive and why Benecorp—or anyone else—might try to trick Lisa with an impostor. They talked and swapped ideas and Lisa drank her glass of wine and Joe jotted possibilities on a junk mail envelope. They decided there was an obvious starting point, so the next morning Joe called the state lab and spoke with the assistant director, and she pulled the VanSandt file and informed him the test showed a clean and unequivocal match. There was nothing unusual or irregular. Special Agent Clay Hatcher personally delivered the six items. The scientist who did the analysis was a meticulous eleven-year veteran, whose work was double-checked by his supervisor. “To put this in layman’s language,” the lab lady noted, “it’s a no-brainer. The three exemplars from Lettie VanSandt have the same DNA profile as the three tissue samples collected from the deceased.”
“Absolutely nothing even the slightest bit odd?” Joe pressed.
“Nope. Though I will say it seems to be a popular case recently. We had another lawyer, a Mr. Champoux, inquiring a few days ago.”
“Would you please let me know if anything pops up?” he asked.
On Thursday night, Lisa registered as Della Street, and she and Joe sat in front of the computer in their living room and the screen automatically scrolled through babble and idiotic drivel and slang combinations they didn’t understand and relentless ads for webcams and “1000’s of hot and sexy girls,” but they didn’t see anything from Lettie or Roberto100 and gave up after an hour. “This is bullshit,” he said when they closed the site.
“It was her, Joe. It was. You still don’t believe me?”
“I believe there was someone in your car, okay? But how the hell does a tattooed, loudmouth troublemaker stay invisible for months? How? And why does this reborn Lettie come out of hiding only to tell you she’s hiding and offer you a fat payday? Why doesn’t she simply contact the police or ask us to protect her?”
“Hell, if she acted rationally or made a lick of sense, then I really would be suspicious—it’s Lettie VanSandt we’re dealing with. Think about this: If this is a plant or a scam, why didn’t they follow through online and keep the story going? Keep stringing us along? Why contact me and then disappear?”
“Let’s make sure we keep the note darn safe so we can check it for prints if we ever get to that point,” Joe said.
“So what next?” Lisa asked.
“We don’t go off half-cocked, and we don’t panic. We do exactly what we’re trained to do: We treat every possibility seriously, and we examine every plausible alternative. In other words, we assume she’s alive and we assume she’s dead, and we bust ass on both theories. We walk two different roads as best we can. And if one day we hear she’s in Limbo, we add that to the list and bust ass there too.”
“Thanks for all the faith in me, Joe.” She wasn’t bitchy or strident. She nearly smiled. “Glad you at least trust your wife enough to consider my eyewitness account plausible. I understand why you’re skeptical, but I saw Lettie, okay? She’s alive. This completely whipsaws everything.”
“I’m on my way to Stuart to meet some clients for a guardianship hearing,” Lisa said into her BlackBerry. She was driving the Mercedes, traveling on Route 58, talking to M.J. “They’re always sad cases. Ancient people in Velcro shoes and huge diapers who don’t know where the hell they are.”
“That’ll be us one of these days,” M.J. said. “At least we won’t be accusing our kids of stealing from us or poisoning the Ensure.”
“I don’t even want to think about it. Ugh. I’ve had my fill of dying this last year.”
“How’d it go with the preacher?” M.J. asked.
“He was pleasant and friendly. Very genuine. I liked him, but I just couldn’t go through with it. I basically chickened out. I didn’t want to be put to death by stoning or banished to the wilderness to perish or whatever else the Old Testament requires, plus talking to a complete stranger about my marriage was just too weird, especially since religion hasn’t been my cup of tea. Makes me wish it were to some extent—it’d be nice to have something to rely on. I’m starting to believe that there is no Jezebel remedy. There’s no conscience chemo. No pill for cheating. No therapeutic number of Hail Marys or blow jobs or home-cooked meals or good-wife deeds.”
“Sorry it didn’t help.”
“Oh, wow,” Lisa said, “you have to love Henry County. I just passed a guy spray-painting his pickup. Blue freaking spray paint. There were, like, ten empties on the ground, and he’s just going to town, spraying up a storm. The truck was parked next to the great big fake-rock well cover, and he’s sporting the classic bibs with no shirt on underneath.”
“The denim tuxedo,” M.J. replied. “Pointer Brand formal. Ah, I miss home.”
“Yeah. Damn, now there’s some lunatic woman about to run me over. She’s on my bumper in a minivan.”
“I always slow down to a crawl and make them even madder. I can’t stand ignorant drivers.”
“Oh, wait. She’s passing me on a double solid.”
“Just let her go,” M.J. said.
“I am. If I thought they’d catch her, I’d phone in her license to the police. What a moron.”
“She’ll probably turn in about a hundred feet. With no signal. Hey, did I tell you I found an amazing deal on Vegas tickets for Garth Brooks? I wonder if he still flies during the show.”
“Damn, and now she’s blocking me from the front.” Lisa pressed the brake pedal.
“Do you know her?” M.J. asked. “Or recognize the van?”
“No. It’s a Virginia plate. She’s got the flashers on, like she wants me to stop.”
“Don’t,” M.J. said.
“Okay…so she’s motioning to me from the window.”
“Is she alone?”
“As best I can tell,” Lisa said.
“Maybe it’s a client.”
“She’s pulling into the Old Country Store.”
“I say keep driving, fast as you can,” M.J. urged her. “Your number’s in the book if it’s that important.”
“I’m going to nose in behind her. There’re plenty of people in the parking lot and at the pumps. You stay on with me. I’ve got my Mace.�
��
“Big whoop. Lot of good it’ll do against a bullet. Read me the plate number, just in case.”
“Green minivan, a ‘My Child Is an Honor Roll Student at Spotswood Elementary’ sticker, license is Virginia GBF-1289. I’m pulling past her, closer to the entrance.”
“Okay,” M.J. said. “I’ve written everything down.”
“She’s stopped and motioning to me again.”
“Don’t get out.”
“No worries there,” Lisa said.
“So?”
“She’s just sitting in the minivan. Straight, shoulder-length hair. It looks red. Very red. I’ve never seen her before. The view’s not the best in a mirror, but I have no clue who she is.”
“You stay put, Lisa.”
“Oh, okay. Problem solved. Joe’s buddy Elbert Hodges just came out of the store. I’ll switch you to speaker, but he can handle it.”
“Be careful,” M.J. told her.
Lisa yelled for Elbert, and he walked over to her window. He was a foreman at the concrete plant and had served on the school board for three terms. “Hey, Lisa,” he said. He was average height, but burly and broad-chested. “Looks like the weather’s finally turned.”
“It does,” Lisa said. “Listen, Elbert, there’s a strange woman behind me in that green minivan. She has red hair, and she sort of followed me here. I don’t recognize her, and I don’t know what she wants. Do you think you could go back there and find out why she’s so interested in me? I’m a little concerned about doing it myself.”
“My pleasure, Lisa,” he answered, calm and stolid, no bluster.
“Be careful. Maybe I should call the police?”
“No need.”
“I’ll have to admit there’re advantages to Henry County,” M.J. said from the phone, which was lying in the passenger seat. “Good luck finding a man you can count on to confront your creepy stalker in Raleigh. Tell Elbert I said hello. He was a year ahead of me in high school.”
“Yeah. Shhhh.” Lisa powered her window completely down.
Elbert walked to his truck, in no hurry, and she saw him lean in across the seat and disappear from sight and then straighten up, his shirttail draped over his pants when he emerged, and he went behind the truck and pretended to look at something in the bed. Lisa twisted around so she could see without using the mirror, watched him directly, and she heard a loud knocking on the car’s window, the passenger side, and it startled her, caused her to gulp a breath and blurt “Oh crap.”
A man with short gray hair was standing beside her car, bent over so his face was next to the glass. “It’s me. Culp. Robert Culp.”
“What’s happening?” M.J. asked from the phone. “Lisa?”
“Damn,” she said. She checked behind her. The minivan was empty.
“Are you okay?” M.J. asked.
“Yeah. I’m going to cut you off and call you later.” Lisa looked at the man and cracked the window so she could hear him better. “Who was your boss at Benecorp? What’s Anton’s last name?”
“Pichler,” he said. “Please let me in before your friend attacks me.”
Elbert had bolted from the pickup and was quickly at Lisa’s door. “This guy came outta the minivan on the passenger side,” Elbert told her. “It ain’t a woman. It’s him.” Elbert pointed. “He was wearing a wig. A disguise.”
“It’s okay, Elbert. Everything’s fine. We’re good. No problem. But thank you so much. I’m sorry to have involved you. This is Mr. Culp. It’s just a misunderstanding.”
“Who the hell is he?” Elbert asked. “Why’s he wearing a wig? And stalking you? You sure you’re all right?”
“He’s Mr. Culp, a friend of Joe’s. A client. He’s harmless. I’m so sorry I put you to the trouble. Thank you. He’s, uh, doing some undercover work for the cops and didn’t want to be seen with lawyers, and I didn’t recognize him in his disguise and, well, you can see why I was concerned, but we’re fine. He was just trying to meet me without anyone discovering it, and now I’ve probably caused him to be at risk. The sooner we break this up, the better. I don’t want to blow his cover.”
“Not the disguise I would pick,” Elbert said.
“Anyway, I’m grateful to you,” Lisa said. “Sorry I overreacted. I owe you one.”
“Pleased to help,” Elbert assured her. “I’d be spooked too, if I had a dude in a wig bird-dogging me down the road.” He glared across the car roof at the man on the other side. “I don’t know where you’re from, but around here dumb stunts like what you were doing will get you shot. Clear?”
“Clear. Sorry.”
“Tell my pal Joe I sent my regards,” Elbert said. “I hear he killed a beast of a turkey this year.”
“He did,” Lisa said. “And, Elbert, please, the fewer people who hear about Mr. Culp…Understand? He really is doing important work for the police, and Joe will also confirm he’s a solid person. We need to do all we can to keep drug dealers off the streets.”
“Yeah,” Elbert agreed. He raised a hand toward his forehead to touch the bill of an invisible hat. Turning to leave, he glowered at Mr. Culp again but didn’t say anything, didn’t break stride.
Lisa gestured for her visitor to get in the car, then raised both windows. “So you’re Dr. Downs?”
“Yes. I am.”
She glared at him. “How dumb can you be? Have you lost your mind? Have you?”
“Yes. Yes. And then found it again. More than once.”
“That whole production was stupid beyond belief,” she said. Blocked by other vehicles and an obese woman poking along in a Rascal scooter, Lisa was clicking the shifter into Reverse while she spoke.
“So sorry.”
She peered at Downs, started with his brown lace-up shoes and made her way to his pinballing eyes. She drove to the side of the building and backed into a lined space so she was facing the gas pumps and the highway. Her purse was gapped open on the console, the Mace handy. “I’m already late for an appointment in Stuart.”
“Oh, goodness. Please, I can’t leave my sister’s van. It might get damaged. Or stolen. But don’t you worry, Mrs. Stone. I’m no threat. I’m your ally.”
“At least you’re not wearing makeup. That would trigger all the alarms.”
He flickered a smile and glanced away, and Lisa was relieved his reaction was normal, slightly embarrassed, chagrined, like when she caught Joe sinking his cheeks and flexing his arm muscles in front of the bathroom mirror. “I’m being followed,” Downs said. “I sneaked out from my sister’s. She has red hair, so I wore a long coat and the wig. Mr. Stone sent me a message on Token Rock. I could always hope for a part in Some Like It Hot if this went poorly for me. Tony Curtis, Jack Lemmon, 1959. One hundred twenty minutes running time, one Oscar, number twenty-two on the AFI best movies list. A little joke. But you already know that.”
“Should I call Joe and have him meet us?”
“No! I’m sure they’re listening to your phones.” His mouth ticced left.
“How about I tell him I’ve had car trouble? Who would ever know you’re here?”
Downs scratched his head, near the crown, ten nervous fingers scouring gray stubble. “They still might be on his trail.”
“Is that why you’re following me instead of Joe?”
“Exactly. But you already know that.” He quit with his fingers and rested his hands in his lap. He checked the highway, the store’s entrance, the seat behind him. “How much has Mr. Stone told you?”
“He…” Lisa stopped and stared at him, waiting for him to harness his eyes and pay attention to her. He kept at his vigil, even scrunched lower so he could gain a view of the building’s roof. “He told me a lot, Dr. Downs. But the important thing is I believe you, okay? I think Lettie invented something very valuable, I know Benecorp wants it, I know they came here to force her to sell and I know they returned later with bad intentions toward her. I also believe they’ve treated you unfairly.”
“Yes. Thank you.” The reas
surance failed to halt Downs’s agitation and constant surveillance. He was transfixed by a black car cutting diagonally through the lot.
“Dr. Downs,” she said, touching his arm, “look at me. We’re okay. Safe. The villains wouldn’t be following you in a shiny black Lincoln.”
“I’m listening. Don’t be fooled. We can’t drop our guard.”
“Calm down. Take a deep breath. Are you sure I shouldn’t call Joe?”
“No, don’t. Not yet.” His lips ticced again.
“Do you have any new information?”
“I still have a contact at Benecorp. A mole. I call them Malcorp. Mal is the Latin root meaning bad. But you already know that.” He almost whispered the sentences. “There are a few people there who realize Malcorp wronged me and is an evil operation. But there’s nothing new to report.”
“So what does the Wound Velvet do? We’re back to square one.”
“Do you recognize the people in that car? The black car?”
“I don’t,” she said. “But it has a Henry County sticker. It’s local, not Benecorp.”
“They’re cunning.”
“If they were cunning, Doctor, they wouldn’t roll in here with a big black car.”
“Counterintuitive. Hiding in plain sight.”
“We’ve heard from Benecorp that the Wound Velvet’s use is internal and minor, whatever that means.”
“Ha!” Downs slapped his thigh with his palm. “Silly talk. Listen to me. Seth Garrison doesn’t fly there for routine tweaks and refinements. Pichler doesn’t bully me. But most certainly, MissFit Matrix is geared to match with very specific goals. They’ve hit one of the grails.”
“So the MissFit program wouldn’t produce what they’re claiming?” Lisa asked.
“No. They would have you believe they were ocean fishing for a whale and caught a field mouse. It’s that incongruous. I’ll bet dimwit Pichler told you this nonsense. He’s a hateful man and a joke scientist.”
“But you have no more information as to any details?”
“Mr. G has been on campus several times recently. He doesn’t just come because there’s a retirement party or for employee appreciation day. He’s reclusive. He visits one point seven times per annum.”