by Martin Clark
“But she’s been more consistent and talkative on Wireclub. Three exchanges in two days, and she’s supposedly on board for the DNA test. She agreed—otherwise I never would’ve allowed Robert to make our pitch to Klein. Oh—instead of walking to the coffee shop every five minutes to use their computer, I’ve recruited the manager to check the Wireclub site during the day and let me know if there’re any new posts.”
“He probably thinks you’re having an affair or hiding money from me.” Joe was driving. They were coasting into a red light, and he glanced across the interior at his wife. “At least I figure Lettie’s actually out there somewhere—who else would’ve known about the lewd Pekingese joke? She told it to me at our office a month before she went missing. Of course, I’d feel a ton better if I could figure out how she’s not dead. Either Benecorp bribed a lab employee or there’s a colossal mistake or Lettie and Vic Frankenstein have been doing some grave robbing. At first I thought it was strange that Agent Hatcher delivered the items to be tested, but the sheriff told me he asked Hatcher to drop them off since the little wannabe was heading home to Roanoke anyway.”
“Hatcher’s a jerk, but why would Garrison stage her death if he really sent people to kill her?”
“Beats me,” Joe said.
“How’s it go?” Lisa asked. “The joke.”
“You don’t want to hear it,” he said ruefully but managed a tiny smile. They were stopped at an intersection. Nearby, a sandwich shop had closed and left its building empty. A letter was missing from the restaurant’s sign. FRI AYS SUBS it read, a blank where the D used to be.
“Glitches and gremlins,” Phil Anderson quipped. “The logistics of the DNA test are proving to be an unexpected bear.” He and Robert Williams were with the Stones in their conference room. “Lettie’s big event is scheduled to go in a week, at four o’clock,” he continued. “Nicholson and I conference-called Judge Klein this morning. Nothing’s ever easy in our business, is it? Seems DNA comparison isn’t quite as simple as a drug analysis or a Breathalyzer. Based on what Klein’s clerk has learned, we’re looking at two days minimum for the results, and the lab is stationary. The best they could do would be to send a tech to collect the swabs. The judge says the amplification alone—whatever that is—takes several hours. There’s robot extraction and computers and all kinds of rocket-science mumbo jumbo. I’ve had my paralegal researching reputable labs and DNA techniques—we need to be aware of any vulnerabilities in the process—and he basically confirmed Klein’s information.”
“I’m embarrassed not to have known,” Williams said sheepishly. “We, uh, just see the certificates in the court file. We check chain of custody and talk to the tech. They make it sound quick and routine.”
“Yeah, I thought it was faster than forty-eight hours,” Joe said. “I can remember the commonwealth’s attorney asking for rush jobs, and I just assumed it would be a few hours, half a day tops. I didn’t know, either. It’s not on our end of things.”
“This is a serious setback,” Lisa said. “Bad news. Damn. The lab might spook Lettie. Will Klein still monitor it? Will he be there in person?” She squeezed her eyes shut, kept them closed. “And how in the world do we secure the samples and protect the whole testing procedure?” She opened her eyes. “We absolutely can’t chance leaving the saliva unattended on some tech’s desk for hours—Benecorp would have a field day.”
“I hear you,” Anderson agreed.
“So?” Joe asked.
“Here’s the new program, pending your approval,” Anderson said. “You gotta like Klein—at least he’s creative and has a sense of humor. We’ll only run a single test, not two. He’ll use the state forensics lab in Manassas. So much for keeping the lab’s identity under wraps. He’ll be there to observe everything as we originally discussed. After the swabs are taken from Lettie and her son, each side can hire an expert or cop or whomever to babysit the samples, literally spend the night at the lab and monitor every step in the analysis. Since this intrusion itself will introduce a new variable into the state’s security and the integrity of the thousands of samples already there, we’ll have to pay overtime for the lab’s own security to supervise our people and make sure they don’t compromise anything. A lot of moving parts, but very doable. Believe it or not, Klein himself prevailed on the lab’s director to make the exception for us.”
“Why’s that funny?” Joe asked. “Sounds nuts and bolts to me.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry. Klein said to tell the resurrected Miss VanSandt that he’d be bringing his robe but not his pajamas. He doesn’t plan to stay for the full two- or three-day testing process.”
“Wow, better hold the pimp spot at the Comedy Corner,” Joe remarked. “Hysterical.”
“A high-water mark for a Virginia circuit judge, though,” Anderson said. “What’d you expect? They aren’t, generally speaking, a comedic group. And don’t worry, I let on like he was the funniest dad-burned guy on the East Coast, made sure I outdid Nicholson with my belly laughs. I’m a full-service practitioner and a skilled sycophant. Cover all the bases for my clients.”
“Lisa, can you make new arrangements with Lettie?” Williams asked. “Have you had any more contact?”
“It’s always a crapshoot,” Joe interrupted. “Lettie was pretty active for a while on Wireclub, and she agreed to the DNA plan; Lisa copied you both with that post. Now she’s disappeared again. We’ve been sending up flares everywhere, even tried Token Rock’s Facebook page. We’d always assumed Klein would run the test somewhere in Northern Virginia, so the plan is for Lisa to drive up the day before and scout things out and do her damnedest to find and protect our girl. It can’t hurt to have Lisa on the ground where this is happening.”
“You’re the expert on all things VanSandt, Joe,” Williams remarked. “You’re her best friend. Hell, her only friend. If you can’t manage her, it’s a lost cause.”
“Actually, she’s very buddy-buddy with Lisa ever since she vanished. I’m off her favorites list these days for some reason.”
“I realize,” Anderson said, “that if she’s as paranoid as I’ve be told, the last-minute change might rattle her. But the truth is—and the four of us understand this—there’s rarely an important trial or huge case that doesn’t have a crisis moment. A tree falls in narrow quarters, and we have to change plans and reroute the stagecoach through Tombstone. It’s never routine, ever, no matter how many times you read the file and interview the client. You and Lisa need to convince Miss VanSandt that the run-up to court is frequently full of zigs and zags and amended pleadings and second acts and witnesses with mutating stories. We’re fortunate here—we’ve got an engaged judge, we caught this early and we can correct the problem. I’m counting my blessings.”
“Yeah,” Williams agreed, “I hope this is the worst problem that comes along.”
“So can I tell Klein you’re signed off on this?” Anderson asked.
“Yes,” Joe said.
“Not much choice,” Lisa added unhappily.
“The video people will be here early on the twenty-eighth,” Anderson noted. “They’ll set up, connect everyone and check the audio and picture. Nicholson will be participating from Norfolk with MacDonald. Oh—the judge wants to move the time, to do it in the morning, so potentially there’ll be only a single night at the lab before the results are ready. Klein also hinted the lab folks might be able to work past regular hours if they’re close to a final report.”
“Changing plans isn’t great for us,” Lisa cautioned him. “We need to keep as close to the original scenario as we can. How about we try to have Lettie there by eleven-thirty? That’ll give us some margin of error if she needs persuading or is delayed. As it stands now, she’s planning on four. We may never hear from her again.”
“Eleven-thirty it is,” Anderson said. “I’ll shoot you the directions to the lab by e-mail. Robert and I will be here, at what, around eleven?”
“Fine by me,” Williams answered. “Who do we send as
our observer? Hell, who can we get there on such short notice?”
“Derek?” Anderson suggested.
“It’s not so much about computers,” Williams mused. “This is more in the subterfuge, black-arts department.”
“Toliver,” Joe said emphatically. “He’d be perfect. You agree, Lisa?”
“Yes. So long as he and Lettie don’t cross paths and he’s there just to safeguard the samples and watch the process. To mollify Lettie, we need this to come off as close to the original blueprint as possible. Lord only knows what she’ll think if she sees Toliver sitting there with the judge. It’s more likely than not she’s had a feud with him somewhere along the line, and we don’t want another fly in the ointment.”
“I’ll contact him and see if he’ll go,” Williams said. “He’s as good as we can hope for. And maybe we should have Derek in the vicinity too. I’m not sure how the test and analysis work, obviously, but it couldn’t hurt to have him keep a cybereye on things.”
“Okay,” Joe said.
“This is it, guys,” Anderson said. “All fair, all square, all in, all done before I drop the gavel and the bidding ends? No turning back after I confirm with Nicholson and the judge.”
Joe hesitated. “Lisa?”
“Lock us in,” she said.
—
Lisa went to bed early that night, frayed and fatigued at nine o’clock, and she didn’t stir until the alarm buzzed at seven, woke with puffy eyes and red pillowcase marks lining her cheek. Joe was already in the bathroom, naked, his hair wet from the shower, standing in the middle of the tile floor flossing his teeth, shaving cream dotting his ears, a red nick on his neck. His belly was slack, pooched, and he straightened and sucked taller when he saw her. “Looking sexy this morning,” she teased him.
“Don’t you know it. No way to keep it in check.” He grinned. “When’s the last time you slept until the clock went off?”
“I can’t remember. It’s been years. Maybe—” The bedroom phone rang, and she picked it up. Her expression quickly became excited, and she motioned in Joe’s direction, frantic. “It’s her,” she whispered, almost hissing. “Hurry.”
Joe took the phone. He’d left the bathroom and was standing in front of Lisa, a towel wrapped around his waist, watery tracks across the floor to where he’d stopped. “Hello?”
“It’s me, Lawyer Joe. Lettie. Gotta talk quick before they can beam in on me. Listen, you need to meet me at Arnie Pruett’s farm at five in the mornin’ to carry me to the test. Five at Arnie’s on the twenty-eighth, the day we go. Make sure you bring help and plenty of weapons.” She pronounced the last word “wheapons.”
“Okay. But Lettie, hold on, wait, don’t say any—”
“And I need money. Send me a hundred dollars to the Western Union in Myrtle Beach. Under the name Sue Woods. Take the money from the case I won against them bastards in Salem. Them lightbulbs. That place. You with me? You understandin’?”
“Yep. Understood.” Joe had turned the phone so Lisa could hear the voice on the other end. “Done,” he said confidently.
“Five in the mornin’. Fingers crossed. Adiós.” There was a bump, as if she’d dropped the phone, and the call cut off.
“Was that her?” Lisa asked anxiously. “Could you tell?”
“It surely was,” Joe said. “What a relief. What a friggin’ relief.” He did a little dance, flexing his knees and kicking his feet to the sides.
“Then we have fairly good news and also extremely troubling news—she’s definitely alive and happy with the plan, but now Benecorp will be on her like nobody’s business. They’ll nab her when she tries to get the cash or meet at Arnie’s. Two chances to derail us. She’s walking right into their sights.”
“Ask yourself,” Joe said calmly, “why this paranoid, elusive, crazy-like-a-fox woman, who has been so scarce, who’s only communicated by letter or the occasional chat room message, suddenly changes course and calls us and lays out her movements in detail. On our home phone, after alerting us to the fact she realizes the call’s being traced and almost certainly intercepted.”
“What’s the number on the caller ID?”
“It’s blocked, but that’s not the point. Give her some credit. First, she hates Arnie, probably more than she hates anyone. She’s barred from going on his property. He had her served with a no-trespass notice in 2010. That’s a ruse. A decoy. It’s the last place she’d pick.”
Lisa nodded. “Ah, okay.”
“As for the money, well, there is no money. The ‘Salem bastards’ would be the Salem True Value hardware store. She bought four economy lightbulbs there. The packaging claimed they’d last for a year. Lettie kept track of the hours she used a bulb—wrote it down on a calendar—and it burned out short of a year. Of course, then it was lawsuit or bust for her.”
“Oh, yeah, I remember that fiasco.”
“Salem is basically on the way to the lab. I have a feeling she’ll be there, at the store in Salem, at five in the morning on the twenty-eighth. ‘Fingers crossed’ can also mean she’s telling a lie, the way kids do, ‘I had my fingers crossed behind my back.’ She had to talk to me, because you wouldn’t have known her history and picked up on her clues.”
“All the free work and wasted time finally pay off,” Lisa said. “The dividends have arrived.” She smiled. “So what’s the plan?”
“We send our private detective to watch the Western Union, just in case. At least Hamblin should be able to handle that, though he’s been a hundred-and-fifty-bucks-an-hour waste so far. Next, we see if Trooper Harold will swing by the hardware store and take Lettie to Manassas for the test. I’ll meet with him and explain the situation. There’s nobody I trust more than Harold—he’s steady and cagey and Dale Earnhardt in a police cruiser.”
“I hope you’re right, Joe. I hope you’re not reading too much into her call.”
“It was her, and she was trying to send us a message.” He adjusted the towel. Water droplets speckled the floor, none of them quite the same shape. “I wish I didn’t have to sit here like a knot on a log with my lawyers and could go with you to Manassas. Or with Harold. Those fuckers will have a wall around the lab, even with the distractions and misdirection.”
“I’ll walk over and share the good news with Robert. I’ll make sure he and Phil realize how quiet we need to keep this. I may just drive to Roanoke and tell Phil in person rather than risking a call or e-mail.”
“Lord, do I feel better. Yes. Now we’re cooking with gas. Great googly moogly. We might actually pull this shit off.”
On September 27, Lisa and Joe said goodbye to each other, and they hugged at the front door to their office of almost two decades, both of them apprehensive, and he insisted she take his .22 revolver along with her, stuck it in her purse beside the Mace, and she left their building with MapQuest directions for Manassas, a few minutes before noon. “Twenty-four hours, and we’ll know,” she told him over her shoulder. “Feast or famine.”
“Be careful,” he said. “Don’t take any wooden nickels,” he added, and she thought it was perfect Joe, corny and sincere and heartfelt…and damn smart advice.
She was positive that Garrison continued to track her, so she was careful about her appointment with Dr. Beasley, took precautions. After leaving Joe, she drove to Wild Magnolia restaurant, which was part of the same half-empty strip mall as the dentist’s office. She went into the restaurant, found a booth and asked for a glass of sweet tea. She informed the server her husband would be there shortly, so she’d wait to order.
She wandered into the kitchen and while she was chatting with the owner—a garrulous, goateed fellow named Big Mike—and discussing the spices and seasoning in his voodoo shrimp, she abruptly apologized, grabbed her BlackBerry from her jeans pocket, pretended to study the caller’s number and then staged a conversation with Joe. She listened and scowled and said, “I was worried about an injunction,” and pointed at the red Exit sign, and Big Mike nodded it was okay, she could
use that door. Walking off, she briefly smothered the cell with her empty hand and told Mike he didn’t need to hold her table, and she was quick through the door and in the parking lot behind the building. She hustled past a large, humming heat pump and darted into the rear entrance at the dentist’s office, locking the door behind her.
Dr. Blaine Beasley was round all over—round head, round glasses, round eyes, round hands, round frame, round ears. In college, his friends had nicknamed him the Planet. Following his 2007 divorce, he’d endured a stomach stapling and taken up with a horse trainer from Emporia, but neither lasted very long, so he was round and single again within a matter of months and now, at the age of forty-nine, he tended to his patients, played doubles tennis despite his gimpy knees and kept company with a bashful Georgia widow he’d met at the Martinsville Catholic church. When Lisa arrived, he was already in the treatment room, anxious and fidgety.
“Hey, Doc,” she said cheerfully. “Ready to BeDazzle my smile?”
“I suppose. If you are.” He fussed with the earpiece on his glasses, blinked. “You’re sure about this?” He removed the glasses and began wiping the lenses with a handkerchief, the cleaning hurried and slapdash.
“The most important thing,” she said solemnly, “is absolute confidentiality. No records, no reports, not a syllable to anyone, ever. Basically, as we discussed, your incredible favor might just help us correct some huge unfairness. We’re really in a bind.”
“You have my promise,” he said. “There’s nobody here but us. Office is locked. The staff’s at lunch. For your fitting visit, your impression, we had you listed as a routine cleaning.” He kept wiping his glasses, the white handkerchief practically flapping. “As far as I’m concerned, you saved my life. I truly believe that. My marriage was literally frickin’ killing me.” He put the glasses back on. “I know I was a wreck—and I’m still kinda embarrassed about how I acted during the divorce—but you treated me like, well, like family, and then got me an extremely fair result. If this will improve your circumstances, it’s the least I can do. I can’t imagine why it would, but I’m not a lawyer. I read that Joe has lost his license, and I’m guessing there’s a connection somehow.”