by Andy Straka
“Looks like your shock troops are ever vigilant,” I said.
“That they are. The price of freedom—isn't that what we say?”
“The price of freedom.”
He pulled to a stop in front of my building. I unbuckled, opened the door, and climbed out.
“I guess I was wrong about you,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“I'll have to add stupid to the list of qualities.”
“Yes, but I'm as loyal as your first puppy,” I said and closed the door.
27
Back in the office, the searchers had vacated the premises. Everything looked neat and tidy. Toronto sat at my workbench, staring into his laptop.
“How did it go?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Dudes didn't seem to find what they were hoping for. And then, for some reason, they decided it was time to leave.”
“Can't imagine why.”
“You think it's my deodorant?” he said.
“Bugs, cameras?”
“Already swept for them.”
I picked up the phone. “Think they've tapped this line?”
“That'd be my guess.”
I put the phone back in its cradle.
“Here,” he said, handing me one of the many cell phones he always seemed to have at his disposal. “Certified secure.”
I wanted to find out exactly when Diane Lemminger's exposé on Drummond was supposed to air, so I called the studio in Richmond and was surprised when they connected me with a man who said he was her agent.
“She's not here,” he said, between bites of some kind of food he was eating. “They've stopped taping, anyway. I guess you musta heard the news.”
“News?”
“Yeah-h-h … it sucks. Didn't you hear? Her show's been canned. You believe it? I'm telling you, there ain't no justice. Seemed like her numbers were on the rise too. Now I'm over here making sure we at least get paid what we're due.”
“Who canceled the show?’
“Who do ya think? Some honcho from New York supposedly calls last night out of the blue. I don't know, man. Shit happens.”
“Diane know about this?”
“Sure she does. Told her myself. Good thing too. She was hanging around my place last night, and she might not've taken it so well over the phone—you know what I mean? I tried to console her, but, hey, what can I say? Little sweetie wasn't in the mood. She took off like a bat out of hell.”
“Thanks for the info,” I said.
“Hey, wait a minute. What'd you say your name was again?”
“Pavlicek.”
“Right, Pavlicek. Hey, listen. You see Diane, you tell her from me this shit about her show being axed ain't got nothing to do with talent. Tell her to call me. A face and tits like hers're gonna end up on somebody else's screen in a heartbeat. I can practically guarantee it. This game's full of nothin’ but whores.”
After I hung up, Toronto and I compared notes. I decided I'd better pay a visit to Diane Lemminger, then shoot down to Richmond again with the copies of the checks we'd taken from Drummond's office to see if I could learn more.
“Oh, almost forgot,” Toronto said. “Nicky called.”
“Good. I was wondering what had become of her. What's she up to?”
“I don't know, but I'd see if I could get her back over here if I was you.”
“What do you mean?”
“She wanted to know if I could use my sources to find out more information on Jed Haynes. You know, stuff that isn't public.”
“Great. As if I don't have enough troubles,” I said.
I dialed Nicole's dorm room and left an angry message on her machine.
“What are you gonna do?” Toronto said. “I guess she figures she's just trying to help.”
“If she calls or comes by, you tell her I said to stay away from Jed Haynes. The FBI's all over that kid. Who knows what he's up to? Might even be dangerous. And if they catch her working a case without a private investigator's registration, it'll be a long time before she'll do any official investigating in this state.”
I left the office and headed out Fifth Street toward the interstate. Big clouds played hide-and-seek with the sun today. The air smelled of impending rain. The silver Taurus stayed back a discreet distance a few cars behind me.
Diane Lemminger's Corvette was still in the parking lot at the Holiday Inn. I edged into a space close to the front and strode in through the entrance. The lobby was quiet. Bebo Walter sat looking at a computer screen behind the desk.
“How about them Hoos?” I said. Bebo and I were both big fans of the university sports teams.
He looked up. “Hey, Pavlicek. How ya doin’?” He reached across the specially built low counter to shake hands.
“Man, don't you get any time off? Your boss must be a slave driver or something.”
“Yeah,” he chuckled. “Maybe I oughta put in for more overtime.”
The fact that Bebo managed the place didn't exactly bode well for such a proposition.
“Can't find good help. It's the stinking economy. Unemployment's too low around here.”
“Could be worse,” I said. “Could be no business.”
“I suppose. Your little pigeon is still in the coop, far as I know.”
“Good to hear. Anything else interesting?”
He glanced around, lowering his voice. “Yeah. This fella came and stood outside the front door about a half hour ago. He dials his cell phone and the switchboard lights up. I pick it up, and he asks to be put through to your lady with the Corvette's room. I put him through, he stands there talking for a minute, and then he comes inside and heads upstairs.”
I thought about it. “What did he look like?”
“Squat, muscle-bound guy.”
“Blow-dry hairdo?”
“Yeah, that's him. You know who he is?”
“Unfortunately. Anybody else show up?”
“Nope. Just the usual. Checkouts, that sort of thing.”
“Blow-Dry still upstairs?”
“Nope. Left about five minutes ago. You just missed him.”
“Thanks very much, Bebo.”
“You got it,” he said. “Anytime.”
The night before, he'd written Diane Lemminger's room number for me on one of those little yellow sticky notes. I took the elevator up to her floor. The room was about halfway down the corridor on the right.
“Who is it?” she called when I knocked.
I heard her shuffling around inside, obviously checking me out through the peephole.
She opened the door. “Well, well, well. I must've won some kind of popularity contest this morning.”
She was drunk, or at least she appeared to be. Her long hair draped haphazardly over the shoulders of her blouse. The skirt she wore looked as though she'd slept in it. The liner around her eyes was bright but a little jagged, as if it had been just recently applied with an unsteady hand. I smelled no booze, but she was certainly on something.
“Well, don't just stand there,” she said. “Come on in.”
The sheets on the king-sized bed were in disarray. An expensive suitcase lay open on the floor with clothes and other articles strewn about. Around the corner in the bathroom I could see a sunken whirlpool bath with the taps open and steam rising from the tub.
“You feeling okay?” I asked.
“Marvelous,” she said. “Just marvelous. So what? You want to ask me s'more questions?”
“Maybe you'd better sit down first.”
“Okay,” she said. “Okay.” She sat down on the edge of the bed.
“I heard what happened to your show.”
“Ya did, huh? Isn't that just dandy?”
“I'm sorry.”
“Yeah. “ Her eyes grew listless. “Me too.” Then they brightened. “So whatcha want to ask me, big Mr. Private Investigator? Go ahead. Ask away.”
“What were you doing out at Tor Drummond's place late last night?”
“Tor? Oh, yeah
. Tor's lackey was just here. What a dick he is.”
“You were out at Tor's house, in Ivy, last night.”
“Right, right. I wanted to tell him … I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself.” She giggled.
“What about the exposé you were planning to do about him?”
“What about it?”
“You said it had something to do with the Second Millennium Foundation.”
“Sure. Second Millennium… Tor Drummond's nursery… He's a great man, you know. Donates a lot of money to all sorts of causes. Takes care of all those unfortunate kids… Second Millennnemm. … “ Her voice trailed off in a slur.
“What about Second Millennium? What were you planning to talk about in your story?”
She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. Then she rolled onto her side, folding her legs up in a fetal position. “I don't know. I don't… I'm really not… feeling so good … “
“Maybe you need to see a doctor.” I moved beside her.
“I don't know. I—” She began to tremble.
“Miss Lemminger?”
She didn't answer.
“Miss Lemminger?”
Her breath was slow and labored. I felt her forehead. Ice cold.
I picked up the phone on the bedside table and dialed 911.
28
“Did you know she was a diabetic?”
Carol Upwood and I leaned against the fender of her white Mustang parked in front of the hotel. After calling for help, I'd dialed the front desk and told Bebo to expect an ambulance and to direct the paramedics up to Lemminger's room. Then I'd tried Bill Ferrier, but Carol had answered his phone instead, saying Bill had told her he was headed up to D.C.— which I hoped meant he might be working something behind the scenes for me. Two paramedics and a pair of firemen had come and gone, checking vitals, hooking Diane Lemminger up to an IV, and whisking her away. The hood of Carol's Mustang was still warm.
“Nope. I found the insulin with her name on it in the bathroom. They'll probably want to check and make sure it's okay,” I said.
“You think she just screwed up her dose or what?”
“I don't know, but I've got some concerns.”
I told her about Dworkin's visit.
“You sure it was Drummond's chief of staff?” she said.
“I'd put money on it, and I'm not a betting man.”
“All right,” she said. “I'm going to want to talk to the guy inside to verify the description. I'm sure you've also got some speculation as to motive.”
I couldn't tell her about my observation of Diane Lemminger out at Drummond's place the night before, of course, but I described my most recent conversation with the congressman and dropped hints about the TV exposé on which she had been working.
Carol heaved a sigh. “I know what Ferrier would say if he was here: ‘We'd all better walk pretty careful on this one, pal.’ “
She glanced over at the silver Taurus. The agents inside had stirred a little at the sight of me exiting the hotel with the paramedics and Lemminger on the stretcher. One punched a number and spoke rapidly on a cell phone.
“You guys may've been bounced off the Cartwright Drummond case, but this is still your jurisdiction. I'm talking about attempted murder here.”
“I understand.” She shook her head. “Can't wait to see what happens when Abercrombie hears about this. What am I going to tell him?”
“You'll think of something.”
“I'm still not clear how you managed to tail Lemminger here to the hotel.”
“Trust me. You don't want to know, Carol. The important thing is, she might be dead now if I hadn't,” I said.
She grunted in disgust. “The last guy who asked me to trust him turned out to be a child molester.”
“What can I say? You've never been married, have you?” I knew she'd had an on-again off-again boyfriend for a few years.
“Nope. Not sure I'll ever want to be, either.”
“Just wondering. You ever think about what it'd be like to have a child?”
A breeze stirred the decorative landscaping at the base of the building and blew a lock of hair across her eyes. She brushed it back, and a smile appeared on her lips. Maybe it was a sad smile. “Of course,” she said.
“Seems to me kids usually trust their parents.”
“That's true.”
“But when that trust is broken … I don't know.”
“What's that got to do with Diane Lemminger?”
I shrugged. “Maybe nothing.”
“You're up to something, Pavlicek. I can smell it. You'd better be careful it doesn't come back to bite you.”
I gave her my best innocent stare.
She flexed her arms against the car. “Lemminger's a pretty well-known person. Once she hits the ER at the hospital and they realize who she is, this'll be all over the news.”
“Hopefully they'll keep us out of it,” I said.
“Hopefully.” She snickered and looked at her watch. “You know, if you'd let Bill and me in on some of your secrets, maybe we could help.”
“Thanks for the thought, Carol.”
“Bill told me about the little chat you and he had earlier,” she said.
“You think that's why he's gone to D.C.?”
“He wouldn't say.”
“Hey,” I said, “thank you. You didn't have to come.”
“Thanks yourself. Remember what I said about Abercrombie.”
She hopped in the Mustang and the engine roared to life. I stepped away as she nodded at me and zoomed out of the lot.
Plans change.
The guys in the Taurus turned out to be not as easy to ditch as their backups. This time I chose the rural approach, a short patch of abandoned logging road that runs along the back side of Carter's Mountain not too far from Jefferson's Monticello. I shifted the Ford into four-wheel low and hit the dirt with some speed. Even with our ground clearance, the run was treacherous at forty miles per hour.
“You know,” Toronto said, after one particularly big jolt that ricocheted his head off the ceiling, “I'm kind of fond of my teeth in their present location.” You had to give the FBI agents credit—they hung in there for half a mile or so. It might have been a blown tire, a stump, or a broken axle that grounded them. I didn't stick around to call AAA.
A steady drizzle began as we drove out 250 toward Ivy. Fog descended and all but obliterated the pastures and trees and homes we passed. Despite the pea soup, about half a mile from Tor Drummond's place, I clicked the headlights to high beam and left them there.
The gate was closed and locked, as it had been the night before. But now, instead of sneaking in the back, we drove right up to the stone pillars. Toronto jumped out with an oversized pair of bolt cutters, quickly snapped the chain, pulled the wrought-iron gate open, and hopped back in the cab.
“That oughta get somebody's attention,” he said.
He was right. I had just punched the stick shift into second gear when the incandescent beams of the Suburban, coupled with amber fogs, shot into our eyes, headed down the driveway from above to block our path.
“I hate guys who hide behind big bumpers,” Toronto said.
“Not me with the Ford, I hope.”
“Nah. You're on the cusp. I give you a pass.”
The larger vehicle rushed down at us. For a second, I thought a game of chicken might be appropriate, but then I thought better of it and let us coast uphill until we stopped. The Suburban suddenly braked too.
An even more blinding beam from a spotlight sticking out of the Suburban's passenger window broke across Toronto's face. He didn't flinch.
“Please step out of the vehicle!”
The voice spoke through a bullhorn.
Toronto shrugged. I shrugged. We opened our respective doors and stepped out into the rain.
I slipped on my coffee-colored outback hat, which, next to my long yellow slicker, might have made me look like the Marlboro Man, if my jaw had been more square. Jak
e had donned only a Virginia Tech wind-breaker over his sweatshirt and jeans for the occasion. His .45 in its shoulder holster was hard to miss.
Turnip and Robot climbed down out of the Suburban onto the crushed stone too. They both wore olive trench coats, no headgear. The Robot balanced a pump-action shotgun in his hands, pointed at the ground, as if it were a baton. It wasn't quite the shootout at the OK Corral, but the four of us did meet face-to-face in the blinding light somewhere between the bumpers. Drizzle, made visible in the brightness, swirled all around us like cold dust.
“Forcible entry,” Turnip said. “That's a mistake.”
Toronto shrugged. I shrugged.
“The congressman's not at home.”
“Really? Well, I guess you two fine fellows will have to do, then,” I said.
“That a fact? Who's your buddy?”
“His name's Jake Toronto. Don't worry. He's not quite as mean as he looks.” I tried to say this with a smile.
Turnip wasn't buying. His staring companion stifled a twitch.
I didn't look at Toronto, but I could almost imagine his mouth twisting into a sardonic half-grin.
“Had a chat with a woman a little earlier today named Diane Lemminger. You two know who she is, don't you?”
Both tried the blank-stare routine. Turnip's companion had a hard time pulling it off, however. He rolled his tongue around inside his mouth as if he was about to bite it off, and it made his cheek bulge.
I went on. “I understand she talked with you two gentlemen as well, just last night, which surprised me, knowing how loyal you are to your boss and all.”
“She tell you that?” Turnip asked.
“Maybe not in so many words.”
“Maybe you two was the ones broke in out here last night.”
I smiled. “Or we could just be good at following people.”
He folded his arms across his chest and glared down at us. The incline of the driveway put the two security guards about half a foot above Toronto and me.
“Say we did talk with Lemminger,” he said. “So what?”
“She's run into a problem. She was taken to the hospital in a diabetic coma.”
The guards stood impassively in the rain. The rain had started to trickle in streams down their faces.
“We don't know nothing about no diabetic coma.”