by David Dun
“So that tells us a criminal, the Systemtechnik fellow, and this Benoit gal all called the same sat phone number.” Anna’s eyes widened, as if she could see the possible significance.
“Uh-huh. They did. Next step is to find the address associated with that sat phone number; turns out it’s registered to a company, the Freight Stop, in the Caymans. You could search for that company for years and find nothing on it… but… Big Brain had noted that someone at Belle du Jour had sent a document to the Freight Stop. And at one time the billing address for Belle du Jour was a Cayman Island address that had all mail forwarded to a certain Polynesian island address.
“Because of this, Big Brain assigned priority to the Polynesian address.
“That led Big Brain to do some handwriting-recognition analysis. Remember the cheese? In Benoit Moreau’s garbage was a card that she had sent to the Cayman address, which forwarded it to the Polynesian address. A joke was scribbled on the card by the recipient, who sent it back to Moreau-return address: Polynesia. The joke was in French and it said: ‘Keep the G spot warm.’ And it was signed G. Now do you recall the guy checking for spores in the Carter Building?”
“Yeah?”
“He signed in with the receptionist as G. Gousteaux. Big Brain matched the G on the sign-in form with the G on Benoit’s card. And when he was printing his name on the sign-in sheet it matched the print of the joke on the gift card. That makes the man at the Polynesian address the man of Belle du Jour, who is associated with the Freight Stop, which does business with Grace Technologies and Systemtechnik. This fellow is almost surely the lover of Benoit Moreau and is definitely the spore man who killed Weissman and who in all likelihood masterminded the assault on the Carter Building.”
Anna whistled, shaking her head.
“What really tortures me is that he also probably controlled the two perverts who harassed Suzanne, one of whom killed my son. The good news is that we’ve put this all together. The bad news is that this guy is very clever and very deadly and now opposes us. One more thing. When we gave all this to Interpol, they thought it might be a man who sometimes calls himself Devan Gaudet.”
“That’s incredible.”
“About like the granola,” Sam said, taking the last bite.
“So now that makes this personal for you.”
“I’m afraid it does.”
Twenty-nine
Devan Gaudet strode lazily down the sidewalk, an air of calm certainty masking what he was about to undertake. On a leash he led a fine-looking bulldog as harmless as May daisies. It amused him that the good guys were so predictable. At times like this he was practically ready to believe in God, for only the miraculous could account for his good fortune.
Naturally Grady had to tell Guy that she was going to go to school. (It was entirely predictable that the Sam man would try to ruin a perfectly good stripper by giving her a job and sending her to college.) With her background she would start either in a small state university or a junior college. Using about a dozen skip tracers he and Trotsky identified the school in three days.
That would have been impossible to accomplish in the short time frame if she hadn’t also reassured Guy that she wasn’t moving far. She had called from a phone booth on the street right after registering at school and according to her story walking some distance through the neighborhood before stopping to use a pay phone. Although she didn’t say how far she walked, they assumed no more than thirty minutes. On the tape of the call there was the sound of a harbor whistler buoy in the background. There was one junior college in the greater LA area that would be within earshot of a whistler buoy. Benoit had sent the voice recording as an e-mail attachment so that Gaudet and his men had it almost immediately.
Using an old ruse, a seasoned private eye had gotten Grady’s mailing address out of the school. Of course it was a PO box. Since the post office needed a physical address or phone number, a complex bit of bribery completed the work. Immediately he put three of his best men on the house. At least that was Trotsky’s assessment of this trio. When they saw Grady leave in a rusty-looking car driven by another young woman they called him. The bodyguard types around the house had vanished, so he concluded that she would be gone for a while. No suitcase had been in her hand, so she wasn’t on a trip. Now he was only gambling on her swift return.
There was something unusual about this job-something in his state of mind. For some time he had allowed himself to fantasize about watching this particular young woman die. He knew that she must be beautiful if she was anything like her reputation. The vision growing in his mind was becoming a compulsion, and although he knew it, he found himself drawn to the point that his will was riding on a tide of strange emotions. Nothing about the situation seemed to be blunting his analytical skills; he was not unaware of the risk involved in a face-to-face, hands-on killing. As he thought about it he concluded that his will was very much intact, that there was no element of irrationality. It was simply that the reward inherent in what he was planning merited the risk. It was nothing more than the pursuit of pleasure, the way some men risk their lives for a shot at the summit of Everest.
The house had an alarm equipped with motion detectors. The best way in was under the house through a duct that had been opened with heavy shears, but before going into the house he had some chores. He crossed the street at the end of the block, careful not to jaywalk. Wandering a little, letting the dog piss and sniff as he went, looking here and there, he made sure to give the appearance of a man out for a stroll.
When he arrived at the front gate he tied the dog and it sat. Then he walked through the gate and into the shadows, where he pulled on plastic surgeon gloves, put rubber slip-ons over his shoes, and pulled a key from under his raincoat. Next, staying in the shadows, he went to the side of the house, unlocked a padlock that fastened a three-foot-high door allowing access under the house. Chellis’s men had exchanged locks after they had cut off the original with bolt cutters. It took seconds to find the splice between the heavy lengths of duct tape; he disconnected them at the elbow. Another two minutes to find the depression in the ground that had been covered with cardboard, burlap, and dirt. It was carefully constructed so as to be invisible to the naked eye. He left it open so that he could crawl in quickly, but hoped he wouldn’t need it. Next, he moved up under the grate and slowly pushed it aside. The motion detector did not trigger the alarm.
He pulled a plastic bag from the large pocket of the overcoat. Without hesitating, he stood up with his torso above the floor and triggered the alarm. He went straight to the cupboards, found a bowl, and filled it with the contents of his bag and placed it on a table with a note. The alarm was raucous. Moving fast, he found the trapdoor to the attic in the bedroom closet. There were foot pegs up the wall for access. He tilted the overhead trapdoor on its hinges and put his head up into the attic, illuminating the musty space with a flashlight. It was a sizable storage area and had a plywood floor supporting a large number of boxes. The woman was a pack rat. When he left, he did not replace the trapdoor, but instead left it open for easy access. He then jumped back under the house, replaced the heater grate, and fit the duct back in place, applying tape. The alarm had been sounding for three minutes. Crawling out from under the house, he walked to the front, took the dog, and immediately encountered the neighbor, clearly the neighborhood busybody, just as his men had predicted. An older man with a pipe and a paper under his arm looked eager to talk.
“I am from France, as you can tell by the accent, and I saw this place and thought sure it was my friend’s, and now I see that I am turned around and in the wrong neighborhood. I feel so bad. Somehow when I knocked loudly on the window I must have set off the noise sensor.”
“Only a girl and her friend live here.”
“Yes. Well, I wish the police would come so I could explain.”
“I don’t know what it is like in France, but here it can take twenty minutes for the police to arrive. I’ll tell them. Last time it was
a spider crawling over the which-’ em-a-call-it. I turn the alarm off and reset it when she isn’t here, but I have to wait for the police to check everything out.”
“You’re sure? I’m very sorry for the racket.” As if he hadn’t a care in the world, Gaudet walked down the block, turned to the left, and disappeared from the neighbor’s sight. Turning the dog loose to wander off down the street, he doubled back behind the house, jumped a neighbor’s fence into the backyard of Jill’s house, and went immediately to the grate. After about seven minutes from its initial sounding, the audible alarm automatically turned off and became a steady beeping inside the house. It was another ten minutes before the neighbor who had the code was in the house with the police. Footfalls made it obvious that they were walking through the house, checking superficially.
“Hey,” one of them whispered. There was silence for a time.
“Hell, there’s nothing up there. They just left the trapdoor open.”
“You gotta check, though.”
Then they were back at the front door and he could hear the neighbor resetting the alarm. He would have sixty seconds.
“You know it’s fifty dollars for false alarms,” the officer said.
“Guess I should have collected from the guy with the dog,” the neighbor said as they closed the door.
Rushing up through the grate, he replaced it, and was up in the attic before the alarm once again became effective.
Gaudet sat in the attic and waited, amused that it had gone so easily. Had they been more watchful, it would have been necessary to wait in the hole in the ground under the house. This way it was so much more comfortable. Taking out his light and a small book, he began reading the published journal of a bondage slave.
There were a couple of lamps radiating a soft glow, one in between a small sitting area and the breakfast nook, and the other in the living room. Then there were night-lights in the wall outlets along with various things that emitted pleasant scents; and these electrical deodorizers were in addition to hand-tied bags of aromatic herbs; and there were special sounds like the heat pump fans, the rather loud refrigerator freezer, the hot-water pump, and sometimes the Jacuzzi tub. To Grady, Jill’s house felt as if it nurtured life, even had a life, as opposed to just containing people, and in that respect it reminded her of a large jetliner flying over oceans in the dead of night.
The place seemed more feminine than one would expect, given an owner who favored rock climbing and fast cars. All the furnishings in Grady’s room were done in an amber-colored oak except the Early American amoire, which appeared to be pine. Two paintings featured flower gardens created by making myriad dots in oil. She didn’t know the correct name for that type of painting, but had made a mental note to find out.
Grady had arrived home late, having seen the dentist, the doctor, and run a number of household errands with her bodyguards. Lately she found herself looking over her shoulder. As Grady understood it, they had her father and there was nothing more for them to get but her.
After she changed into her sweats, she pulled on a robe and found Jack outside the back door, sitting on the porch.
“Hey,” she said. “Wanna talk?”
“It’s the middle of the night” He turned and smiled. “Sure I’ll talk, but we need you sleeping. You’re still freaked about the alarm, aren’t you?”
“Well, it’s my third night and it happened today.”
“We walked through this place. Looked in all the closets. We went over with the alarm company that it was the motion detector in the kitchen. But it’s impossible to get to the kitchen without triggering other motion sensors. We can’t find a point of entry. Probably the guy with the dog knocked on the window and some time near that moment a bug crawled across the detector or a mouse ran across the floor and it went off. The guy thought he did it. That’s all.”
“I know.”
“We called Jill and she said it was probably nothing because the alarm has a hair trigger.”
“You really think it was nothing?”
“Would you be here if we thought there was any danger? Really, the odds that some French company is going to get together a killing squad in a week is a little far-fetched. But that’s not to say we shouldn’t be careful. So if you think of anything, you tell me. We’ll all be right here. Soon I’ll be in the living room. If need be I’ll sit in the bedroom and watch you sleep.”
“No. No. I’ll go back to bed or read or something. Do you want some soup? Jill left a big bowl on the table.”
“No. No, thanks. You have it. Maybe it will help you sleep.” Talking to herself about how safe she was, she went back and got in bed.
All this fuss over her father was a further irritation. She had never allowed herself to be impressed that he was a famous physicist. Although she had not previously wasted more than a few minutes thinking about him, she now was becoming curious. More accurately, she was beginning to worry. Maybe he was the best guy ever. Perhaps, in some strange way, he had cared for her but never let it be known. Now she might never know.
Hot and still adrenaline-alert, she tossed off the blankets and glanced at the phone. It was 11:30 P.M. and Guy would be leaving the club. She wanted to talk with him one more time, and that would be the end of it for a few days. Jill wasn’t home and the security people seemed to be staying outside. She picked up the phone and made a collect call.
“It’s so good to hear from you.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry I haven’t called very much. I’m starting to realize that you probably cared about me.”
“I do care about you. How’s school?”
“Well, I’m just auditing a class. It’s the middle of the term so I don’t really start for grades until next semester. But I also have a job. A new job. I’m done with stripping, done with drugs, done with clubs. I’m moving on.”
“That’s so great. I am too. New job starting next week. I’m managing a bar. A bar where people leave their clothes on. So what’s your job?”
“I can’t talk about it. It’s research.”
“Sounds fascinating. Whatever you can tell me I would love to hear.”
She hesitated. She knew she could trust him. “I’m researching things-interesting things. Like today I was learning things about Fiji. Taveuni Island.”
“Fiji?”
“Yeah.”
“What about Fiji?”
“You know, I shouldn’t get into it. Not even with someone I trust. There are rules here.”
“I understand. Will you be going to Fiji?”
“No. But others will.”
After more small talk she hung up, feeling intrigued, more so than she could remember. He was a nice man. She grabbed her robe and headed for the refrigerator. There were men about the place, so she had been told to wear something.
As she walked down the hall past the living room and into the kitchen, she saw the bowl of soup again on the table and the note from Jill.
She tossed the note and sat down with the soup after she had crushed some saltines and sprinkled them on top. A quick blast from the microwave and inside of four minutes she had the soup down.
It was savory, surprisingly so, heavy with spices and the flavor of barbecue sauce.
She decided to call Jill at the office.
“You can’t sleep?” Jill said.
“My body seems to be on full alert.”
“Still thinking about the alarm?”
“Uh-huh. You know, I have hated my father for as long as I can remember and I don’t even know him,” Grady said.
“At least you feel something and you have a name for what you feel. What is your first memory of your father?”
“Seeing him at work on his chalkboard. It’s about the only memory.”
“There’s some yogurt in the fridge and some marion-berry jam.”
“Sure, why not? Might as well get fat now that I don’t get naked for a living.”
“Don’t ever let El Numero Uno hear that. We’ll be runnin
g to New York.”
It was a roomy kitchen with a breakfast table in an alcove. For some reason Jill loved Early American decor, and the place looked like the inside of an upscale farmhouse.
“Grady?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t you think you should wait until you meet your father before you finally decide about him?”
“He’s an asshole. He had to be. Think about it.”
“You’re not sure.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re still fighting yourself about it.”
“Yeah, well, the Dad part of me is losing. I promise.”
“I would like to meet your father.”
“Good luck. He’s a paranoid creep.”
“Uh-huh,” Jill said.
“I have a guy I like,” Grady began. “I was worried about treating him like shit. I promised to call him. Anyway, I broke the rules and called him a few times to let him know I was okay.”
“What do you mean? When?”
“Four times. Twice at the beach house, once when I registered at the junior college, and once tonight. But tonight I said good-bye for a few days until we get the rules about phone calls worked out.”
“We’ve got to tell Sam. Don’t you understand this is not about deportment? It’s about security. This changes everything about the alarm, about everything. And Sam is going to kick my ass. I’m responsible for you. Don’t you get it?”
“Look, it was nothing. I told him nothing. I just said I was all right.”
“You should have told us. Tell me word for word everything you said.”
“The first call was when we were at the cabin when I couldn’t call. Then at the phone booth.”