Morrell fiddled with the photographs. “I still don’t get it. Did Baladine have his nanny arrested simply to send another body to the prison factory?”
“No. That was one of those things. Nicola was arrested for stealing. She was tried, and sentenced, and ended up in the clothes shop because she was small with quick little fingers and because she didn’t speak much English and the prison tries to keep discussion of the operation to a minimum. They intimidate the women who work in the clothes shop and try to keep them separate from the rest of the prison population. I discovered early on that women were scared to work in the clothes shop, even though they could make better money for piecework than they could at some of the other gigs.
“Then Nicola learned her little girl had died of asthma, the same little girl whose hospital bills put her in so much debt that she stole the necklace to begin with. She wanted to see the dead child herself and bury her, and they laughed at her. She lost her head and pounded her little fists on this guy’s chest—” I flicked my middle finger against Hartigan’s face. “He shot her with a stun gun. He kicked her. Her intestine perforated. They shut her in segregation, then they got scared and sent her to the hospital. I’m guessing the hospital said she needed expensive surgery to fix her up and even then she might well die. They thought if they dumped her body near her apartment, they could pretend she’d run away and been killed at home.”
My voice became drier and drier, more and more impersonal as I tried to keep from feeling anything about the narrative. Morrell put a hand in mine, giving me a chance to draw away if I wanted to: it’s one of the things they train you in at the Berman Institute. Let people have plenty of room to get away if they’re nervous about being touched. I squeezed his fingers gratefully, but I needed to get up, to be in motion. We went back to the garden and talked while I restlessly moved around the late–flowering bushes.
“When they got Nicola to Chicago they saw that the stun gun had singed her shirtfront. In case the medical examiner noticed the burn holes during an autopsy, they stripped off her clothes and put on a Mad Virgin T–shirt—I’m pretty sure one that Lucian Frenada had made on spec for Global.”
I explained to Morrell what I had learned about Frenada and Trant the night I’d been at Father Lou’s, right before my arrest, that Frenada had made some shirts for Global and had argued both with Lacey and Trant over what became of them.
“He claimed Trant had stolen one, and Lacey laughed it off. I did, too—why would a Global boss steal a shirt when he could get a dozen of them free anytime he wanted? But the ones Trant could get all had a label reading Made with Pride in the USA, a kind of Arbeit macht frei label we had to sew into the necks of the T–shirts we made. Why they wanted a Mad Virgin T–shirt on Nicola I don’t know—maybe Trant had a crazy idea that they could finger Frenada for the murder if anyone was asking questions. Everything they did had a B–movie feel to it; it was just the thing that a studio executive would come up with. Or maybe it was Alex Fisher’s idea.
“When they thought I was dying they took my damaged shirt off in the cell and put on another one. They made some comment about it at the time. Even though I kept blanking in and out, I was aware of what was going on, although at the time, it didn’t make sense.”
Before my arrest, I had wondered if Frenada had something to do with Nicola Aguinaldo’s death, but during a wakeful night at Coolis I remembered the sequence of conversations we’d had. It was when I asked him how a shirt he made came to be on her body that Frenada suddenly became quiet, then hung up on me. The night that Robbie saw him in Oak Brook, Frenada had gone out to confront Trant and Baladine. The trouble was, I couldn’t prove that Baladine killed Frenada—I could only guess it. I asked Morrell if Vishnikov’s autopsy had turned up anything unusual.
“Oh, that’s right: we’ve had so much else to talk about I forgot about that,” Morrell said. “Frenada definitely died by drowning. Vishnikov says he had a blow on the side of the head that could have come from slipping on the rocks by the harbor—he got it before he died, and that might have been why he went into the water. Other contusions had appeared postmortem.”
I scowled. “He was out at the Baladine estate the night he died. Robbie saw him there and later overheard a most suggestive remark from Trant, something about that taking care of the problem. I think they drowned Frenada in the pool and carted him off to Lake Michigan, but I guess that didn’t show up on autopsy.”
Morrell shook his head. “After you asked me to go back to him, Vishnikov did a really thorough study of every organ in the body, but he says there’s no way to prove whether he drowned in fresh or chlorinated water.”
I started shredding the wilted flower in my buttonhole. “If I can’t pin something substantial on that bastard, I’m not going to be able to work again. I can’t prove he killed Frenada. I can testify to someone somewhere about the shirts, but I can’t prove they’re running a factory out in Coolis either. That is, I can’t prove they’re selling the shirts and jackets and whatnot outside the prison system, not without a huge amount of effort.”
“What would it take to prove it?” Morrell asked.
“Oh, the grubby kind of detective work we used to do in the days before we could check everything out on–line. Watching for service vans like the one that carted me off, follow them, see which ones contain Global products, where they get dropped off. You could probably bribe the drivers and shorten the process, but it would still take weeks. And then there’d be hearings, and somehow during that time I’d have to come up with money to live on, not to mention money to fund the investigation. It would be easier if I could get Baladine to confess.”
Morrell looked at me in astonishment. “You don’t really think you could do that, do you? That kind of guy won’t. His self–image, his need to be the top dog—”
While he was talking I was imagining the way Baladine had come after Frenada and me: trying to plant cocaine in both our shops, arresting me for kidnapping, planting phony data on the Internet about Frenada’s finances. Baladine wasn’t just a high–tech operator; he liked to get his hands dirty. But I began to see a way in which I could use his technology to make the confession happen. Was I going to be foolhardy once again? To be daring without judgment? In a way, I didn’t care. I had been through the fiery furnace; I had been badly burned, but I had survived. No harms that befell me in the future could be as bad as the ones I had already endured.
“I have an idea.” I interrupted Morrell abruptly. “But I’m going to need a little help.”
44 Diving in with the Sharks
The Baladine Invitational swim meet drew a respectable crowd. Morrell dropped me twenty yards from the front gate. It stood open but was protected by uniformed members of Carnifice Security’s private security division. I joined a line that spilled into the road, standing between a couple of small girls arguing over a gym bag and two well–coiffed men discussing baseball. We crawled forward as guards checked tickets with a handheld scanner. They ran the scanner over my media pass and looked into my briefcase but saw only videocassettes and a notebook. Another man handed out maps and programs. He directed me toward the pool, where a special tent had been set up for media, with refreshments.
“And you can use the bathroom off the kitchen, ma’am. The public and swimmers are using the facilities in the cabana.”
It felt good to be called “ma’am” by a member of the Carnifice organization. I thanked him genially and mingled with the crowd going up the drive. I wasn’t exactly in disguise, but hoped that a wide–brimmed hat and the fact that no one expected to see me would protect me. I skirted the drive, clogged with SUV’s and the occasional actual car, and moved around to the back of the house, where the crowd was thicker.
In the media tent I got the press packet marked for Morrell but ducked back outside before I had to get into idle chitchat with anyone. Alex Fisher’s hapless assistant was there; I didn’t want her questioning me on where Morrell was. Besides, I had recognized s
everal reporters I knew, and it would take only about three sentences before they’d realize it was my face behind the big hat and sunglasses. I planned to talk to them all soon enough, but it would be disastrous if they saw me now.
Thirty–two children were entered in the contest, I read in my packet. The meet was divided into different heats for children of different ages and abilities. Swimming was scheduled to start at one, but the Carnifice and Global sponsors had plenty of entertainment lined up for both before and after. Lacey Dowell was supposed to make an appearance, and the first three Virgin films were being shown in a tent behind the garage.
The event had grossed sixty–seven thousand dollars to be shared by three charities dedicated to children with disabilities, inner–city children, and children’s athletic programs. Carnifice Security and Global Entertainment had each contributed ten thousand dollars. It was a nice mediagenic event, and plenty of media was swarming about.
“Jennifer! They want us inside in five minutes to do a press conference.”
It was Eleanor Baladine, speaking so close to me I jumped. She was on the other side from me of a large shrub with spiky leaves. I sipped my Malvern water thoughtfully and kept an eye on the flash of turquoise linen, which was all I could see of her.
“I’m annoyed with Abigail,” Eleanor continued. “She says Rhiannon got tired of swimming when we were in Limoux and doesn’t want to compete. I wish she had said something before we had the programs printed: I tried telling her how bad it looks for one of the organizers to withdraw her own daughter from competition. I thought it was ridiculous the way she kept running off with her daughter to Toulouse for little shopping trips, as if they were girlfriends together. My girls were in the pool six hours a day and loved every minute of it.”
“But you’re so intense, Eleanor,” Jennifer Poilevy said. “Not everyone has your drive. Of course your girls inherited your competitive spirit. It’s a shame about poor Robbie, but I do wish you and BB had brought him to France with you. He might have kept the twins from terrifying me with their climbing and jumping. Half the time we were there, I was scared they were going to be brought in on stretchers.”
“We certainly never have to worry about that with Robbie,” Eleanor said dryly.
“Eleanor—there you are.” Baladine had come up to the women from the other side of the house. The sound of his voice woke in me such a frenzy of hatred and of helpless rage that I had to move away before I blew my cover by leaping through the shrubbery and strangling him.
Before I got out of earshot I heard Baladine say, “Did your sister say anything about visiting Robbie at Camp Muggerton on Friday? Major Enderby called to say the boy’s Aunt Claudia took him out for dinner and got him back after lights–out.”
My stomach jumped. I hadn’t expected the camp commandant to check up on a family visitor. That meant I had to move as fast as possible.
I scurried past the media tent into the kitchen, since the bathroom we media folk were allowed to use was there. Rosario the nanny was washing glassware while caterers assembled monstrous platters of shrimp, mushroom tartlets, and other delicacies. The contrast to the kitchen at Coolis, where roaches crawled over congealing piles of grease, and women swore at each other as they lugged dented pots around, made my anger start to boil again. When a waiter offered me a tray of salmon tartare with a perfect circle of caviar in the middle, I turned him away with more fury than manners.
The bathroom stood next to a swinging door leading into the body of the house. I pushed on it—anyone could make a mistake—and a Carnifice guard sprang to life in the hall beyond. He saw my green media badge and said, “House is off–limits to guests, ma’am. If you’re looking for the bathroom it’s next to this door. And don’t you want to be at the press conference? It’s starting in two minutes.”
I murmured an apology and slipped into the bathroom. The first swim heat would start immediately after the press conference. It was the one for the littlest children, in which the Baladines’ younger daughter was competing. Both Eleanor and BB would be at the pool for that, or at least Robbie had seemed to think so. “They’ll both want to see the girls beat everyone else, or if they lose, BB and Eleanor will want to show them everything they did wrong. They love that kind of stuff.”
He told me that at dinner Friday evening. When he came into the visitors’ room at Camp Muggerton on lagging steps, his head down, I felt an uncomfortable parallel to the visitors’ room at Coolis, but when he saw me his face lit up.
I had been afraid he’d blow my cover out of surprise, but after a moment’s confusion he said, “Oh, I thought—oh, it’s you, Aunt Claudia.”
Over chicken and mashed potatoes at a diner in Columbia, he begged me to take him away. I wished I could but told him that would put real teeth into his father’s kidnapping charge and I might not manage an acquittal.
He started crying, apologizing between sobs, but Camp Muggerton was a miserable place, the hazing was horrible, he couldn’t get anything right, he was always last at everything. And they were on strict orders about his diet, did I know that?
I knew that—Major Enderby had stressed it when I was sent to his office for a visitor’s pass. The major was pleased to see a family member paying a visit: most of the boys were home for the holiday weekend, and young Robert felt left out, having to stay in camp, but Commander and Mrs. Baladine thought it better he not be put in the way of the temptation of a big party. I gave my most dazzling smile and nodded gravely when the major told me Robbie was not allowed fat or sweets of any kind—so no Big Macs and shakes, ma’am.
I said that Robbie’s weight was a trial to the whole family and everyone wondered where it came from. Certainly not my sister’s and my side, although Commander Baladine’s mother had been a plump little woman.
I told Robbie about the conversation while helping him decide whether he wanted caramel or chocolate sauce on his sundae. He had lost weight, his soft chubbiness replaced by something worse, a kind of gaunt hunger.
“You’ve lost weight too, Ms. Warshawski. Was that because of being in jail? Was jail as horrible as this camp? You don’t want ice cream?”
I’m not much of a sweets eater, but I got a cone to keep him company. As we ate our ice cream, Robbie sketched a plan of the Baladine house for me—where Baladine’s study was, where the controls for the house security system were, and where the surveillance cameras were trained. I had explained I wanted to know because it had to do with Nicola’s death.
“But I want to use the information to—well, in part to get your father to stop trying to destroy me and my business, and in part to pay him back for the miseries I endured in the prison he runs. I want you to think carefully before you betray your parents to me.”
His tear–streaked face contorted in angry hurt. “Don’t start preaching the Ten Commandments to me like they do here. I know I’m supposed to honor my father and mother, but how come they never think of me? It’s like there’s something horrible wrong with me, I know they wish I’d disappear on them, I wish I could, I wish I was strong enough to kill myself.”
I gave him what awkward consolation I could—not that deep down his parents really loved him, but that deep down he was a fine and unusual person and that he needed to hold on to that idea. After we had talked for a time, I was relieved to see him start to look happier. I asked him if he wanted more time to think over what I wanted to do, but he said it was fine with him, as long as Utah didn’t get hurt.
“She’s kind of a brat, but I like her.”
“I don’t think anyone’s going to get hurt. Not physically, anyway, although I’m hoping your father may have to find a new job, perhaps in a different city. That may be hard on your mother.”
He ate another ice cream while he helped me draw up plans of the interior of the house. Afterward we sat and talked, about life and what could lie in store for him after he outgrew Eleanor and BB. I hadn’t noticed the shadows drawing in on the town; we were going to be late for taps. I b
ustled Robbie into the rental car and drove like mad for the camp.
Before dropping him at the guardhouse I gave him a handful of twenties. “This is enough for bus fare from Columbia back to Chicago, if you decide you can’t stick it out here any longer. Sew it into the waistband of your shorts, but for pity’s sake, don’t use it until I know if your dad is going to drop the kidnapping charge. Or until after my trial, whichever comes first.”
The escape hatch seemed to breathe a little bit of optimism into him. I apologized to the guard for making my nephew late and begged him not to blame Robbie: I had gotten lost, and that wasn’t the boy’s fault. I had thought another dazzling smile would take care of matters, but now here was Major Enderby calling the Baladines to tell them Aunt Claudia had violated lights–out.
I waited in the kitchen bathroom until I heard the loudspeaker heralding the start of the swim meet. The bathroom had a second door, locked right now, that led into the maid’s room. It took about fifteen seconds to pick that lock. I moved quickly, in case Rosario was getting a break while the swimming started, only stopping for a moment in front of a tin icon to the Virgin of Guadalupe, which was nailed over the prim single bed. I whispered a little plea for protection, although perhaps the Virgin would feel that not even Baladine’s iniquities warranted protecting an intruder.
The back stairs led to Utah’s and Madison’s bedrooms and their playroom. On the other side of the playroom was a hall leading to Baladine’s home office. I studied the location of the monitoring cameras in the bedrooms, playroom, and hall on my pencil map and ducked around the lenses, creeping into Baladine’s office on my hands and knees.
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