The Anything Goes Girl (A Brenda Contay Novel Of Suspense Book 1)

by Barry Knister

  She talked then about Pohnpei, and Pirim atoll. Jerry had rifled the station’s file footage for filler tape. Vacancy with waves, he had called it. Something Waiting To Happen—wind lashing palm trees, a ship’s prow plunging in a typhoon. None of it had happened, but he loved the atmospherics. He had spliced in a few frames from a story done last year about a homeless couple that had starved to death in an abandoned house. There were also thirty seconds with a Ford Hospital doctor, on what happened when people went without eating under conditions of high temperature.

  Seated in the wheelchair next to a monitor, Brenda described what it had been like on the open sea, fitting her narrative to the taped segments. She held up the Davison yearbook. Standing next to one of the cameras, Jerry looked grave when she described how Bob Ehrlich had talked about his girl.

  “It’s going to tear people up when you tell them he died,” he said. “Save that for the end, it’s the kicker.”

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  They finished filming after ten that night. All day, Jerry had been there, eating leftover deli food, overseeing everything. As they worked, Brenda had studied the three technicians. Without Ned Chambers, she would need to rely on one of them.

  “Fabulous,” Jerry said. He came over and kissed her on the head. “Gotta go. In the morning we’ll clean it up.”

  She watched him cross the tiled floor to the wardrobe rack and get his suitcoat. She turned in the wheelchair as the technicians made final adjustments. One of them would have to help her. Two were men she recognized, the third a woman around twenty. She was locking one of the cameras and making a note for herself.

  “Are you a summer intern?”

  The girl looked over and nodded.

  “It’s Gretchen, right?”

  The girl nodded again and came over. “They’re short because of vacations,” she said.

  “What do you think of it?” Brenda asked.

  The girl hesitated. She made another note before looking at her. “Could I ask you something?”

  “Go ahead.”

  The young woman looked to the pool and out to the sundeck. She was a little overweight and wore a chambray work shirt and jeans, and no makeup. Like you before you quit college, Brenda thought.

  Gretchen turned back. “What do you think of it?”

  “It’s crap.”

  “I just wondered. I’m new, so I don’t know, but it’s…something’s wrong with it.”

  Thank you, Brenda thought.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” the girl added. “It’s sort of interesting.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Hey, Gretch, Miller Time!” The two other techs were waiting at the exit with their gear. Gretchen waved them on.

  “I’ve been watching you,” Brenda said. “You’re good. Careful.”

  “That’s because I don’t know what I’m doing,” Gretchen said. “Communications courses in junior college don’t mean much when you’re actually, you know, doing it.”

  “Do you have to leave?”

  “We’re going to the bar, that’s all.”

  “I’d like you to help me. Load a blank cassette and do me in close-up. Waist up.”

  Curious, the girl inserted a new tape and unlocked a camera, then swung it to face Brenda. She looked through the viewfinder. “Fix your robe,” she said. “I can’t see your logo.” Brenda adjusted the robe and looked into the camera. Gretchen nodded go.

  “Forget whatever you’ve heard,” Brenda said. “This story isn’t about me. It’s about a company most of you haven’t heard of, and one you have. It’s about Russ Minot, the billionaire from Arizona. It’s about what loyal members of his staff are doing to protect Russ Minot’s plans to run for the Senate, then the Presidency. But before he runs, you need some facts. Pay attention, it’s going to get complicated. Just remember. Everything you’re going to hear about in the next few minutes is legal.”

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  Twenty minutes later, she drew a finger across her throat. Gretchen stepped away from the camera and stopped the recorder.

  “But you can’t do it,” the girl said.

  “Not a chance.”

  “Because of the guy. The bug expert.”

  “He has to confirm. Without that, no story.”

  “This takeover thing,” Gretchen said. “They sell GENE 2, then Minot declares.”

  Thank you again, Brenda thought. She had just talked, and Gretchen had followed. It had made sense to her. “He’s holding a rally Monday night.”

  “Maybe the scientist guy will get here,” Gretchen said. “Everything you said was clear to me. God.”

  “It’s not likely. But just in case, I’d like you to take that tape and get copies made. At least ten.” The girl looked worried. “It’s all right, you’re not going to get in trouble,” Brenda said. “This has nothing to do with W-DIG. Jerry’s not going to see it. We’ll go ahead with the special, but I need copies. Can you do that?”

  Still troubled, Gretchen re-locked the camera. “Big Sky Video has one-day service.” She turned off the flood lamps and left.

  In the semi-darkness, Brenda listened to the pool gurgle for a moment, then pushed up and crossed to the observation windows before the sundeck. She shoved back one of the sliding panels and stepped out.

  The night was balmy. Not like Pirim, but that’s what she was seeing. The atoll’s night sky was spread out above Southfield’s towers; she heard reef hiss in the thinned-out traffic on the Lodge Expressway a quarter mile away. Along with diesel rigs and late commuters, she heard and saw people coming from the beach. They were loaded with fish and rope, armfuls of shark fins, kapok mattresses, cases of rice wine.

  Doors thumped inside and rubber-soled shoes squeaked. They sounded like Patterson’s, but when Brenda turned, Mrs. Soublik was crossing to her, dressed in shorts. Behind her on the high ceiling, pool light flickered.

  “I waited downstairs until you were done working.” Mrs. Soublik handed Brenda a manila envelope. “Beth wanted to bring these. We don’t want her driving at night. Those are Vince’s letters.”

  “She told you?”

  “Use whatever you want,” Mrs. Soublik said. “Beth told us about your station spying on you. Us, too. Someone followed me here.”

  “Mrs. Soublik—”

  “You don’t have to explain anything. They’re trying to intimidate us, but it won’t work. We’re beyond that. Do whatever you think is best.”

  “It’s not going to work out the way I hoped,” Brenda said. “GENE 2 is going to say a company rep failed to tell Vince what was going on. The rep’s dead, so he can’t be questioned.”

  “What about the letters?”

  “All they prove is that Vince was ignorant. The company will make you a settlement offer, a gesture of goodwill. But they aren’t liable.”

  Vince’s mother stood a moment, looking out at the night sky. “Do what you think is best,” she said again, and turned away.

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 4

  The security guard brought the plastic ID close and studied it. He handed it back. “What can I do for you?”

  “Brenda Contay.”

  The guard’s expression changed as Lindbergh put the card back in his breast pocket. It often happened when he used the FBI card. Show up on the doorstep of a deadbeat’s neighbor or cousin and show the card, right away they started distancing themselves. Anything you want to know, they said. I knew there was a problem there. IRS, right? I had a hunch.

  “That shipwreck,” the guard said. “It’s drugs, isn’t it?”

  “We need to talk to her.”

  “Sure.” He reached for the panel of buttons on his desk.

  “Don’t buzz her.”

  The guard sat back in his chair and nodded again. “Down the toilet before you get there,” he said. “I follow.”

  “You have a pass key.”

  The guard stood, pulling the jacket from the back of his chair. He shouldered into it and came around the desk, clearly p
lanning to be in on the bust.

  “Let me have the key. Better if I go alone.”

  The guard worked a key off the ring and handed it to him. “I’ll be right here,” he said. “If you need backup, her intercom’s right inside the entrance.”

  “Anyone comes to see her while I’m talking to Miss Contay, please call up. Related parties might try to contact her.”

  Backup, Lindbergh thought. Sometimes, not often, you got a type. Someone who had done time, or thought you were stepping into his space without permission.

  The elevator doors opened. He stepped in and checked his watch as they closed: six-ten in the morning. Jerry had called last night at eleven, very pleased with himself. They had finished taping, and the whole thing was about the tuna boat, nothing objectionable. It could run on the Disney Channel, he claimed.

  That meant Contay had been up all day. She would still be asleep, making it easy to use the key and get to her without a lot of yelling.

  Except Lindbergh didn’t think she would. On the plane she had sat quietly next to him, thinking over what he’d said. She was smart. Frightened, too, but that was just common sense. She had known the person next to her wasn’t making up shit. He was just giving her information she could use or not. Her choice.

  Squaring his shoulders, he pulled down the suit coat to fit neatly at the neck. It was the glen plaid, old but quality tropical wool, with a nice hand to the fabric. Nice drape. Always it seemed he had to take the pants back at least once to get the right break to the cuffs. Too much break made even a good suit look like Sears. Too little, and you ended up with floods after it was dry-cleaned, shoelaces showing, socks.

  The elevator shunted to a stop and he exited. Once the courier package from her secretary had come in Sunday night, McIntosh had made him help her sort through the documents. Standard personnel forms, reports, newsletters. Mostly, McIntosh seemed worried about her own file. She had scribbled notes, called room service for pots of coffee. When he was sure none of it related to his own concerns, Lindbergh had lost interest.

  He reached Contay’s apartment, listened, and used the key.

  Gray carpet inside, off-white walls. Nothing fancy in the furniture department. He stepped into the main room and remembered Caprice Thibodeau’s condo. He was sure the woman had felt nothing. Nice girl, beautiful skin. When Neff next needed special ops, he would find someone reliable, then read about it in the paper. Someone like himself who got no rush from it, but accepted killing as something that happened more often than most sicknesses killed. Like fate or bad luck. A card turns over or the dice are rolled, and there it is, time’s up.

  He looked around the room, taking in the books, easy chair, the bare walls. Contay was not into home decorating. Seeing letters on the coffee table, he moved to the couch and picked one up. It was from Soublik. Same shitty spelling. He dropped it and looked for the phone, seeing it next to a leather easy chair. A standard land line. He moved between the couch and table, saw where the cord led and pulled it from the jack.

  He stood and moved down the hall. At the end, the door to what would be her bedroom stood open. Inside, Contay lay on her back, small under the sheet. Lindbergh crossed to the nightstand, knelt and pulled out the second phone cord.

  He straightened and spotted the chromed Harley, some kind of promotional item given to her for using one of their cycles. He took out his handkerchief and picked it up. It was solid, a casting of some kind.

  Contay’s breathing was shallow and regular, the sheet taut enough for Lindbergh to see her nipples. He admired her coppery hair, so thick it had probably helped protect her at sea. More craps, Lindbergh thought. A roll of the dice, and she’s still in there punching.

  He put down the casting, shoved the handkerchief in his hip pocket and surveyed the room. An unfinished chest of drawers stood flush with the inner wall. He smelled cedar and looked to the open closet. Patterson had said something about bugs. Contay had come from the hospital for clothes and been stung. He looked down and saw three discolorations on her left wrist. The nurse had phoned yesterday, crying, telling him she’d been fired. Lindbergh had hung up on her, glad to be done with it.

  Back in the living room, he sat on the couch and read several of Soublik’s letters. Much of it he knew already, Soublik repeating details from what he’d written to Fox and the girlfriend. The wasp thing. Feasts. Helping Moser with his research. Nothing to do with his own concerns.

  The bed creaked, and then she was shuffling up the hall, breathing hard. As he stood, she went in the bathroom and thumped heavily to her knees. A second later came the clotted sound of vomiting.

  At last she flushed the toilet, spitting and gagging. He stood. She had looked a lot better, but must still be messed up. He waited a few seconds before walking to the open door and looking in.

  She was humped over the toilet bowl, head half hidden as she heaved again. The spasm ended. When she spat again, he decided she was through and knocked on the open door.

  Surprise and fear, followed by weariness. She looked away. When people blew their lunch, that’s all they knew. She flushed the toilet and tried to push herself up.

  “Relax,” he said. “Maybe you aren’t done.”

  “I’m done.”

  A plastic cup rested in the toothbrush holder on the sink. Lindbergh filled it and brought it over. She took it, rinsed her mouth and spat into the bowl before drinking the rest. He reached down for the empty cup.

  “More?” She shook her head and he put it back, drew a towel from the rod next to the sink and tossed it to her. He pocketed his hands to reassure her. She wiped her face, looking at him.

  “Too much party?”

  “Bad dream.” She was watching him now, chalky-looking but alert.

  “Come on.”

  He backed out of the bathroom and waited until she got to her feet. He walked back into the front room and crossed to the sheer curtains. When he heard her pad along the hall and come to a stop, Lindbergh turned. It pleased him to see she wouldn’t run. She still had the towel and looked shaky.

  “Sit.”

  Eyes on him, she hesitated before moving to the couch.

  “You don’t know when to quit,” he said. “We give you everything. Your roommate goes to Neff, reads all these records. Interviews people. But you’re still pushing. Why is that?” She said nothing. “I don’t give a shit. I’m just curious.”

  “Ask your boss.”

  “She has an attitude problem, and she’s not my boss. My boss is in Phoenix.”

  “You’re here, not there.”

  “Just through today. I’m on loan, I don’t work for her. She wanted someone here, I did that. Whatever you’re pushing on, it’s over.”

  Brenda wiped her hands with the towel and dropped it on the coffee table. A box of Kleenex rested next to Soublik’s letters. She looked at them a second before pulling out two tissues.

  “She didn’t tell me,” Lindbergh said. “All I know is, she went crazy again last night. The first time when she found out you had her file. This time, it was a transmission from some island called Pohnpei. Fucking bananas.”

  “McIntosh sent you.” She blew her nose.

  “Do not say that again.” Her words angered him. “She sends me nowhere. When I go I go, nobody sends.” He paused. “It has to do with this Moser.”

  “It has to do with using people.”

  “Yeah yeah. You use, I use.” He jingled change and waited to see if there would be more.

  She said nothing.

  “All right, Brenda Contay. Keep it to yourself, that’s okay. Whatever’s going on, it’s between you and McIntosh. You may see me again, but I’m coasting here now. Just watching. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “No.”

  “Nobody sent me, I felt like coming. I’m telling you something useful here, pay attention. If you have a problem, I’m not it. Follow me now?” He picked her towel up from the coffee table, propped his foot up and buffed his shoe. She wasn’t
going to answer him, and although he wanted to know what it was that had fried McIntosh’s wiring for the second time in three days, it wasn’t worth it.

  All this jive about level playing fields, he thought as he switched shoes. Plus the lingo—modality, paradigm, configuration. It was the one thing he had to watch himself about in the office, the bullshit terms everyone at Neff used with a straight face. Like they meant something different from plain English.

  The shoes he wore now were tassel loafers instead of wingtips. The old shoes were still in his closet, but he had felt clumsy in them at Neff. They would still serve on rainy days, but there would not be many of them in Phoenix.

  Lindbergh finished with the towel and dropped it on the table, then moved down the entrance hall and let himself out.

  The door clicked shut, and Brenda leaned back into the couch.

  You understand what I’m saying? Pay attention.

  The sour taste of acid made her swallow. She had wakened from the dream of her father on Cape Cod, unwrapping his head bandage to reveal a crowded mass of worms.

  She shook it away, looking at Vince Soublik’s letters lying open on the coffee table. Lindbergh had read them while she slept, listened while she was being sick. He had said something about McIntosh losing it, twice. The second time when she got a transmission from Pohnpei, fucking bananas—

  The room was still full of him, male odors of shaving cream and shoe polish. She thought of Renee, who should be back in Marquette. Brenda shoved up and went to the phone. The answering machine’s light was off.

  She picked up the receiver, heard nothing, and saw the cord pulled from the wall jack. Just in case she panicked, Lindbergh had taken cautionary measures. She plugged it in, and walked back through the apartment to her bedroom. The second phone’s cord lay under the nightstand. She knelt, inserted it and stood facing the bed. He had watched her sleeping, free to do anything. Nobody sent me. If you have a problem, I’m not it.

  He was done with her, and for some reason, he had come to tell her.