◆◆◆◆◆
Renee had left no message. Brenda tried her number in Marquette. The answering machine beeped. “Ren, it’s me. I’m back in Southfield. Please call when you get in.”
She showered and dressed, drank a can of Ensure. There had been no time to shop yesterday. At eight, she got Haffner’s diet sheet and dug up her car keys. She kept traveler’s checks for emergencies, got them from her closet, and rode down to the lobby.
When she stepped out the guard looked at her, watching as she passed his desk. She stopped, and walked back.
“Someone got into my unit this morning,” she said. “Did you know about it?”
“I knew,” he said. “He was FBI. He said he wanted to talk to you.”
“So just like that you gave him a key.”
He stood. “He said it was better if he—”
“Better for him, moron. He shows you a little card and you believe him. He was no agent—” She used air quotes. “He could have raped or killed me.”
Still angry, Brenda left him standing, crossed the lobby and pushed out. She hadn’t driven her Camaro in a month and wondered if it would start. The car was caked with dust, a smiley face drawn on the back window. She used the keyless remote and pulled on the door handle. The rubber seal was stuck, glued to the frame after weeks of summer sun. Wrenching the door open, Brenda sat behind the wheel and turned over the engine. It cranked for several seconds, then caught. She ran the motor a minute and used the window washer before pulling out.
Off Twelve Mile, she parked in the Great Scott lot and headed inside with her diet sheet. As she pushed a cart down the air-conditioned aisles, she loaded it with beans and pasta, following the diet’s high-protein, high-carbohydrate diet. At Mariposa, they had restricted her protein intake. A doctor had explained that it broke down into something called creatinine. Measuring the rate at which creatinine is cleared by your kidneys is how we’ll track your progress, he explained. You developed a bladder infection and you still have a low-grade fever. That’s the reason for your sweats. Pushing the cart, Brenda realized she was cool and dry, not perspiring.
She barely noticed other shoppers passing, staring at her as she loaded up at the dairy aisle and meat counter. Who would eat all this food with her? She thought of Moser spoon feeding her and lost her place on the list, remembering them naked, painted like harlequins in the crazy colors of his tie-dyed sheets.
Suddenly aware of herself, Brenda realized she was smiling, stalled in the aisle, holding canned tomatoes. She felt it now. The pleasure with him. Feeling desire, seeing the two of them together, she flooded with relief. That, too, was coming back.
At the checkout counter, she reached in her shoulder bag and got out her traveler’s checks. She had lost her I.D., but the clerk let it go.
Brenda smiled again, pushing her full cart out into the warm morning. No one had recognized her. She was a civilian. She was free.
A van had hidden her Camaro from view, and she pushed the cart behind it and popped her trunk. As she reached down to unload the cart, the trunk lid slammed shut.
“Shopping, I see.” Betsy McIntosh stared at her. “If you want to eat any of this, you should listen carefully.”
“Hello, Betsy. Where’s your goon?”
“Shut up and listen. You think you have a move of some kind left in you. A plan. You think something’s coming from Moser. You’ve convinced yourself this story will lift you in one flashy burst right out of your nothing local station, into national prominence. You’re so sure, you managed to talk your station’s has-been anchor into sharing the same fantasy.”
McIntosh shook her head slowly, looking casual but angry in her peach-colored suit. “None of this will happen, Brenda. I won’t let it. Lou Stock wants this story, but we’ve made it very clear to him how it should be done. Moser isn’t coming until late next week. After that, you can proceed just as we discussed. Until then, no one’s doing anything.”
“You’ve come a long way,” Brenda said. “From au pair girl to boardroom tricks for Russ Minot—”
“Don’t presume you know me,” McIntosh said. “Personnel files can be deceiving. That’s why we’re having this talk. What I am I made. No mommy in Larchmont paid my way, hiring therapists when I knocked every little prick that looked my way. No, I came here and I worked. And never presume to think you can smear Russ Minot, someone with nothing but good to offer this country—” Her pretty Celtic face was red, the whites of her eyes prominent.
Something was wrong. “Careful,” Brenda said. “The ad says never let them see you sweat.”
McIntosh squared her shoulders, stepped away from the car and balanced her hands and purse on the shopping cart.
“Last night, after you finished taping, Jerry and I had a chat. He showed me what you’ve taped for tonight. Very nice, very atmospheric. Touching, too, the bit about the homeless. I complimented him on such good work done on short notice. I reminded him about our arrangement. How his station will have exclusive rights to this benchmark story. I also made it clear what would happen if he permitted you to alter anything. I’m confident he understood.”
Looking down, she stared at the groceries, then reached into one of the shopping bags and brought out a quart bottle of Perrier. “I wanted to see him because Kiley & Friedman found it necessary to fire their summer intern.”
Something moved behind her—Lindbergh was getting out of a car, the gray Lincoln. As she turned back, McIntosh threw the bottle at the Camaro’s back window. Brenda jumped away as glass and water flew. The window’s safety glass buckled but held, laced with broken veins where the smiley face had been.
McIntosh snatched her purse from the cart’s kiddy seat and shoved hard. The cart fell with a clang, wheels turning. Condiment jars and soup cans spilled and rolled, white-wrapped packages of meat, eggs.
Lindbergh stopped behind her. “I think maybe—”
“Don’t think unless I tell you to.” Staring at Brenda, McIntosh took a handkerchief from her purse. “Do you get it?” she asked, wiping her hands.
“What do you call this in Glasgow? Guerilla groceries?”
“It’s called education. Jerry and Stock know better, but you think nothing can happen to you. You’re known for sensational trash. No one cares what you do or say, it’s just TV. Your viewers would love seeing someone rich and powerful cut down to size. Never mind whether he deserves it, he’s done too well for himself.”
“Anyone here need some help?”
A man stepped from behind the van and looked down at the fallen cart.
McIntosh didn’t bother looking at him. She dropped the handkerchief on the pile of groceries. “I still remember Glasgow very well,” she said. “All of it.” She closed her purse, turned and walked away.
Brenda glanced again at Lindbergh. He was wearing sunglasses, hands in his pockets. He shook his head, turned away and followed McIntosh. She got in the passenger side and slammed the door. He moved around to the driver’s side, looked back over the roof a second, then got in.
She heard something clatter and turned. The man was still there, squatting next to the shopping cart. He had righted it and was gathering cans and boxes.
“Leave it,” she said. “Thanks, I’ll take care of it.”
“A friend of yours?”
“My sister, a family matter. Look, just leave it.”
“Help me. Come on, get over here,” he said without looking up, his back to the Lincoln. He examined a can of navy beans for cracks, taking his time.
Understanding, Brenda knelt next to him, picked up a box of raisins and flipped it into the cart.
“Shake your head, like you’re telling me about it.”
Brenda shook her head, tossing in the package of chicken.
“You don’t remember me,” he said. “We met once, on the plane from Majuro—no, don’t look. I had a beard.”
It was hard not to, but she kept her eyes on the pavement and kept tossing packages into the cart. “
My name’s Cason,” he said. “Something may come later today, so leave an opening. Come on, shake your head.”
“Don’t bring it to my place,” she said. “You see why.”
“Where, then?”
She handed him a box of pasta, the sack of apples. Where? Not Renee, or Ned. At the studio, only Joyce could be trusted. She thought of the Soubliks, remembered Beth, small and solemn in the hospital’s basement canteen. Not them, she thought. Not them.
“Gordon Poole,” she said. “In the phone book, in Pleasant Ridge. Take it to him.”
They were almost done and he stood. “Wave me away.”
Brenda shooed him to go and gathered the last items.
Now she could look and recognized the bleached eyebrows, his face pasty where he’d shaved off his beard. He shrugged and walked away. As he passed the Lincoln, Cason gestured toward the car with confusion, then moved up the aisle toward the market.
Aware they were watching, she took her time cleaning up and re-bagging the groceries. Brenda re-loaded them in the back seat, got behind the wheel, and pulled out. She turned south onto Evergreen and the Lincoln followed.
“Good, stay right on me.”
She reached for her car phone, then thought about it. They were watching her, framed by the fractured rear window. They were in the information business. No phones. But if Cason showed up on Poole’s doorstep, Gordon might not believe him. She had to talk to him, in person.
She reached the expressway bridge at 696, turned east and dipped down the entrance ramp. She drove three miles to the Woodward exit, and cruised up. The Lincoln angled behind her into the right-turn lane, stopping behind her at the traffic light.
She was McIntosh’s project, her personal assignment. Whatever happened today, the woman was not going to leave.
Brenda pulled into the Poole’s drive, watching the Lincoln park on the opposite side of the boulevard. A power mower was working behind the house.
In the backyard, Gordon was cutting his grass. He was wearing a green neon baseball cap, and had a cigar clamped between his teeth. She had never seen him this way. He spotted her, waved, and turned off the engine.
“Nice hat,” she called.
He came to Brenda and hugged her. “A gift from my youngest.”
“I never knew you smoked.”
“I don’t, I just chew them.” He stepped back. “You look fine, Brenda. Elaine’s at the mall with the girls. Come on in.”
They went through the back door. Malls and grass cutting, she thought, following him up into the kitchen. The sane, workaday world.
“Iced tea?” he asked. “Milk?”
“Tea’s good.” He got the pitcher from the refrigerator and brought glasses. They sat in his breakfast nook. Through the kitchen’s picture window, she could see the Soubliks’ neat flowerbeds.
“Thanks for making arrangements at Mercygrove,” she said. “They treated me very well.”
“I’m glad. I’m sure you’ve been through more than any of us can imagine.”
“Vince’s mother came to see me last night,” Brenda said.
“I heard. You have a new fan.”
“People are watching me. Two of them are out front right now. It’s about her son. I haven’t called because I didn’t want you involved.”
“But you changed your mind.” He handed her a plate of lemon wedges.
“I didn’t see any other way.”
He nodded and drank. “Just a second.” He got up, went into the dining room and stepped to the window. “A gray Lincoln?”
“Yes.”
“Still there.” He opened and closed the china cabinet and came back with something in his hand. “I found this two weeks ago,” he said and set it on the table. “Pulling weeds. It was wired to the phone line, some kind of transmitter. The Soubliks found one too.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Tell me what you need.”
“It’s possible a video tape is coming from Pohnpei, related to Vince’s death. Someone I met out there talked to me this morning. I told him to bring it to you. His name’s Cason, a Peace Corps lawyer. If it comes, I need someone to make copies and deliver them.”
“To your station?”
“Not there.”
“I can do that.” Gordon pushed back his green cap and drank his tea. Whatever family she had, he was part of it.
“I can’t tell you when, or even if he’ll show up,” she said.
“I’ll be here all day,” he said. “Me and the grass.”
“I need to use your phone. And some white noise.”
He led her into the front hall and brought a chair from the dining room. She sat where she could see out the front windows to the street. Lindbergh was behind the wheel, McIntosh next to him. As she picked up the receiver, the sharp whine of a hand-held vacuum came from the living room. If they could still hear her, so be it. She cupped her free ear and tapped the W-DIG number, then asked for Joyce Delarossa. The secretary answered.
“It’s Brenda. Can you hear me?”
“Hi, Bren. Yes, I can hear you.”
“Look, Joyce, I need ten copies of my contract.”
“I think you know it’s expired,” Joyce said. “What happened? Didn’t Jerry come through?”
“Not exactly.”
“The little prick. You should leave, Brenda. Tell him to shove it.”
“That’s the idea. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell him.”
“I have it on disk. I’ll boot it up right now and run off ten copies. He’s in Editing, playing artist with your special.”
“Someone will pick up the copies. I also need the number of a summer intern named Gretchen. I don’t know the last name.”
Joyce put down the phone and Brenda looked again to the window. No one at W-DIG would know Cason or Poole. They would be able to make pick-ups and deliveries. “Okay,” Joyce said, “Gretchen Nolan.” She gave the number. Pressing her ear against the noise, Brenda thanked Joyce, waited for the dial tone and tapped out the girl’s number. Gretchen answered.
“Am I in some kind of trouble?” she asked.
“What happened?”
“The station called last night. They said not to do anything you ask without first checking with Jerry.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure they said that to everyone.”
“I showed the tape to my parents last night. They couldn’t believe it.”
“Did you get copies made? Can you hear me?”
“This morning, ten dupes. Yes, I can hear.”
“You aren’t going to get in trouble,” Brenda told her. “When you go to work today, make sure you give the original to Jerry. Tell him I made you tape me twice last night, after he left. I took the second version, but you kept the first. You thought he should know. But make sure you don’t tell him about the copies.”
“Well, I’m not supposed to do anything without checking first,” she said.
“Exactly. You’re just doing what he told you. You say your folks understood the story?”
“They can’t understand what’s wrong with the station.”
“I’m going to give you a list, got some paper? Give this list to your parents. Ask them to look up the addresses and take a copy to each one. Ask them to hold off making delivery until after eight tonight.”
“Go ahead.”
“Take copies to the other Detroit affiliates, and Fox News. The two daily papers and The New York Times, they have a Detroit office. Also Talk Radio, Channel 9 in Windsor. Newsweek and Time, they both have offices downtown. You might as well contact the networks, too, not just the local affiliates.”
Brenda waited as the summer intern wrote it all down. “But listen, Gretchen. This is important. Make sure your folks don’t deliver until after eight. Tell them to deliver to the local affiliates last. If possible, not before nine, two hours before the evening news. Some offices will be closed, but all the affiliates and papers should be open for breaking news. Tell your folks
they may cross paths with other people. Got all that?”
“Wait a minute.” The girl finished writing. “Okay, I think so. I’ll get my boyfriend to drive me to work,” she said. “That way, my folks will have two cars.”
“Good idea.”
“This is great,” she said. “I see what you’re doing.”
Brenda hung up and looked at Gordon. If McIntosh had a backup listening device and had heard, she, too, would understand. Holding the vacuum, the professor stood at the living room window, looking out at the street. He glanced over and she beckoned to him. He turned off the vacuum.
“Got some paper?”
He reached in the phone table and handed her a pad and ballpoint.
“Here’s the list,” she said, writing. “Try to see everyone gets a tape, but work down the list. Don’t start delivering until eight. Maybe the Soubliks can help.”
“I’m sure they will.”
“When Cason comes—if he comes—after you make the copies, tell him to bring one to my building. I have another job for him.”
◆◆◆◆◆
The Lincoln followed Brenda back to her high rise.
She pulled into her space, watching through the broken rear window as Lindbergh backed into a visitor’s space opposite the entrance. She hoped it was humiliating for him, having to play nursemaid and follow her around.
Inside the lobby a new guard rushed over. “Miss Contay, I’m really sorry,” he said. “The nightshift guy told me what happened.”
“It’s done, forget it. There are groceries out in my car. It’s unlocked, I’d appreciate your bringing them up.”
“Will do.”
Brenda rode up thinking of Renee, hoping she’d called. Inside the apartment, she closed the door and stepped into the front room. It had never looked better to her. Wall unit and stereo, the couch from their dorm suite Renee had refused to take anything for when Brenda was broke. Shelves of books she kept buying and never had time to read. She needed something to eat, but felt too tired to cook. She went to the kitchen, opened a can of Ensure and drained it.
Someone knocked. “It’s me,” the guard called. “I’ve got your groceries.”
The Anything Goes Girl (A Brenda Contay Novel Of Suspense Book 1) Page 26