Freeze Frame

by B. David Warner

  "Don't make us stand in the hall." I breezed past him, looking over my shoulder to see Garry move aside to let Sean enter behind me.

  "You two are crazy." Garry checked out the hallway before closing the door.

  "If we aren't, we will be by the time this thing's over," I said. "Garry, this is Sean Higgins."

  "I've seen his picture."

  Neither offered his hand. It was obvious Sean felt uneasy meeting my ex-husband.

  "Aren't you going to invite us to sit down?" I didn’t wait, plopping down on the brown leather sofa against the wall. Given the evidence we had, I admit I felt a bit cocky.

  From the couch, I saw most of downtown Detroit through the picture window. The room itself: genuine Garry. Besides the sofa, the only furniture was a recliner chair and an entertainment center with its large-screen television. I guessed the total contents of his refrigerator were probably a partial six-pack of beer and leftovers from his last pizza.

  "Do you understand how much trouble you're in? Every police officer in town is looking for you, and more than a few would just as soon have you dead as alive."

  "Garry," I said, "we can not only prove our innocence, but have evidence that next week’s Presidential election has been compromised."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "That DVD with the Avion commercial on it. Caponi and Cato were killed over it."

  Garry looked at Sean. "The jury’s still out on Cato. What about the DVD?"

  "We found out why Caponi and Cato were murdered, and why Manny Rodriguez was beaten."

  Sean jumped in. "There's a subliminal message on the DVD."

  "A what?"

  “Every twenty-ninth frame of the commercial contains a printed message. VanBuhler's name and the word 'leadership.'"

  "This is the same DVD I watched in your conference room? I didn't see any subliminal message. Just broads in bikinis and a car on the beach."

  "That's the point," I said. "With the words appearing every twenty-ninth frame, the human eye doesn't see it, at least consciously. It registers in the subconscious."

  "It's registering like pure BS to me."

  "The CIA and FBI have conducted studies on the effects of subliminal projection for years, Garry. It's very real to them."

  "What did you say the message was? Something about VanBuhler and leadership?"

  "The election’s days away,” I said. “Someone's making sure Niles VanBuhler gets elected. If we're going to stop them, we have precious little time."

  My ex-husband listened as Sean and I took turns explaining the events of the past week. We covered the confrontations with Bacalla at Adams & Benson, the chase that ended with the shooting of the policeman and, finally, the killings at Lake Manuka.

  “And who do you think is behind all this?" The note of skepticism in Garry’s voice rang like a bad chord.

  Till now, I hadn't told anyone about the conversation on Sid Goldman’s patio, or about his granddaughter's picture. But it was going to take all the ammunition we had to convince Garry, so I told the story, complete with details.

  "I gotta be honest with you," Garry said, "if it wasn't you telling me this story, Darcy, I'd run you both downtown right now."

  "Garry, the DVD we're talking about is down in the car," I said. "We have proof."

  "Proof? That's no proof. Anyone in your business could make that disc. You could have done it to create an alibi."

  "Garry, somebody's trying to mess with the government of this country, and you..."

  "Darcy, it doesn't matter what I believe. Besides everything else that’s gone on, you two are accused of killing a cop. There are people with a hell of a lot of power putting on pressure to find you at any cost."

  "The election's an eye blink away. What will convince you?"

  "It's not me you have to convince."

  "What about Robert Bacalla?" Sean asked. "Have you checked him out?"

  Garry grimaced. Sean had struck a nerve.

  "Well?" I asked.

  "Bacalla's in Washington."

  "Washington?" I couldn't believe it. "He’s a murder suspect. What the hell's he doing in Washington?"

  "He was a suspect. But after you two split, VanBuhler's people started applying pressure to get the judge to set bail. The fact that you two disappeared helped their case immensely. We held both of them...Bacalla and Roland. We checked records, prints, everything. Nothing suspicious on either. Roland was even decorated in the Gulf War.”

  "If they’re out on bail, isn't there a limit on how far they can go?" asked Sean.

  "Technically, yes."

  "Technically? What do you mean, technically?" Now I was shouting.

  "VanBuhler's people again. Rumors say this time it came from the top. Both men got orders back to Washington."

  "And you didn't stop them?"

  “No one downtown asks my opinion. The Chief and I aren’t exactly drinking buddies.”

  "So now, you're going to arrest us?" Sean said it more like a challenge than a question.

  "You think I've got another choice, lay it on me.”

  "Help us check out Bacalla and Roland," I said. "I’m sure they not only committed multiple murders, including two phony suicides, but they're deeply involved in the conspiracy."

  "I'll consider it," Garry said. "Meanwhile, as long as you're here, you'd better eat something.

  "There's beer and part of a pizza in the fridge."

  67

  Garry couldn't remember exactly when he had ordered the pizza, a fact painfully obvious when he lifted the lid of the flat cardboard box.

  "I think you've created some new life forms here, Kaminski," Sean said.

  "Penicillin. With all the venereal disease out there, a single guy can't be too careful."

  Sean nodded and surprised me by smiling.

  "I'll leave the penicillin to you Romeos," I said. I pointed to the telephone number on the pizza box. "Me, I'm ordering a new pizza. Cheese, pepperoni and mushrooms...and hold the mold."

  Waiting for the pizza, I had an idea. Using Garry’s computer to access the national telephone directory, I found the number of Margi Wallace, a woman I knew at the New York office of Young & Rubicam, one of the agencies Bacalla claimed to work for prior to Adams & Benson. Luckily, Margi was spending this Saturday night at home with her boyfriend.

  "Yeah, I remember Bob," Margi said after we exchanged greetings. "Great guy, always good for a laugh. Too bad about the accident."

  "Accident?"

  "You didn't know? Bob died in a car accident."

  "When's the funeral?"

  "Funeral? What are you talking about? Bob Bacalla died three years ago."

  The pizza arrived as I finished the conversation with Margi Wallace, and we huddled around Garry’s kitchen table.

  "If Bob Bacalla bought the farm three years ago, who’s at Adams & Benson?" Garry was a master of the rhetorical question.

  "You took his fingerprints," I said. "They didn't tell you anything?"

  "Like I said, Roland was easy. A war hero, for god's sake. But Bacalla? There was no record of the guy's prints anywhere."

  "Any other way of tracking him?" Sean asked. "I mean finding out who this guy really is?"

  "Might be. It's a long shot, though."

  "What is it?" I asked.

  "When we take fingerprints, we also do mug shots."

  "Yeah?"

  "Well, there's sort of a computerized mug shot book. You scan the suspect's photo into the computer, and it's compared with photographs of known criminals. All over the world, if you need it."

  "Can you do it?" Sean asked.

  "Yeah."

  "Tonight?" I asked.

  "Tonight?" Garry checked his watch. "It's ten minutes to ten."

  "It's also ten minutes to police headquarters," I said. "And less than two weeks to the election."

  Garry shrugged. "Let me finish this pizza.”

  ***

  I followed Garry to the door. "Thanks f
or putting up with Sean. He may not be the most diplomatic person in the world, but he's really very sweet."

  "You two got something going?"

  "Is it that obvious?"

  "Nah, call it a cop's intuition."

  "Yeah, I know. Good luck. There's a lot riding on what you find."

  68

  I began to worry.

  Garry had been gone an hour on an errand that should have taken thirty minutes at most.

  Sean and I passed the time watching a cable news report of the campaign. The polls showed the President regaining a narrow lead over VanBuhler, with the Democratic challenger still a distant third. The report was sprinkled with sound bites of the three candidates addressing crowds in Chicago, Muncie and Indianapolis. VanBuhler had a ready smile to go with his glib comments and made-for-the-camera good looks.

  The media adored him, but I wondered what they’d say if they knew the truth.

  As the report from the campaign trail ended, I found myself watching the clock. What could be taking Garry so long?

  "I'm going down to the car to get our clothes," I said.

  “I'll go, too. I don't think it's smart for you to go alone."

  "We're more likely to be recognized together.”

  "Then I'll go.”

  "You're too easy to spot. I can put my hair up in a scarf, and pull it over my face.

  “See?"

  "Okay,” Sean said, “but if you're not back in five minutes, I'm coming after you."

  "I'll be quick. You hear me knocking, let me in. I don't want to stand out in the hall."

  69

  Higgins stood behind the door as Darcy left, to avoid being seen from the hallway. Once she was gone, he returned to the sofa and the news.

  Minutes passed when he heard hard, fast knocking. Darcy was either awfully fast, or had forgotten something. The knocking came again as he approached the door. Again standing behind the door, he grabbed the handle and pulled it toward him. A feminine shape breezed past.

  "Lord almighty! I thought you were going to make me stand out there all night in this," she said as she flew by.

  Only after Higgins closed the door did he realize it wasn't Darcy. The woman had her back to him, and her hair was long and blonde, not brunette. She wore a bright red lingerie outfit straight from one of those sexy catalogs. And while he hadn't yet seen her face, he could definitely see her cheeks. If this was Victoria, she wasn't hiding any secret.

  "Surpri..." the woman began to shout, whirling around, arms in the air. Against all laws of physics, she seemed to halt in mid-air, her jaw dropping open as she saw Higgins.

  "Who the hell are you?" The woman landed in a crouch, folding her arms in front of her in an attempt to shield her ample breasts.

  She needed bigger arms.

  "I...I'm Sean Higgins. Who the hell are you?"

  The woman started to answer, but another knock cut her short.

  70

  Standing in the hallway, it seemed forever before Sean opened the door. I ran in, a suitcase in each hand.

  "I made it all the way without..." I stopped dead, dropping the suitcases on the floor. Sean stood next to a nearly naked and very buxom blonde. “What the hell’s going on here?”

  "Maybe I should be asking you two what you're doing in my fiancé’s apartment."

  "Fiancé?” Garry hadn’t mentioned being engaged. I looked at the half-naked woman, then at Sean, his face nearly the same red hue as the woman’s negligee.

  "Hey, I know you," the woman said, looking at me, then Sean. "I saw your pictures on TV, and heard Garry talk about you."

  "I'm afraid you're right," I said. "Garry and I were married at one time." Looks like he's gotten over it, though.

  "You two don't look like criminals to me."

  "We're not," I said. "That shooting was a terrible mistake."

  The woman stuck out her hand. "In that case, I'm Rose Dombroski. Call me Rosie D. Everybody does."

  "Glad to meet you Rosie D, I'm Darcy James."

  Rosie turned to Sean, offered her hand, and caught him staring at her barely covered bosom.

  "Oh..." he said, coming out of the trance, "I’m Sean Higgins." The jerk.

  "Guess I'd better put something on. I was planning on surprising Garry. Guess the surprise was on me."

  The phone on the entertainment center rang. Rosie reached for it.

  "Yeah?" There was a pause as she listened.

  "Yeah, they're here now." Another pause. "Yes, Garry, I introduced myself. In fact, you could say they've seen a lot of me."

  "He wants to talk to you." Rosie gave me the phone.

  I took it. "What did you find?"

  "Something I'm not sure I believe."

  "Try me."

  "Reason I didn't get back right away: I tried the computer for photographic matches in the U.S. first."

  "Yes?"

  "I got back three possibilities, two already in federal prisons. The third’s been dead for three months."

  "Go on."

  "Then I tried the international file. Covers the whole world."

  "And?"

  "If I'm right..." he hesitated. "God, if I'm right..."

  "What is it, Garry?"

  "What do you know about international terrorists?"

  "Too much nowadays. And most of them seem insane.”

  "Ever hear of a guy named Mendoza?"

  "No. Should I have?"

  "Ernesto Mendoza. A.K.A. 'Mendoza the Monster.' A South American terrorist. No one really knows for sure exactly who he is. In fact, he may not exist."

  "You found a mug shot of someone who doesn’t exist? What the hell are you talking about?"

  "No one knows much about him. The man we think is Mendoza was born in Colombia. Went to school in Bogotá, then disappeared for ten years or so. Turned up in Europe, where he supposedly knocked off people...big people...for big money. Government officials, that sort of thing. He eventually went back to South America."

  "And you think Bacalla is this guy Mendoza?"

  "I’m not sure. But Darcy, if Bacalla is Mendoza, you’ve got to stay away from him. Leave him to the police."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You’re talking about an animal who’s coldly murdered people on three continents for no other reason than money. Sometimes for no reason at all. The file says Mendoza’s first killing happened when he was only fourteen. Know how? He showed off a stolen pistol by pointing it at a passing car and killing the driver. Just like that."

  "My god."

  "The case never went to trial. The only witness was murdered walking out of a police station."

  "If there's doubt that Mendoza exists, how did his picture wind up in the computer?"

  "Good question. What we have is a computer-enhanced photo of a face in the crowd. It was taken just before the assassination of a Latin American presidential candidate."

  "And it looks like Bacalla?"

  "Not exactly, but a hell of a resemblance. The picture's nearly five years old. These guys are known for altering their appearances with plastic surgery."

  "Can you have him arrested?"

  "No. But I'm going to call the D.C. police, right now. The judge allowed Bacalla to leave Detroit under the condition that he agreed to check in with the Washington police. They supposedly have him under surveillance. But I want to make damn sure they keep a tight watch on him. Tell Rosie I'll be home in twenty minutes."

  I was going over the conversation with Garry with Sean and Rosie when the phone rang again. Rosie answered, listened for a minute and then put the receiver back on the wall.

  "It was Garry," she said.

  "What did he want?" I asked.

  "He said he called Washington...to make sure the cops were watching your guy Bacalla?"

  "Yes?"

  "Washington cops say he's been missing since Thursday. They think he might be headed this way."

  71

  11:36 p.m.

  Matt Carter joined us in Garry’s
apartment and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch.

  My phone call had found him in bed after a dozen hours at the agency putting finishing touches on the Ampere spot. The urgency in my voice snapped him awake. He knocked on the door twenty minutes later.

  A few feet from Matt, Rosie D rode the arm of Garry’s recliner. She had replaced the negligee with a tight-fitting blue t-shirt and jeans.

  As the conversation progressed, I surveyed this gathering, the white and yellow lights of Motown playing outside the window, and realized more than just my future depended on these few people.

  My hopes had taken an uppercut to the chin. Garry’s attitude had changed since he discovered the so-called Mexican Connection.

  “These are drug people, terrorists. It's time to stop playing cop and let the people downtown handle it.”

  "What are the odds they'll believe us?" Sean asked.

  Garry shifted uneasily in his chair. "I'll be behind you all the way."

  “That’s not what Sean asked.” My eyes bored into my former husband. "A plot to compromise the U.S. Presidential election would be hard to swallow even if the Attorney General discovered it. What are the chances of authorities believing a couple of fugitives?"

  "I can't answer that. But I am saying that you can't mess with these people. They knew you were here, they'd kill all of us without a thought."

  "Garry, you're the only hope of stopping them."

  Garry didn't answer immediately. "Understand where I'm coming from," he said finally. "Twelve years on the force...and I'm hiding two fugitives. One of the guys from my precinct stops by for a beer, sees you two, and I'll be lucky to get a job as a crossing guard.”

  "You're saying you're going to turn us in."

  "You’re catching on."

  "Look, Garry. You've let Bacalla and Roland go. The least you can do is give us more time. I've got a couple of ideas, but we need two or three days."

  "You’ve got twenty-four hours."

  ***

  "What are those bright ideas you mentioned?" Sean asked, yawning.

  Sean, Carter and I remained in Garry’s living room. Garry had retired for the night, Rosie D had gone back to her apartment after inviting me to sleep in her extra bedroom. Sean would ride out the night on Garry’s couch.

  "Damned if I know. But if I hadn't said something, we'd be headed for jail. So let's think fast."

  We spent fifteen minutes pouring over options. In the end, we had only one: find evidence. The A & B Media Center was the place to start, and Carter was the man.