Freeze Frame

by B. David Warner

  That's when she noticed me. "I'm sorry, you'll have to leave. The patient's condition is still critical."

  "But I'm an old friend." I stayed in the shadows.

  "Doctor's orders." She turned toward the light switch. "I'll see you out."

  I couldn’t chance letting the nurse see my face. I grabbed my coat and scarf and, head down, started for the door.

  "Don't trouble yourself." I brushed past the woman. In the hallway, I walked quickly to the elevator.

  Not until the doors closed and the elevator headed for the main floor did I remember the pistol, still buried beneath Manny’s pillow.

  85

  8:01 p.m.

  Staring down from the darkened third floor office, the bright Adams & Benson lobby reminded me of a bustling beehive.

  With the season's biggest football game an hour away, two teams were buzzing around, making last minute preparations. The ESPN-TV crew frantically checked cables, lighting and microphones for the remote telecast at halftime. The other team, A & B hourly employees on overtime, flew around hanging brightly colored team pennants all over the lobby, checking on refreshments and fine-tuning sound equipment that would broadcast the game to every corner of the lobby. The workers had to maneuver around a few early celebrants who had crashed the party prior to the official eight-thirty opening and stood chatting and drinking.

  With everyone focused on the evening’s preparations, sneaking up to the third floor had been the proverbial piece of cake. I had been caught on video of course; there were security cameras all over. But unless a reason popped up to replay the discs, say a burglary somewhere in the building, their contents would never be reviewed.

  Bleachers had been erected to face giant forty-foot screens installed at either end of the lobby. To my right, the north end was covered in green and white New York Jets pennants and banners; the south end decked out in the familiar red and gold of the San Francisco Forty-Niners.

  The receptionist's desk had been removed from the center of the lobby and replaced with a round platform about three feet high. Atop that sat a canvas-covered shape the length, width and height of a small vehicle. Lines ran from the canvas shroud to the ceiling. At the right moment during halftime, the canvas would be lifted, introducing the new Ampere to the people here, and to a national television audience at home. Two beefy security men stood on either side of the platform, making sure party guests didn’t help themselves to a preview.

  Besides the giant screens at each end, at least twenty smaller monitors had been positioned about the lobby. There were a half dozen portable bars, and a number of stands with colorful signs boasting they served pizza, hot dogs and Italian sausage sandwiches.

  Tonight, tonight...won’t be just any night...

  Stephen Sondheim's lyrics blending with Leonard Bernstein’s melody poured through my mind like water from a faucet I couldn't shut off. I’d spent untold afternoons at the piano absorbed in the score of West Side Story, despite the fact it had been popular two decades before I was born.

  Tonight would not be just any night. It couldn't be. Tonight had to be the night the madness stopped.

  A knot of nervousness tied itself in the pit of my stomach, accompanied by a pounding in my temples. Not a headache. Not now. I rubbed the sides of my head.

  My watch read eight-o-seven. I pictured Joe Washington on his way to Henry Ford Hospital. He’d split immediately after the game, but it was better than nothing. By then this nightmare would be over...one way or another.

  Tonight, tonight...

  86

  10:16 p.m.

  "How long you figure this thing’ll take to work?" Kaminski took a sip from his coffee mug.

  He and Higgins sat in an unmarked Taurus in the Adams & Benson lot. The game played on the radio; the Jets up fourteen to seven with minutes to go in the half.

  "Damned if I know,” Higgins shrugged. "This subliminal crap is new to me, too."

  They had found a parking spot fifty feet from the side entrance. With all other doors locked, they had a clear view of everyone coming and going.

  "It better be one of those six," Kaminski said. "With two hundred people inside, we sure as hell can't follow everyone.”

  That, Higgins thought, is the biggest hole in the whole damn plan. Instead of saying so, he stared out the car window at a brightly lit ore freighter sliding past the city on its way south.

  10:43 p.m.

  I had forgotten about the football game until a roar from the lobby caused me to look at the giant screen on my left in time to see a Jets player doing his version of the hula in the end zone. The numbers on the screen told the score: twenty-one to seven, New York.

  Big deal. Since the opening kickoff my attention had been focused on the crowd. Thankfully, every one of our six suspects was there. Joe Adams arrived first, followed shortly by Ken Cunningham. Forgive me, but I still couldn’t imagine Ken Cunningham or Sid Goldman as suspects.

  The others arrived soon after Cunningham. Sid appeared with his wife Mavis, followed by C. J. Rathmore, and Jonathon Goff, A & B's vice president of media. Baron Nichols came last, fashionably late at the end of the first quarter.

  Looking down from the darkened office, I spotted Will Parkins and two guys from research in the Jets bleachers, still high-fiving after the New York touchdown.

  I found Sid and Mavis Goldman in the Forty-Niners bleachers, Sid dressed in a well-worn Forty-Niners jacket. I remembered he had spent time at BBDO in San Francisco.

  To one side of the bleachers, Paul Chapman stood by himself, taking in the scene. Ginny Stankowski, Glo-Jo Johnson, M. J. Curtis and a woman I didn't recognize stood beside one of the refreshment stands.

  It seemed like a hundred years since we had all been together and I couldn't believe how much I missed the whole group.

  In the center of the lobby, a few men wearing black jackets with the ESPN logo on the back began moving around a group of agency and AVC brass, testing lights and camera positions. In minutes the world would have its first look at the Ampere.

  Next to the shroud-covered platform, I saw Ken Cunningham, Joe Adams and C. J. Rathmore with two American Vehicle VIPs: William Kesler and Malcolm Sears, AVC's Board Chairman and President. Carter told me Ken Cunningham would present a brief history of the development of the Ampere, then toss the ball to AVC Board Chairman Kesler for the actual introduction. On Kesler's cue, the canvas would lift, and the Ampere unveiled to the world.

  The Ampere commercial with its subliminal and hopefully not-so-subliminal messages would follow.

  87

  11:01 p.m.

  Toting the small black bag, the white-haired man had no trouble entering Henry Ford Hospital long after visiting hours. Most of the staff members he passed took him for a doctor on the way to his rounds.

  Once on the fourth floor he encountered a predicament: a tall black man, no doubt a policeman, sitting just inside Rodriguez’s room. Bacalla had noticed him in time to walk past and enter an empty room two doors away. He would wait to see how dedicated a sentry the policeman turned out to be. If he left to have a cigarette or visit the cafeteria on the first floor, Bacalla would strike. On the other hand, should the waiting become too tiresome, he would walk into the room posing as Rodriguez’s physician and deliver the fatal injection while the policeman watched.

  Either way the man in bed would die.

  ***

  The Ampere introduction went smoothly.

  I had a perfect view from the darkened office. As scripted, Cunningham spoke first and turned the microphone over to Bill Kesler.

  Kesler hadn’t uttered two sentences when it became painfully clear why Ken had been chosen to deliver the major portion of the program. Kesler was dull as dust. Mercifully, his verbal meandering lasted only moments. Then the canvas lifted toward the four-story ceiling, and the Ampere made its debut before an applauding Adams & Benson audience and millions watching at home.

  The Ampere commercial followed and received a predictably e
nthusiastic reception in the lobby, since this marked the first time most A & B staffers had seen it. The spot then began running continuously on three monitors designated for that purpose.

  I watched as people crowded around the monitors for a second and third viewing. To my delight, every person on our list drifted over for another look at one time or another.

  If the plan took a dive, it wouldn't be because no one had been exposed to the subliminal message.

  88

  11:37 p.m.

  The Jets broke the game open with three quick touchdowns in the third quarter, and the majority of people below me turned their attention to talking, eating and drinking.

  Most of the American Vehicle Corporation brass left as the third quarter ended but Adams and Cunningham remained, mingling with employees.

  I kept my eye on Joe Adams. There had been something unusual all evening: he hadn’t consumed a drop of liquor. I watched intently each time he approached one of the bars. The bartender poured from a bottle of Vernor’s Ginger Ale, never once reaching for whiskey. Even after the clients left, Adams nursed ginger ale straight up. By this time on most occasions he would have been poured into his car and driven home.

  I decided to relay my observation to Sean and Garry, and punched the numbers to Sean’s cell phone.

  He answered on the first ring. "Yeah?"

  "I've noticed something strange about Joe Adams. Is Garry there?"

  "No." I could detect a smile in his voice. "He's down at the river taking a leak. He’s been drinking coffee all night and it’s his third trip. What's up?"

  I explained my suspicions.

  "I'll tell Kaminski. Keep your eye on Adams."

  I did, and with the fourth quarter half over, Adams made a move. He began shaking hands, working his way toward the door. I phoned Sean again.

  "Yeah?"

  "Joe Adams is leaving. He’ll be out the door in minutes."

  "Got it. We're on him."

  89

  12:24 a.m.

  It seemed an eternity since Joe Adams left and I hadn't heard from Sean or Garry.

  With the outcome of the game decided long ago, the party below had begun breaking up. But five of the suspects still lingered in the lobby.

  Tall, curly-haired Jonathon Goff stood in the center of a group of his media buyers enthralled with his every word. Agency parties made great opportunities for brownnosing the boss.

  Ken Cunningham chatted with Tom Kuhn, A & B’s Vice President of Research in front of one of the monitors displaying the Ampere commercial. I longed to go down and talk with Ken. He had been like an uncle while I was growing up, and he would know how to help.

  The sound of the phone pierced my thoughts. I grabbed the receiver.

  "Sean?"

  "Darcy, listen to me. I'm in the back seat of Kaminski's car, under arrest. Cops are all around and I don't know how long I can talk."

  "Did you find Adams?"

  "We found him. He drove directly to his secretary's house in Grosse Pointe. She met him at the door dressed in a flimsy negligee. They're having an affair."

  "What did Kaminski do?"

  "What the hell do you think? He put me in the back seat of his car and called his office. He's standing outside right now."

  "But Sean..."

  "Kaminski just noticed me talking on the phone. He's coming for me. Run for it, Darcy or they'll get you..."

  Kaminski's voice came on. "Darcy? Stay where you are, I'll be right there."

  I slammed down the phone. My first thought: don’t panic.

  Down in the lobby, I saw Ken Cunningham and Tom Kuhn shake hands. As Kuhn went out the glass doors, Cunningham headed for a metal door fifty feet away that led to the basement of the building.

  I had to talk with Ken, to explain what was happening. He'd know what to do.

  I ran out into the hall to the elevator. Once on the ground floor, I kept to the outside wall of the lobby, walking quickly, trying to avoid the few stragglers left. I shielded the side of my face with one hand, probably unnecessarily. By this time most guests were too busy saying goodbyes and too far into their cups to notice me.

  I reached the metal door without attracting attention. Flinging it open, I found a flight of metal steps running down into darkness.

  At the bottom of the stairs I paused to let my eyes adjust to the dim light. I stood at the end of a long tunnel-like corridor. A string of dim yellow emergency lights positioned about twenty feet apart stretched along the ceiling as far as I could see.

  I thought I heard footsteps straight ahead.

  "Ken?" My voice echoed against cement walls.

  "Ken?"

  I began walking forward.

  90

  12:54 a.m.

  Where the hell is Kaminski?

  Joe Washington checked his watch for the fourth time in seven minutes, exactly the span since the game had ended.

  It had been bad enough sitting through that runaway. Super Bowl replay? Bull. Wasn't even a contest past the second half kick off. But with the game on, at least he had something.

  He glanced at the figure in the bed. Rodriguez had opened his eyes a few times during the game, mostly when the crowd noise grew loud. Washington almost expected him to talk.

  Where the hell is Kaminski?

  He got up and walked to the door, looking out. The hall deserted, he checked his watch again.

  Twelve-fifty-five.

  There hadn’t been a sniff of trouble all night. Washington decided to give Kaminski until one o’clock.

  Then he’d be the hell out of here.

  91

  12:56 a.m.

  How long I had been picking my way through this cold, dark and seemingly endless maze of corridors, I didn't know. I lost track of time. I made a wrong turn somewhere and came to a dead end. Retracing my steps to the main hallway, I continued to follow the dim yellow emergency lights.

  A cement wall loomed just ahead. Lord, please, not another dead end. As I neared the wall, I saw the corridor take a jog to the left. I followed and found myself standing outside a cavernous room. A freight elevator on the far side had several white canvas mail carts directly in front; carts used to hold outgoing mail; carts that might hold discs ready for shipment. I guessed the position of this room directly below the first floor mailroom.

  A tall white-haired man stood next to one of the carts, his back to me.

  "Ken?" The sound of my voice bounced around the room like a racquetball.

  Startled, the man turned quickly. Oh, Lord, no, not Ken. He couldn’t be involved in this. I walked toward him.

  "Darcy? What the hell are you doing down here?"

  "I was following you. Why are you here?"

  "I...I came to check on packages that have to go out tomorrow."

  I stood five feet from Ken, close enough to see drops of perspiration on his brow. In the faint light I saw the cart next to him full of discs in cardboard envelopes; there were at least two hundred.

  It had to be the cart Riggs found in the Media Center yesterday.

  "They're copies of the new Ampere spot," Cunningham said. "I...I thought they might...well, I just thought I ought to check on them."

  "Why?" I knew the answer, but hoped the man I’d known since childhood would come up with something I hadn't considered: a simple, innocent reason for being here.

  Cunningham wrinkled his brow, eyes darting about the room. He seemed to search for an answer. "I don't know exactly. I had this strange urge...”

  "Maybe it was the same kind of urge people are getting to vote for Niles VanBuhler."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Subliminal messages. In those commercials there, and in the Ampere commercial you saw tonight."

  "Subliminal messages? That’s crazy."

  "We planted a message in the Ampere commercial that ran tonight, Ken. A message that would be meaningless...except to someone involved in the plot to influence next week's election.

  "And damn it,
Ken." My voice cracked, "That message led you here."

  "Election? Message? Darcy, you'd better explain yourself.”

  I told him, starting with Caponi's murder and Cato’s fake suicide, the beating of Manny Rodriguez, and Sean Higgins' discovery of the subliminal messages in Traverse City. When I finished, Cunningham appeared dumbfounded.

  "Conspiracy? Here at Adams & Benson? I don’t believe it."

  "Believe it."

  The third voice startled us both. I whirled to see the outline of a man in the doorway. Even in the dim light, there was no mistaking C. J. Rathmore.

  And he held a pistol.

  92

  Tuesday, October 26 1:03 a.m.

  Killing the policeman in Rodriguez's room would have been easy, perhaps even enjoyable, but the white-haired man waited him out.

  Seated in an empty room two doors from Rodriguez, he heard the policeman leave. He waited two minutes then walked silently to the hall and peered out. To his right, at the far end of the corridor, he saw three nurses starting their rounds.

  He ducked back into the room. He wanted no confrontation this night. No trouble. He looked forward to a quick kill, a few hours rest, and a plane home to Tijuana. He would wait those nurses out, too. The man two doors away wasn't going anywhere.

  ***

  The nurse had come and gone. Manny Rodriguez lay gazing at the ceiling, wondering whether the vision of Darcy had been real.

  He had regained consciousness days ago. But constantly drifting in and out of sleep, he found it difficult to separate dream from reality. At first he had no recollection of where he lay or how he had gotten there. He guessed a traffic accident, then a fall. Breathing hurt; probably broken ribs.

  His legs remained numb, but his arms had movement. Each day since regaining consciousness he struggled to move them a bit more.

  He overheard the nurses talking about a beating, but it took time to realize they referred to him. He had no memory of a beating or inkling of why anyone would want to hurt him.

  He spent much time sleeping, as he had tonight. He knew the man who’d been there earlier had gone, but suddenly felt the presence of someone else. He tilted his head forward slightly, making out the outline of a man carrying some sort of bag. As the man came closer, he saw the hair on his head appeared white as snow.