by Tom Lytes
“If you’re hired, you can’t tell anyone what you’re doing,” the casting agent said, almost to herself.
Vicki nodded agreeably like it was common, and certainly wasn’t a problem.
“There’s another odd stipulation to the work,” said the casting agent with green hair and a pierced septum. “You’re going to meet with a man by yourself in a hotel.”
“What did you just say?” Vickie asked.
Most of the sex in her business wasn’t negotiated so formally.
“Oh, sorry,” the woman said to her, letting a wry smile find her eyes and move outward to her face. She pulled on an eyebrow ring and looked at the paperwork in front of her. “Hmm, yes, most of the meetings will be held in a hotel room, privately.”
Vickie didn’t care either way. There could be sex, or not. It was the lure of the paycheck, the location of the job in New York, and the challenge of getting picked that motivated her. She nodded.
The casting director put down the paperwork and looked Vickie up and down three times, “He’ll be attracted to you instantly, and you’ll be alone. I just want to make sure you’re comfortable with it.”
Vickie shared an assuring, confident smile. Her whole life had been about finding a way to cope with the attention she received from men. She’d learned how to channel the energy into achieving her goals.
The woman said, “He’s handsome, by the way. I’ve seen his picture.”
When executed contracts landed on her agent’s desk the same day, arrangements were made for Vickie to meet Vortmit at an uptown hotel. Worrying about the casting director’s comments now that the situation was thrust upon her, Vickie prepared herself for the worst. She waited a full minute in the hallway outside the room, gathering confidence and assuring herself that she would be safe. Biting her lip, she knocked lightly.
“Come in, close the door behind you,” a voice said.
Vickie held her breath and turned the knob. The door opened to a room that looked largely untouched. An iPad, propped on the desk next to an external microphone, seemed to be the only thing in the room that might indicate a presence other than housekeeping.
The same voice that welcomed her filled the room again, coming from the iPad’s speaker, “Welcome, Vickie.” She detected an accent, slight but evident, German maybe? “I can see you’re ready.”
Vickie looked around. She peered into the open bathroom door. Was he watching her with a camera?
“You’re alone in the room. Perhaps that will make you at ease?”
Vickie nodded, creeped out. The voice continued, the person on the other side of the dark iPad covering the camera so she couldn’t see his face.
“You have a generous wardrobe stipend. You shop at Bergdorf’s, only, and ask for Claudia. There will be a credit card waiting for you there to cover expenses.”
“Okay,” Vickie said.
“I will provide instruction throughout the job,” the voice said. “You will need to use a range of acting skills. Stay flexible and adjust to what happens, okay?”
Vickie tried to match the confidence of the voice coming from the iPad. “Of course, you’ll soon see what I can do.”
The voice replied, “For the duration of the job, my name will be Leonard. You may or may not see me, but you will hear from me regularly. Remember, you will only refer to me as Leonard.”
Vickie nodded, “Leonard, okay.”
“And you will be Santrelle Simonson.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’m Santrelle Simonson, nice to meet you Leonard.”
“You look the part.”
Vickie smiled uncertainly at what she figured was a complement. Being on a live video feed with a stranger, talking about being somebody else, while standing alone in a hotel room, all made her antsy.
“Until we talk again,” the voice said.
Vickie took the cue to leave, her skin crawling from the unexpected encounter. She backed out of the hotel room and went directly to Bergdorf’s as instructed. Happily, Claudia turned out to be a real person, joyful and positive, and wouldn’t let her leave the store until she was outfitted with a new wardrobe. The clothes made her visual transformation into the aristocratic Santrelle Simonson complete.
That was yesterday.
“I can do this,” she said, looking at herself appraisingly in the restroom mirror. She laughed aloud. “I just did it.”
Progress was being made and Vortmit didn’t want to lose momentum. When he was off the phone with Vickie, he turned to Tricia Bourgeaux.
“They won’t know you were one of the shooters,” Vortmit said to her. “I have word that you are not suspected, or a person of interest in the shootings.”
Tricia Bourgeaux nodded. “I meet with the FBI agent and the cop, then drift out of town tonight, right?”
“Yes, you must finish. Have that meeting with the FBI and police as soon as you can.”
Vortmit motioned for her to come to him and look at his computer screen. When Tricia could see, Vortmit transferred a large sum of money into her account.
“I’m sorry your husband is dead,” he said to her as he placed a hand gently on hers. “When you finish here, disappear for a while. Maybe go back to Louisiana. Get swallowed by the bayou.”
Tricia Bourgeaux wept softly. “Where will you be?”
Vortmit said, “I will be wherever I need to be, as Leonard, to finish what’s started.”
Tricia Bourgeaux placed the call as Vortmit suggested. When it connected, she said, “Hello, yes, is this the FBI office? –Good, my husband died in Hoosick and I’m following up with Agent Finley. I was hoping to come over and talk, later.”
The plans were made, and Vortmit walked her to the door.
7
Peggy showered and changed into a figure flattering, yellow sundress with a blue collar, and was a matching pair of shoes away from being ready to distract Finley all through dinner, when he called.
“Hello, Peg,” he said. “It looks like something important has come up tonight.”
“No date?” Peggy asked.
“Not tonight, I’m afraid. Tricia Bourgeaux, the wife of the New Orleans professional shooter, has arrived in town and wants to meet to discuss her husband’s death.”
“I’ll be right there,” Peggy said, sighing softly. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror before she climbed out of her sundress and laid it on the bed, placing her shoes underneath. Admiring the combination one last time, she went back to the closet for her police uniform.
The field office for the upstate New York division of the FBI consisted of a few agents working part time, coordinating out of New York City and occasionally Boston. Today, Agent Finley made up the whole office when Peggy arrived. He spoke with a woman dressed in enough black to eclipse everything but the pale white skin of her face. Dyed black hair accented a few layers of sheer lined black shirts, a jacket, black leather pants, and tall black boots. The woman’s painted fingernails matched, as did her lips. Of medium height and build, she seemed like a bigger presence than her stature might suggest.
Finley, looking uncomfortable, said, “Peggy, I’m glad you’re here.”
“Hello Finley.” And turning to the woman in black, she said, “And you must be Mrs. Bourgeaux.”
“No,” the woman said in a non-confrontational tone, “I’m Ms. Bourgeaux.”
Finley cleared his throat. “Ms. Bourgeaux just relayed details of the ongoing conversation she’s been having with her dead husband. This afternoon when he talked to her through a bird, apparently, he told her she’d been right about him coming to New York. For days, Ms. Bourgeaux told him nothing good would come of the trip, and he came anyway.”
“A bird? You believe your dead husband communicated with you through a bird?” Peggy asked.
“Yes,” Ms. Bourgeaux said, “a baby robin.”
> “The bird part isn’t relevant to our investigation,” Finley said to her. He turned to Peggy. “Ms. Bourgeaux has many interesting beliefs. She put dimes in the corners of the room to keep evil spirits from hearing us.”
Peggy looked around and, sure enough, saw a pocketful of dimes scattered about, all heads up.
“Oh, they’re listening,” Ms. Bourgeaux said. “The spirits can’t understand what they’re hearing when I put dimes in the corners of the room. But don’t for a second think they’re not listening.”
Agent Finley looked at Peggy and didn’t respond.
“I’ve heard of that, but thought it was a superstition,” Peggy said.
Ms. Bourgeaux looked as if she would speak but instead placed her hands on her legs and looked at a point beyond the ceiling of the room, as if observing a constellation in a distant galaxy.
Peggy asked, “You were correct about your husband’s trip. What gave you concern?”
Ms. Bourgeaux pointed a thumb at Finley. “He would rather not have me get into those details.”
Finley’s ears turned crimson and he looked at his shoes as if they might be on the verge of telling him something important, like the secrets of Stonehenge.
No one spoke until Finley reluctantly continued, “Something happened during their… uh… sexual relations that Ms. Bourgeaux described, and I think we can just say that… uh… she had a premonition.”
Finley’s upper cheeks were scarlet now too, and he switched from his shoes to fumbling with objects on his desk. The sound of papers moving provided a soundtrack to Finley’s awkwardness that captivated both women.
When Peggy surmised the paper shuffling wouldn’t lead anywhere, she said, “I’m trying to understand why you’re here, Ms. Bourgeaux. I am sure you have people to grieve with in New Orleans, and it surprises me that you’re spending time away from them, given the unfortunate death of your husband.”
Ms. Bourgeaux laughed. “Oh, little girl,” she paused enough to make sure Peggy looked appropriately put out by the comment, “don’t for a second think you can condescend to me. I’m not here for me, or my dead husband either. What is done, is done. My husband’s death was a possibility we lived with every day we were married.”
Finley jumped into the conversation. “And you have our condolences. Officer Peggy has asked a good question I’d like you to answer. Why did you make the trip to upstate New York?”
“Because I didn’t think you would believe me if I told you over the phone,” Ms. Bourgeaux said.
“Believe what?” Finley asked.
“I think a computer manipulated my husband to come up here. I don’t think any person actually hired him.”
Peggy dropped her police radio and it clattered onto the hard floor.
Finley kept the conversation on track. “I’m sure I don’t understand what you mean. Can you explain?”
Ms. Bourgeaux nodded. “My husband’s employers communicated with him in various ways. Rarely, in my husband’s line of work, is anything written or sent electronically. This job seemed a little different right off the bat because the details came through on Snapchat.”
“Yes,” Peggy said. “I would think that any sophisticated killer would know that Snapchat isn’t secret or private when it comes to murder.”
Ms. Bourgeaux held her hands out as if to say, “Exactly.” She said, “Then I thought the client knew too much stuff about us, and maybe they hacked our computers and phones.”
“Interesting,” Finley said. “And how does that tie in with your… premonition.”
She looked deep into Finley’s eyes. “When I’m with a man, and I reach a certain point, I can see the future.”
Peggy asked, “You mean you’re psychic?”
Finley startled when Ms. Bourgeaux broke eye contact.
“Call it whatever you want,” Ms. Bourgeaux said, turning to Peggy. “I see pictures of what’s going to happen next in a person’s life when I’m having sex with them. It usually happens around the first hour, but it sometimes takes longer.”
“And this happened with your husband before this job?” Finley asked.
“Yes,” Ms. Bourgeaux said. “A picture led me to believe he would be killed by a computer.”
“A computer?” Finley asked.
“Hmm,” said Ms. Bourgeaux. “It may sound strange to you, but I know he was killed by a computer.”
Peggy looked down at her own phone. Her blackmailer had only communicated through Snapchat. She thumbed to a screenshot.
The instructions came in a benign font: “Kill your brother Doyle.”
Peggy asked, “Did your husband get paid?”
“Yes, always and before the job. His reputation allowed it.”
“If he never met anyone, how did he collect the money?” Peggy asked.
“Wire transfer.”
“Can you provide the incoming wire information from your bank for us to investigate?” Finley asked quickly.
“Of course.” Ms. Bourgeaux fumbled in her purse before handing Finley a wire confirmation from the Hibernia Bank on Magazine Street in New Orleans.
“Would you finish up with Ms. Bourgeaux, please?” Finley asked Peggy. “Do excuse me.”
He almost tripped, running so fast out of the room. Peggy marveled at how much the FBI loved the movement of money as an investigative tool.
“How long have you been sleeping with him,” Ms. Bourgeaux asked Peggy.
“What… what—” Peggy said, stammering.
“I know certain things when I’m with people,” Ms. Bourgeaux said. “You two recently shared a bed.”
“Well we did, or, we do. Yes.”
“Good for you,” Ms. Bourgeaux said.
“How can we reach you if we have more questions?” Peggy asked.
“Only my home phone’s message machine,” Ms. Bourgeaux said. “I don’t use computers anymore and threw away my cell phone when my husband died the way he did. I’m not taking any chances.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I already told Finley, the hotel downtown until tomorrow.”
“Okay, thank you Ms. Bourgeaux,” Peggy said as she stood.
Ms. Bourgeaux came back around just when it looked like she might be leaving.
She stopped in front of Peggy and said, “Chickens in the marsh; when you find them, you’ll be onto something.”
“What does that mean?” Peggy asked.
Ms. Bourgeaux already turned and began walking away. Like a shadow in the moonlit sky, her stark figure got into her jet-black luxury sedan, a Mercedes.
She lowered the window some and said, “That I don’t know. But remember the chickens in the marsh. When you see them, make sure you’re paying attention to what’s going on.”
8
Finley loved a solid lead. Wire transfers and anything involving bank crime fell immediately under the jurisdiction of the FBI, and he excelled at investigating those types of crimes. Given even more authority after the 9/11 attacks, the FBI could access information within the banking system at almost lightning speed.
Finley, a natural when it came to computers, studied Bio-technology at John Hopkins. When the Bureau recruited him, they further developed his acumen at Langley, where he manned a cubicle and fought international terrorism on the web. His ability to work with technology surpassed his endurance for the solitary lifestyle of a hunter and trapper online, though. A couple years in, he’d requested a transfer to work in the field. It went ignored until he threatened to quit, and the FBI sent him to the rural New York office.
As would be expected, the money ended up in a New York bank’s account controlled by Mr. Bourgeaux. The originating wire account wasn’t previously linked to suspicious activity. Upon further scrutiny, Finley discovered it was opened with a fifty-dollar cash deposit, hours before the
named account holder died in an Idaho nursing home. Then the account sat idle for over two years with no activity whatsoever. The day before the wire to Mr. Bourgeaux, a deposit came into the account from an electronic payment vendor. The dollar amount was paid to Mr. Bourgeaux by wire transfer the next day. The small amount of account activity occurred through remote access, public Wi-fi from an airport coffee shop in Bismarck, North Dakota.
Finley flagged the account and wished he could do more. It appeared as though he hit a dead end for now.
He found Peggy with the news, “Hey Peg, the wire transfer didn’t give us anything.”
“You’re sure?” Peggy asked.
“I’m the FBI,” Finley said, shrugging. “I’m sure.”
Peggy nodded, and they both went quiet, thinking.
“Well, what do you think about Ms. Bourgeaux?” Finley asked.
“I think she was telling us the truth. I’m intrigued that she thought a computer killed her husband. What do you think of that?”
“I think the lady is eccentric as hell,” Finley said. “You know me well enough to know I’m not buying the whole ‘computer did it’ thing.”
“Hmm, I suppose it sounds a little odd when it’s said out of context, but I thought she might be onto something.” Peggy fiddled with her phone until the screenshot instructing her to kill Doyle filled the screen.
“What about her psychic abilities?” Finley asked in a sarcastic tone. “That was pretty out there.”
“I keep an open mind about psychic phenomenon. I guess there’s still a part of me that believes.”
“All right,” Finley got up and collected a few papers off his desk. “That’s enough fairy and mystical talk for one night. It’s getting late and I’m going to head home.”
They shared an awkward moment that might have been an embrace if they weren’t within sight of Finley’s office, and went to their cars.
Peggy drove home and pulled the police car into the driveway of her place. The large pines that dwarfed her house had lost a sufficient quantity of needles to coat her walkway. Stepping into the house, she ditched her uniform in a pile, and it wasn’t until she entered the bedroom, looking for slippers, that the yellow dress caught her attention. She scooped it up with the matching shoes and dropped them in a corner of her room.