“Mother lover!” Pratt whistled as if he’d just seen an interception against a team he had a big bet on.
Trichina rose. She seemed offended by Franklin’s report. “Old Carolina Tobacco, Inc. letterhead and signed by Mr. Pratt?”
Brandon snapped open a soft-leather portfolio he had tucked under his arm and handed Franklin a flat sheet of paper enclosed in a clear plastic evidence bag.
“You tell me,” Franklin said, handing it to Trichina. “An agent had to use a letter opener to pry this out from between the thumb and index finger of a cadaver in Annapolis about ninety minutes ago. Don’t open the plastic.”
Trichina held it up to the light.
“The logo looks good,” she said, addressing Pratt. “But this isn’t ours. The watermark is wrong. This paper is Philamy Linen. Old Carolina Tobacco uses Strathmore Writing, twenty-five percent cotton. And that’s definitely not Mr. Pratt’s signature.”
“Relax, Anna Maria.” Pratt said to her. “He doesn’t think we did it or that I’m involved. He’s simply trying to acquaint us with the situation.”
“That’s not entirely accurate, Mr. Pratt. At this moment, I have no idea who did it. The only thing I know for sure is that I didn’t do it. That leaves five-and-a-half billion-minus-one potential suspects.”
Ben Brandon’s cell phone chirped in his pocket. He turned away when he answered it, spoke for a moment, closed his phone, and turned back to the conversation without saying a word about the call.
“At this point, Ms. Trichina,” Franklin said, “it is the policy of the FBI that we don’t rule things out. We rule them in. We have over one hundred dead, seventy-two critically injured—and word is many, if not most, of them will die—and reports of new fatalities and injuries coming in every time I turn around. We’re looking at a nationwide panic. And who knows if this is a single isolated attack by overnight mail or if poisoned cigarettes are right now sitting in cigarette vending machines and on retailers’ shelves all over the country?”
Pratt looked as if he’d been punched in the gut. He spoke quietly. “Who’s on the top of your short list as of now?”
“Mr. Pratt, again, the list is almost six billion people long. This investigation is about three hours old. And all we know for sure is that whoever is behind this is an intelligent, crafty individual with at least some knowledge of how you test market your products. Perhaps a disgruntled employee, or maybe someone else with a problem with your company.”
“Oh for shit’s sake, Nick,” Trichina abruptly interjected, holding up the letter in the evidence bag. “Did you read this? Any Intro to Marketing student could think this up.”
Pratt ignored her and spoke to Franklin. “You’re saying it may be an inside job? An employee? A former employee? Someone like that?”
“As I’ve said, there’s no reason to rule it out. What I want to do right now is talk to whoever heads up corporate security here. He may have someone in mind already.”
“Gary Dupree,” said Pratt. “He will, of course, give you whatever it is you’ll need. And, of course, so will Anna Maria and I.”
“We’d also like to talk to your previous head of security, Thomas Rhoads.”
“Rhoads was just a consultant, and he hasn’t worked for us for nearly a year.”
“I’m aware of that,” said Franklin. “We’ll still need to speak with him.”
9
Asheville
In the orderly master bedroom, a green oxygen tank on wheels sat beside a single bed by an open doorway to the hall. Vials and bottles crowded the nightstand.
The shower hissed as Mary Dallaness, thirty-four, entered from the hall and walked quietly toward the bathroom. She was barefoot and wearing jeans and a tank top. She stood just outside the bathroom looking in. Her husband, Anthony, was barely visible through a foggy shower door.
“Why didn’t you call me before you got in there?”
“Probably because I don’t need a nursemaid when I’m taking a shower.”
But you do, she thought. “Why aren’t you sitting on the folding chair, at least?”
A telephone rang in another part of the house. She looked in the direction of the ringing, then back at Anthony, torn over whether to answer or not.
“The telephone’s ringing, Ant. Stay put. Don’t try to get out until I come back. Do you hear me?”
“No,” he rasped. She could hear the emphysema in his voice.
Mary jogged around the banister to another bedroom. Hers. A bright, multicolored comforter, half thrown over a nearby rocking chair, lay in disarray on a double bed. Stacks of magazines and books and a compact stereo on the dresser cluttered the room. She hurried to pick up the telephone.
“Hello?” She listened. “Yes, this is Mary Dallaness. Mr. Pratt?” She listened again. “Goodness, no! I took a personal day, and I’ve been tied up with my husband and the doctors since this morning. Wait a moment, I’ll put it on.”
She crossed the room to a small television and pushed the power button. A news anchor was talking in front of a graphic luridly titled “CIGARETTE TERROR.” The sound was low.
She picked up the receiver. “I have it on, Mr. Pratt. I can’t believe it.” Mary watched the screen as she listened to Pratt. “No. No, sir, no reporters have contacted me. Of course I won’t speak to them.” She listened to Pratt. He spoke in urgent bursts. “Yes, all the Level Three documents are totally secure. No, sir. Nobody can access a Level Three file without my knowing about it.”
Pratt asked her if the computer database kept a record of everyone who requested the top-secret documents. She told him yes, the system did that automatically and kept those names in another Level Three document called “LTD-PULLS.” He sounded relieved. Immediately his voice tensed again. He asked if there was a way that anyone, anyone, could access that document and erase names of those who have seen Level Three files.
“Yes,” Mary said, and then added, proudly, “Only one person not including you and Ms. Trichina is cleared to see LTD-PULLS. Someone I know you can trust. Me.”
Pratt said that was what he was hoping to hear. He thanked her.
“Do you need me to come in, sir?” Mary asked, hoping he’d say no. “All right. Yes, sir. First thing in the morning, then.” She paused, and Pratt said something else. “My, husband?” She lowered her voice. “As well as can be expected… but thank you for asking, sir.”
After hanging up, Mary Dallaness stood still in the dark of her bedroom, listening to herself breathe.
Something about Pratt’s call left her unsettled. She had never trusted him to do anything other than protect the shareholders’ profits. A call like this had to do with much more than finding out who was poisoning people who smoked Old Carolina cigarettes.
10
Across town, Nick Pratt had just said good-bye to Mary Dallaness and hung up the telephone in the living room of Anna Maria Trichina’s luxury condo in North Asheville.
A black leather L-shaped couch stretched across two adjacent walls. Track lighting highlighted framed prints of several views of Monet’s water lilies from his garden at Giverny.
Pratt and Trichina, both dressed in the business attire they had worn earlier to World Headquarters, sat on separate sections of the long couch. Pratt looked at his watch, picked up the telephone, and checked his messages.
“Shit,” Pratt said upon hearing the call from the company’s investor relations manager. The manager had reported that huge blocks of sell orders on Old Carolina shares were already piling up for the opening bell tomorrow at the New York Stock Exchange. That on top of a four-and-a-half point loss on enormously high-volume trading earlier that day.
Trichina was still thinking about Pratt’s call to Mary Dallaness.
“Did she sound suspicious?” Trichina asked.
“Not at all. In a crisis like this, it makes sense that the CEO would
be on damage-control duty.”
“I’m surprised you have any confidence that you can count on Mary Dallaness.” Trichina flashed a bratty schoolgirl smirk when she mentioned her subordinate’s name. “She’s so… so subservient. Anyone in authority can manipulate her. I wouldn’t be surprised if a tough-talking meter maid could badger her into divulging top-level corporate data.”
“That’s what I like about you, Anna Maria—your tolerance when it comes to other people’s frailties.”
“And the other one you have to watch out for is Rhoads,” she said. “He’s a fuckup waiting to fuck something up. He’s a drunk and a bum.”
“Sometimes a drunk and a bum is exactly what the doctor ordered. You should know that.” Pratt smiled at Trichina. She looked away.
“Every problem brings with it some benefit, even if it’s hard to recognize,” he continued. We should have more devastating crises around Old Carolina, Anna Maria.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ever since we learned of this product-tampering nightmare this afternoon, you’ve had the most adorable furrow in your forehead. It’s quite…”
“Oh, Nick. Not now. Please.”
Pratt tuned out her voice and looked at her. He wasn’t smiling. His eyes narrowed on her like a predator spotting game. Still seated at the other end of the couch, Pratt reached for one of the round white leather throw pillows. He remembered paying the credit card invoice for them. Trichina had bought six of the pillows for ninety dollars each on a business trip in Chicago and had them shipped to Asheville. He dropped the pillow on the floor between his shoes. He closed his eyes and indicated “come here” with a slight jerk of his head. Trichina pretended to miss the cue.
Pratt waited half a minute. He heard no sound of her moving toward him. His eyes remained closed.
“All right, Anna Maria. I’ll try it in English. Why don’t you come on over here?”
Pratt leaned back against the couch. He patted his knee three times. Trichina hesitated a moment too long before she began moving. Pratt heard her slide along the leather to him.
Fetch, he thought to himself as he interlaced his fingers behind his head and suppressed a grin. Fetch, girl.
11
In his limo on the way home, Pratt picked up the secure line and pressed a button to call Valzmann.
In a remote part of Old Carolina Tobacco, Inc.’s World Headquarters subbasement, a small room existed, lined with advanced electronic equipment, walled in cinder-block and devoid of any natural light. The room did not appear on the floor plans on file with the Buncombe County’s Emergency Management Services nor in the building’s architectural blueprints. Officially, the room didn’t exist.
In that room, a telephone’s soft electronic tone hummed.
“Yes, Mr. Pratt,” the voice said.
Pratt was on fire. “This tampering shit. Rhoads’s name is on the letter but the Feds don’t think it’s him. The signature didn’t match, the title’s wrong and if anything, it’s somebody that has a grudge against him, but that could be any number of people. You know, Benedict’s name is going to come up sooner or later. I know it. The government never contacted us about his little telephone call to the Justice Department. You know why?”
Valzmann said nothing.
Pratt kept roaring. “Well, I’ll tell you why. Because the Feds were just waiting for their chance. And, now they have it. I’ll bet you money they start in with Benedict. Where’s Benedict? What happened to Benedict? Could Benedict be behind this? And of course, we can’t tell them why we know it’s not Benedict. We ought to make damned certain those documents are secure. I’ve already begun. And I want you thinking about the logistics of tying Rhoads to Benedict.”
“I’m working on it,” Valzmann said, making a note on a lined pad. “Mr. Pratt? Can I ask you something? Why do those documents still exist? Why do we even have them?”
“I wish they didn’t, but they were logged in on the auditor’s schedule long before they became a problem. Getting rid of them would be a red flag. It’s better to keep them buried in the archive database.”
“Then why are you nervous?”
“Because there’s always the human element.”
“As in…”
“As in Mary Dallaness.”
“The name rings a bell.”
“You don’t know who she is?” Pratt seethed. “Mary Dallaness, idiot. In the corporate documentation division. You keep an eye on her. She and her husband are buddies with him.”
“Rhoads?”
“Rhoads.”
“How do they know each other?”
“Don’t you bother reading the reports your own investigators write for me? Rhoads used to be a cop in Philadelphia. Mary’s husband Anthony has a brother. He was a Philly cop with Rhoads. She was the one who recommended him as an outside security consultant.”
“Small world.”
“Yeah, and I think we’re going to need to find a way to make it a little smaller, by two.”
“Why are you worried about Mary Dallaness? What’s the problem with her?”
“She’s unstable. Her husband’s dying. Chronic pulmonary emphysema, from smoking, of course. That makes her susceptible to pangs of conscience. You know, we had one like her not so long ago.”
12
After Pratt left, Trichina poured herself a glass of Merlot, sipped it once, then took several larger swallows and topped off the goblet before heading to the bedroom. She stripped off her clothes, removed her makeup, and reclined on the bed.
Closing her eyes, she exhaled deeply, almost a sigh. Images like film clips moved in slow motion through her mind, images of Rhoads and those many nights not so long ago when he lay there curled up next to her, so large in the bed she was used to sleeping in alone, and so strong, so dumb looking, asleep with his mouth open. The memories were a lullaby she sang to herself. Not sadly, though. Fondly.
Trichina knew the tampering chaos presented an opportunity to her. Her father had always insisted that she be on the lookout for opportunity, and when she saw it, she was to seize it. But he was gone now and it was up to her. She remembered his corny saying and the way he smiled when he said it. You have to take responsibility for what you do in this world, Anna Maria. You have to know the ten magic words that make anything possible, that can make anything come true. Then she remembered the little thrill she experienced every time he said those words. Because he wanted her to hear them, he said them very slowly, very carefully. He would take her tiny hand in his rough one and say, If it is to be, it is up to me. Then he asked her to repeat them with him, and they’d say the words together. If it is to be, it is up to me.
The wine had bathed every nerve in her body. She felt carefree.
She knew she performed her job honorably, and she earned fair day’s pay for a fair day’s labor. Her father certainly would have understood that. No, there was nothing in the world wrong with that. At all. She didn’t force people to smoke, she didn’t even ask people to smoke. People had smoked for thousands of years before she was born, and she knew, no matter what, that people would smoke for thousands of years after she was gone. So, if she could take advantage of this situation and rise within Old Carolina Tobacco, Inc., she was going to do it.
And once she got to the top, or near enough, she’d be able to influence company policy.
She could make a difference. A positive difference.
Plus, she could buy herself one hell of a Jaguar.
13
Atlantic City
Night. Almost cold. Maybe forty, forty-five degrees.
The salty breeze that blew in from the Atlantic Ocean across the south Jersey beachfront made it colder. Crisp and clear. Wave crests picked up the glitter of starlight. Rhoads finished his cigarette and tossed it out the car window. He turned the key and steered toward the police station.
<
br /> They had gotten the call the day after Teddy disappeared. Atlantic City P.D. had arrested him on a drunk and disorderly. One more arrest and Rhoads worried Teddy might have to serve some real time.
It took Rhoads an hour to convince the cops to drop the charges. In the end, it wasn’t that he had been a cop, or the names he told them that they might know. An older sergeant had stopped by as Rhoads tried to figure out what else he could say to the arresting officers who sat there stone-faced.
One of them, Bellini, said, “He’s got a sheet, Rhoads. I don’t know how you do it in Philly, but Atlantic City’s a quiet town. We have rules.”
The sergeant said, “You’re Rhoads? Philly P.D.?”
Rhoads always tensed when someone brought it up. “Not anymore.”
The sergeant stuck his hand out. Rhoads shook, confused.
“I knew Michael Flynn.”
Rhoads smiled and shook the sergeant’s hand harder. “You knew the Mick?”
“He went to school with my brother. Hell, he dated my sister. Mick was a good man.”
“The best,” Rhoads said. “Don’t believe anything they say about him. Mick was my training officer. None of that shit’s true.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” the sergeant said. “Anyway, I heard what you did for the Mick. That your brother in the tank?”
“Yeah. Sounds like he had a bad night. He didn’t hurt anybody, though, just being loud.”
The sergeant pointed at the two cops. “Cut him loose.”
“Come on, Sarge. Guy puked in my car.”
“You two are going to be good cops someday,” the sergeant said. “But today you’re young, and you don’t know shit. Cut him loose.”
As Rhoads led Teddy past the squad room, he saw the three cops talking together and waved. The sergeant waved back. He went to the desk to get Teddy’s personal effects. As he watched his brother filling out the forms, he heard the other young cop say, “Bullshit, Sarge.”
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