The Gemini Deception

by Kim Baldwin

  The manager moved in closer to look. Shield let the footage continue and noticed Thomas grimace after he took a good sip of coffee. He said something to his friends and took another, smaller sip. This time his expression was less sour, and he continued to drink from the mug throughout lunch.

  “Do you have a list of people on duty that day?” she asked.

  “Yes, but why?”

  Shield backed the tape up all the way to the beginning, before Thomas and his friends placed their orders. She paused it when the waiter came into view. “Who’s the waiter?”

  The manager peered at the still image. “I don’t recognize him offhand. I’ll have to ask.” He picked up the phone and called his personnel staffer. “I need the names of all the waiters present on the twelfth of October, working the morning shift.”

  Shield kept her eyes on the young man on the monitor while she waited.

  The manager jotted down some names and hung up. “All but one of the three people working that morning are full-timers and have been with us anywhere from a year to five years.”

  “And the one?”

  “A temp from an agency. He came in to replace his girlfriend, who’d called in sick.”

  “Do you have his name?”

  “Dennis Weitman.”

  “How about an address or number?”

  He picked up the phone and called personnel again. “Lives in Bath and gave us a cell-phone number.” He wrote it down.

  Shield pulled out her cell and dialed Weitman’s number. She got a recording telling her the number was no longer in use. “Is the girlfriend working today?”

  He shook his head. “She left to take another job not long after this happened.” After another call to personnel, he wrote down the woman’s name, number, and address. “Her place isn’t far. Just down the road a couple miles.”

  She pocketed the information. “What agency sent Weitman?”

  “We use Rapid. Here’s that number.”

  Shield Bluetoothed the restaurant footage onto her phone before she ejected the DVD. “Thank you for your help. I’ll let you know if I need anything else.”

  “What does all this mean?” the manager asked. “This Weitman temp, was he involved in something?”

  “I can’t know that.”

  “This could be catastrophic for the country club. We make good work of hiring capable personnel.”

  “Please, don’t jump to conclusions and don’t spread stories. I have no proof this young man, unbeknownst or otherwise, was involved in anything.”

  “Of course. Any stories or rumors would be disastrous for our reputation.”

  “Thank you again,” she said. “I’ll show myself out.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Shield got back in her rental and called EOO headquarters on her cell. She forwarded the footage to Reno’s e-mail while she waited for him to come on the line.

  “I need current info on a Dennis Weitman,” she told him. “Lived in Bath, Maine, and worked for the Rapid Temporary Agency last October. He’s the waiter in the footage I’ve just sent to your e-mail.”

  “Hang on, let me take a look,” Reno replied before taking a noisy slurp of whatever liquid he was consuming. “That’s the president’s husband in the bottom of the screen, right?”

  “Yeah. Work your magic and see what you can get off this. Jeffrey Thomas had some obvious discomfort in the video, and this waiter who served him is in the wind.”

  “You got it.”

  “I’m en route to see his girlfriend,” she told him as she started the car and pulled away from the curb. “I’ll call you back after I’m done there.”

  The address the country-club manager gave her was that of a low-rent apartment complex desperately in need of attention. The exterior paint was peeling and cracked, the parking lot was full of potholes, and the lawn was riddled with yellow spots and dog feces.

  Inside the entryway was a wall of mailboxes and a massive speakerphone system that allowed residents to buzz visitors in through the locked interior door. Shield hit the button next to a plate that read, J. GINGRAS, 2D. “Julie Gingras?”

  “Yeah,” a woman’s voice replied.

  “I’m with the Secret Service. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “What about?”

  “Your work at the Bath Country Club.”

  “I don’t work there anymore.”

  “Please open up.”

  “Whatever, I’m busy.”

  “We can do this the hard way if you refuse to cooperate.”

  A few seconds later, Gingras buzzed her in. Her apartment was on the second floor, and the young woman stood waiting at the top of the stairs. “Show me your ID,” she said as Shield neared.

  Shield flashed her White House credentials as she walked around the girl to the open door of 2D. “Let’s do this inside.”

  The girl walked in first and Shield shut the door behind them.

  Julie Gingras’s long blond hair covered most of her face, the same way dark stains covered most of her worn T-shirt. Without a word, she curled up on the couch and stared at some infomercial on TV. The small apartment, with its kitchenette, looked like a department store had exploded in there. Clothes and shoes covered almost every surface, and dirty plates were piled up on the sink and coffee table.

  The furnishings and clothes were all feminine, however, with no indication that Weitman or any other man was also living there.

  “So?” Julie said distractedly.

  Shield walked over to the television and turned it off.

  “Hey.” The girl complained with a frown. “I was gonna buy that Miracle Mop.”

  “Nothing short of a fire hose can clean this place up.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I have some questions regarding your sick leave on the twelfth of October.”

  “That was like eons ago. So?”

  “I understand your boyfriend took your shift that day.”

  “I had the flu. So?”

  “I’d like to talk to him.”

  “Why, what’d he do?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” Shield replied, standing over the girl. “That’s why I want to see him.”

  “Good luck with that.” Gingras stared at the blank TV screen.

  “Where is he?”

  The girl shrugged. “Dunno.”

  “What time does he get back?”

  “Like, never. We broke up in November when I caught him screwing my best friend, like on our bed.”

  “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “The scumbag moved back to Boston.”

  “Do you have an address?” Talking to the girl was like pulling teeth.

  “Ipswich Street, ’cross from Fenway Park.”

  “Number?”

  “152, I think.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Whatever. Tell him I said I hope he rots in hell.”

  Shield had barely shut the door when the blare from the TV started up again.

  “Got anything yet on Weitman?” Shield asked Reno as she headed toward the highway.

  “He has a pretty extensive rap sheet for a twenty-six-year-old,” Reno replied. “Stole a car in his teens, lots of petty drug busts, then served a couple of years for breaking and entering. Nothing in the last year or so, however, and can’t find a current on him. No driver’s license, and he hasn’t filed taxes in the last couple of years. If it helps, most of his history—school, arrests and such—was in Boston.”

  “I’m headed there now. His girlfriend gave me an address. Send me his mug shot, and call me back if you get anything I can use.”

  *

  Dorchester, Massachusetts

  Dennis Weitman cursed aloud when the phone bleated again, jarring him from his near-coma slumber. He hadn’t gotten home until six that morning and had promptly passed out on the couch after a night of pill popping and sex. He fumbled for the receiver, trying not to tip off the couch. “What?”

  “Listen, stu
pid. Someone was just here asking about you. Not that I owe you any favors, loser, but I thought you might wanna know.”

  “Who is this?” Dennis scratched his balls, half-awake.

  “It’s Julie, you fool.”

  “Hey, Jules. What’s up, babe?”

  “Don’t babe me, and are you even listening? Some Secret Service woman named…something Kennedy is looking for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Something about you taking my shift at the golf club in October.”

  Dennis sat up. “What exactly did she say?”

  “Nothing. She just wanted to know where to find you.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I gave her an address near Fenway. Some girl’s I went to school with.”

  “Good. What did you tell her about that day?”

  “I didn’t tell her you made me call in sick, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Good. Good.”

  “Why is she looking for you?”

  “Don’t know, babe. Listen, I gotta go.”

  “Hey, wait. I—”

  Dennis hung up the landline and made a call from his unregistered cell. “Hey, it’s Weitman.”

  “I hope you have a good reason for calling this number.”

  “Some Secret Service chick named Kennedy is looking for me, asking about the golf club.”

  “Who has she contacted?”

  “My ex. The one I took the shift for.”

  “What did Ms. Gingras tell her?”

  Dennis frowned, surprised they even knew his ex’s name. “Julie gave the woman a fake address to get rid of her.”

  “I see.”

  “Listen, I don’t want any trouble with no Secret Service.”

  “Don’t panic, Mr. Weitman. We’ll take care of it.”

  “Damn right you will. Last thing I need is cops crawling up my ass.”

  “We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen. Keep a low profile until we find out what this is about.”

  “You know what this is about. Someone knows or someone talked. Either way, I just got paid to do a job. None of this is my shit to deal with.”

  “Thank you for notifying us. You have nothing to worry about. We’ll get back to you when we know something.”

  “Damn right you will.” Dennis hung up. “Motherfucker.” He kicked the coffee table and got up to shower.

  *

  A quick call to the airport confirmed there were no direct flights between Portland and Boston, so Shield decided to drive the hundred or so miles and arrived at Fenway about one in the afternoon. It didn’t take her long to determine the address that Gingras had given her was fake. Number 152 was a broken-down tenement, long unoccupied, that was due to be torn down to make way for a new parking lot. None of the area merchants recognized Dennis Weitman’s mug shot.

  Frustrated, she called Reno back. “The address I had is bogus. Got any leads where he might be?”

  “Weitman has no family to speak of,” Reno replied. “No one visited him in prison. But Harry Brinker—his cellmate when he was in the MCI-Norfolk facility—lives just outside Boston, and Weitman was registered at that address when he was released a year ago.”

  “Mail it to me, and a mug shot of Brinker.”

  “Coming your way.”

  “Talk to you later.” Shield hung up.

  She entered the address into her GPS and turned the car south. Thirty minutes later, she stood at the door of a tiny prefab house surrounded by a wire fence, in a slummy area of Dorchester. The house was tired and worn, and a large, balding beige patch served as lawn.

  Shield went up three steps to the small porch. As soon as she knocked, she heard movement from inside. “Mr. Brinker, please open up.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Agent Kennedy. I’m with the Secret Service.”

  Several seconds passed before an overweight man in his mid-thirties opened the door but left it on the chain. He wore soiled sweats, and a cigarette dangled from between his brown-stained fingers.

  Shield held up her ID. “I was hoping you could help me find Dennis Weitman.”

  “Dunno him.”

  “Your ex-cellmate. He registered your home as his address after his release.”

  “Oh, that Weitman. Yeah, he was here for a week, maybe. That was over a year ago.”

  “Do you know where he went after that?”

  “Nah, we didn’t stay in touch.” He was blinking so fast Shield was surprised he could see her.

  “Do you mind if I come in?”

  “What for?” Brinker asked. “He’s not here.”

  “I’d like to check that for myself.”

  “Do you have a warrant?”

  “No, but I can get one. All I want is to make sure he’s not in there.”

  The big guy took a quick look behind him and turned back to her. “I don’t think so. If you want to come in, I’m gonna have to see a warrant.”

  These were the times Shield regretted working under her own name instead of a cover. Under other circumstances, the door would be hanging on its hinges and the fat guy would be sweating on the couch with her gun in his face. Shield took a deep breath. “Look, I’m not here to make any trouble for you. I just need to talk to Dennis.”

  “What about?”

  “I want to ask him some questions about a past employer.”

  Brinker looked away briefly again. Shield was sure he was checking with Weitman about whether to let her in.

  “I’d help, lady, but I don’t kow where he is.”

  “Very well then, you don’t leave me a choice. I’ll be back in an hour.” Shield returned to her rental sedan, certain that it wouldn’t take long for Weitman to come running out, looking for a place to hide. She drove away and parked around the corner where her car would be concealed but positioned so she had a view of the front porch through the shrubbery.

  The door opened five minutes later and Brinker emerged to scan the area. His mouth moved; he said something aloud and then Weitman came out, small duffel bag and car keys in hand. He hurried to an older Plymouth and took off. Shield waited a few seconds to follow him.

  Weitman pulled onto the freeway and headed north at the speed limit, with Shield pacing him several cars behind. As they followed the signs toward Salem, rapidly eating up miles, she realized that the car directly behind the Plymouth—a silver Ford sedan—wasn’t following the natural flow of traffic, but was altering its speed to keep its position. Someone else was also following Weitman.

  Shield called Reno and asked him to trace the plates on the Ford. He reported back that it had been reported stolen an hour earlier.

  Weitman exited the freeway and turned into a deserted parking lot behind an after-hours strip joint. The silver sedan kept pace until he did, then continued down the road past the club.

  Shield grabbed her gun from the dash as she stepped on the gas and stopped right behind the Plymouth, trapping Weitman between her car and the wall of the building. She jumped out and pointed the gun at him. “Secret Service. Show me your hands.”

  “I’m unarmed,” he shouted, and put his hands on his head.

  “Get out of the car.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so.”

  “I have nothing to say.”

  Shield opened the door for him and grabbed him by the collar.

  “Chill,” he said, “I’m coming out.”

  “Keep your hands where they are.”

  “I didn’t do anything.” He slid out of the driver’s seat with his hands still on his head.

  “I want to talk about Thomas.”

  He leaned against the car. “I don’t know any Tho—”

  Weitman’s eyes went blank as blood oozed from a small hole that suddenly appeared above his left eyebrow. Almost simultaneously, Shield heard the muffled discharge of a weapon. As Weitman dropped to his knees in front of her, Shield immediately ducked and fired over the car in the direction where the gunshot had come from.
No more shots came her way, but she heard a car take off in the distance.

  Weitman lay limp on his side in front of the open door of the Plymouth, his eyes wide open and a growing puddle of blood under his head. So, the ex-girlfriend hadn’t been angry enough with him to not warn him. Too bad Weitman had to alarm whoever had hired him.

  Shield wasn’t exactly heartbroken by his demise, but she did regret not getting the chance to make him talk. She dialed 911 from the pay phone outside the club and told the operator a man was down and gave them the address. She wasn’t about to get involved or offer any information that would wake any sleeping dogs to her suspicions concerning Jeffrey Thomas’s death. So far, she had little to no proof, and any media and fed attention would lead to a wild goose chase that would only alarm those behind Thomas’s death and hamper her search.

  Whoever killed Weitman hadn’t stuck around to kill her as well. Either they hadn’t been ordered to or they didn’t want to stir up trouble by killing White House security—something that would certainly trigger an extensive investigation. Shield pulled out of the parking lot and took off in the direction she’d heard the car speed away. She was sure it was the silver sedan that had been following Weitman.

  She drove around for an hour before deciding to give up. Whoever had shot Weitman had probably ditched the stolen car.

  “Weitman’s dead,” she told Reno as she headed slowly toward Logan Airport, still watching out for the Ford.

  “You okay?” He sounded concerned.

  “I’m fine. They dropped him right in front of me just as he was getting out of the car.”

  “Before or after he gave you a name?”

  “Before.”

  “Did you see who shot him?”

  “They snipered him. I’m sure it was the guy from the stolen car. I tried to find him, but no luck.”

  “Crap. What do we do now?”

  “You’re going to book me on the next flight out of Logan. I have to get back to Washington.”

  “The president awaits.”

  “Yeah.” She heard Reno typing away at his computer in the background.

  “How is she to be around?”

  “She’s hard to read. High-strung most of the time.”

  “She’s pretty attractive for a president,” he said.