And Ted, after six months of intensive rehabilitation, both physical and mental, had quietly left the FBI and taken a job with Connecticut Mutual, supposedly whole again.
He wasn’t even close to being whole. But he was trying.
They’d told him there was no way he could have known. No way anyone could have known. The woman had never been investigated, had not been known to be involved with her father. An oversight not uncommon. It was just a freak coincidence, they’d insisted, that the woman and Ted had been in the same restaurant at that particular moment.
But he had trouble with the rationale.
He should have known. At the very least, he should have reacted sooner. He’d been trained to be observant and when it counted most, he’d let it get past him. He was supposed to protect the public from the crazies, and most of all, themselves. Above all, he was supposed to protect his family. And he hadn’t done that. He’d failed. His work had cost them their lives. His mistakes had killed them.
And he was still alive.
He was too hard on himself, they said.
They were wrong. It was obvious now that God had chosen this time to punish him. Why else would Tommy have burdened him with this fearsome responsibility? Why else would this terrible knowledge be thrust into his hands? Why else would Ted Kowalczyk be sitting in this motel room trying to figure out his next step? It was punishment, pure and simple.
Or … was it his chance for redemption?
He shaved and put on fresh clothes. Then he phoned Frank Leach in Hartford.
“Where the hell are you?” were the first words out of the man’s mouth. He sounded upset.
“I’m in San Jose,” Ted replied, fully awake and craving a cup of coffee.
“What’s in San Jose? Just what the hell is going on?”
“Frank … I can’t say just yet,” Ted said. “I told you that yesterday. What’s got your motor running this morning?”
“Listen, babe,” Frank barked, “I did like you asked, started asking some questions and I’m tellin’ you, there’s something fishy goin’ on here.”
Ted was all ears. “I’m listening,” he said.
“First, you gotta tell me what the hell rumor you heard. You can’t leave me in the dark like this. You just can’t. It’s driving me crazy!”
For a moment, Ted mulled the idea around in his mind. On the one hand, Frank Leach was a man he could trust. That had been proven several times. Maybe he should tell Frank everything and let him decide what to do.
“Ted?”
No … he couldn’t do that. It was a cop-out.
“Frank,” he said, “I’ll fill you in on everything as soon as I have a handle on it, but right now I just can’t. You’ve got to go along with me on this. I need your help. I don’t ask for it that often.”
He could hear the sound of his own voice. It seemed to be begging. For a few moments, there was silence and then he heard Frank say, “OK. OK. But you keep stallin’ me and I’m comin’ out there. Understand?”
“Understand.”
“These guys at AAIS,” Frank said, speaking of his contacts in one of the monolithic insurance associations, “are really nervous. They don’t want to talk about earthquakes or earthquake insurance. All of a sudden, it’s like some dirty word with them. But I managed to find out some things.”
AAIS was only one of the associations that Connecticut Mutual belonged to. It was an association that lobbied, on behalf of its members, various government bodies on pending legislation. In addition it provided generic advertising for the industry as a whole. It also maintained a data bank on every individual or corporation that had ever applied for insurance of any kind, which it shared with other associations.
Exchanges of information were routine, made in the interests of preventing fraud, such as supposedly stolen automobiles that got pushed into some river in the hope that a killing could be made on the insurance. Frauds perpetrated by surprisingly stupid people who took out four different policies on the same car and thought the companies wouldn’t find out. Insurance fraud was one of the most common crimes committed by Americans and one that the industry was constantly trying to stamp out.
AAIS was only one of several organizations that maintained a data bank containing scraps of information gleaned from hundreds of sources. Most Americans didn’t realize it, but somewhere information on almost every facet of their lives was stored on thin strips of magnetic tape. Extensive information that would astonish them, if they knew.
The information was available to any member of the organization. Every job they’d ever held was listed. Information on every car, home or major purchase they’d ever made. A list of their credit cards and information on how they paid them. Their various wives, husbands, even lovers. Lists of children, grandchildren, habits, any criminal activities, even the comments of some of their neighbors, old and new. Records of any health problems. Pages of information that helped an army of underwriters determine whether someone was a good risk.
Or not.
“You found out some things? Like what?” Ted asked.
“Like the fact that the deductible on earthquake insurance is due to go up again real soon. Maybe to twenty-five percent. Even in the face of the hearings. That’s almost asking for it.
“They went after the feds to try and get back-up and got turned down flat. There’s no pool on this stuff, Ted. Everybody covers their own. Near as I can tell, some of these guys would be wiped out if there was a real bad quake. They don’t have near enough the reserves to cover the losses. All of the numbers were crunched with a moderate earthquake in mind. Now, it looks like they’re worried about covering their asses.
“If I had to make a guess, I’d say that your rumor concerns the big quake that everybody talks about. Maybe it’s coming sooner than we think. Like next week. And maybe it’s gonna be a lot worse than anybody figured. These guys are all acting like rats trying to jump ship. It’s like they know sumthin’ and can’t talk about it. And the hearings don’t seem to concern them at all, even though it won’t be pretty. That fit in with what you’re after?”
Ted grunted. “Yeah, that helps a lot,” he said. “I need a couple of more things.”
“I had a feeling.”
“Two people. A guy named Vance Gifford. Another one named Thomas Wilson. Both worked for Dalton Research, an earthquake research company in Menlo Park. I need to know the details of any life payouts. Everything you can get. You should be able to get that from central data.”
“Earthquake research? They weren’t your clients?”
“No.”
“What’s your interest?”
“Tommy was an old friend of mine. I’m just curious.”
“Yeah, sure. Anything else?”
“Yeah,” Ted said. “Check with your pals in Washington and see if they ever heard of a Pentagon outfit called NADAT. It means National Disaster Alert Team. It’s supposed to be a secret outfit, but you know Washington. Got it?”
He could hear Frank take a deep breath. “Ted,” he said, “you’re messing around in heavy water here. Why don’t you level with me? I can do you more good if I know what the hell you’re really after. Besides, we’re carrying life and disability on about sixteen thousand people in California. Even with the pool, if there was a real bad quake, there’s a chance we could lose our ass. If you know something, you’ve got to share it with me. I’m talking about our survival here, babe. You got an obligation, you know?”
Ted could feel the genuine concern in the man’s voice. “I know,” he said. “I’ve just started looking into this thing. Give me a chance to get my facts straight before I shoot off my mouth, will you?”
“No way, babe. If you know something, you should tell me now.”
For a moment, Ted said nothing, his ear filled with the sound of a dull rush from the microwave equipment that moved the signal across the country. Then, he said, “Frank … you’re a pretty smart guy. You know what you’ve heard with your own ears. Let that be your gu
ide.”
“Jesus Christ!” Frank exploded. “Stop playing games with me!”
“That’s all I’ve got to say right now,” Ted said as he quietly hung up the phone.
He leaned back in a chair, thinking over what had been said during the conversation with Frank and matching that with what he already knew.
Earthquake insurance was something that was available to residents of certain states, particularly California. There were a few restrictions. Like deductible, for instance. The deductible figure had already been increased from 5 percent to 10 percent. That meant that if a house was valued at $300,000, the first $30,000 worth of damage would not be covered. The raise in deductibles had been done without formal announcement, but had still managed to create a furor. A further increase would just add fuel to the fire, but the carriers were going to do it regardless of the consequences. That smacked of desperation.
There was no pool, Frank had said. That meant that each insurance company was responsible for their own loss, instead of the loss being divided among various companies in a pool. It seemed to point to one thing. The insurance companies were acting as though they knew a major quake was coming. Soon. They knew about it and so did state and federal government people, or so it appeared.
Tommy had said his work was classified Top Secret.
It seemed to Ted that much of what was in the report was no longer a secret. And yet, aside from what Frank perceived as mild panic within the insurance industry, not much was happening.
Why not?
The old thoughts came back in a rush.
He removed the envelope he’d previously put in his briefcase, the one containing the copy of Tommy’s report, and set it on the desk. Then he took another manila envelope and addressed it to his personal attorney, Sam Hughes. He wrote a short note to Sam and put the note and the report inside the envelope he’d just addressed. He sealed it and mailed it on his way out of the hotel.
But not before he checked out.
Originally, he’d planned on staying in one spot a few days, while he investigated the sudden death of Tommy, among other things. But a sudden hunch, a sixth sense, told him to check out.
He’d wanted to send the report to Frank, but it wasn’t fair. The man’s curiosity was burning him up. Asking him to hold on to the report without looking at it constituted cruel and unusual punishment. Besides, Frank simply wouldn’t do it. Not for a minute. There were limits to trust.
A little over three hours later, Ted was seated in the reception area of the Menlo Park police station, waiting to see a sergeant named Drucker.
Inside his briefcase were copies of two death certificates, one for Vance Gifford, the other for Tommy Wilson. Both had been obtained at the county courthouse. They had two things in common. Both men had worked at Dalton Research and both death certificates were signed by the same M.E. Coincidence? Maybe. Maybe not.
Also tucked away in the briefcase was a copy of the official police report on the death of Tommy Wilson. Nothing was available on the death of Vance Gifford, because the man had died of natural causes. It wasn’t a police matter. At least, not at the moment.
The uniformed policeman behind the counter barked his name and Ted headed for the counter.
“Sergeant Drucker can see you now. His office is upstairs, third one on the left. Name’s on the door.”
Ted thanked him and moved over to a set of double doors that led into the office area. A buzzer sounded and he pulled one of the doors open. In these crazy days, even police stations had to take precautions. Ted’s briefcase had been searched earlier, his credentials examined and his licensed semi-automatic taken away for safekeeping.
Sergeant Alvin Drucker was a portly man in his mid-forties, his face and demeanor not much different than most cops who’d been on the job more than a few years. His eyes had that world-weary look of resignation, with a touch of wariness for strangers, no matter who they were. Most cops were xenophobic, an occupational disease that affected even Ted. Drucker’s jowls made him look older than he was and the carelessness with which he shaved them, along with the frayed collar on his shirt, gave him a slovenly appearance which he tried to overcome by applying large quantities of cheap aftershave. His body seemed to be in a permanent slouch, even when standing. The mouth turned down at the corners, reflecting a pessimistic attitude that was probably a self-fulfilling prophecy.
“What can I do for you, Kowalczyk?”
The way he pronounced the name was another tip-off that the man had been around. So had the cop in the reception area. Veteran cops can speak small sentences in many languages. But most of all, they know how to pronounce names correctly in almost every language. It’s a thing with cops.
They were both standing. Ted handed the man his card. Drucker glanced at it and then threw it on the desk. Without suggesting that Ted take a seat, he said, “So?”
“I’m investigating the death of Tommy Wilson. According to the …”
Drucker cut him off. “What do you mean, you’re investigating the death of Tommy Wilson?” His eyes were suddenly hard and mean.
“You have a problem with that?” Ted shot back.
“You bet your ass I do.” Drucker said. “Your company’s got nothin’ to do with this.”
“How do you know that?”
Drucker’s eyes widened and his cheeks began to flush. “Look, asshole, I been at this awhile, so don’t try to con me. What’s your angle?”
“I don’t have an angle, Sergeant. I told you that I’m investigating the death of Tommy Wilson and that’s what I’m doing. I’m not required to share with you my reasons, since this is a closed case at the moment. But you, being a public servant, are required to cooperate with me. If you choose not to, I’ll include that in my report.”
“What report?” Drucker yelled.
Ted stood his ground. “What’s the problem, Drucker? You act like a man with something to hide.”
The heavy jowls quivered slightly as the man fought to control his temper. “Sergeant Drucker,” he corrected. “I need your action like a hole in the head,” he said. “What is it?”
“Tell me about the accident,” Ted said.
“You got a copy of the accident report. What else is there?”
“You know as well as I do that no written report covers everything,” Ted replied. “You were the investigating officer. I want to hear it from you.”
“Hear what?”
“OK. There were no skid marks. The autopsy report says there were no signs of drugs or booze. It’s a road the man was familiar with, even though it was ten miles from his home. What was he doing there? How come this time he falls asleep and goes over the side? How come the car burns to a crisp? Doesn’t that strike you as just a little convenient?”
Drucker rolled his eyes and sat heavily in his worn leather chair. “Jesus Christ! The insurance company that took the hit didn’t find anything wrong. They paid off without a peep. What makes you so suspicious?”
Ted looked at the chair in front of the desk and decided against using it. He wanted to intimidate this man. Remaining standing, looming over him, was what was called for here. “I find it strange,” he said, “that the insurance company acted with such haste. I find it strange that Tommy had two different policies payable to two different people. I find it strange that he wanted to be cremated. I find it strange that the dental charts were available within fourteen hours for the purpose of identification.
“In fact,” he continued, “I find so many strange things about this death that I’m about to make it my life’s work.”
Drucker looked confused. “What’s your interest in this? Really?”
“He was an old friend of mine,” Ted answered.
A look of relief seemed to wash over the man’s face. “So. He was a friend of yours.”
It was a statement that, for Drucker, explained everything. He was dealing with a person who’d lost his objectivity, as was often the case in the sudden death of friends. They always
thought there was something suspicious. It was a personal thing with this guy. That made more sense. He decided to be benevolent.
“Have a seat,” he said, struggling hard to work up a smile.
Ted sat down.
“Coffee?”
Ted nodded.
Drucker poured coffee into two foam cups from a pot that sat on a small table beside three green filing cabinets. He handed one of the cups to Ted.
It was fresh and astonishingly good for cop coffee, thought Ted.
“There’s really nothin’ strange about this deal,” Drucker said, putting his elbows on the desk and trying to look avuncular, which for him wasn’t easy. “There weren’t any witnesses, which is unfortunate, but we’ve been able to piece it together pretty good. We talked to some people he worked with and they said he was working very hard. He was tired a lot.”
“Did they see him that night?”
“No. They said he had a meeting with some government people in the afternoon. Late. Around five.”
“Did you talk to them?”
“Who?”
“The government people.”
“No. We never found out who they were.”
“So … who was the last person to see Tommy alive that you’ve talked to?”
Drucker made a sour face and sipped some of the coffee. “Look,” he said. “One of the problems here is that the man was working on very secret stuff. We don’t know who he talked to and there’s no way we can find out. It’s all classified.”
“I can tell you who they were.”
“What?” The look on his face was a mixture of genuine astonishment and fear. A look that was not lost on Ted.
“He was working for an outfit called the National Disaster Alert Team,” Ted said, continuing to observe the reaction. “His meeting was with them that afternoon. Nobody saw him alive after that.”
Drucker’s eyes narrowed into thin slits. “How do you know?”
Ted almost smiled at him. Almost. “I’m an investigator,” he said. “It’s my job.”
“You said it was personal.”
“I didn’t say that. I said he was a friend of mine.”
The Big One Page 10