The Big One

by Harrison Arnston

  Except Ted wasn’t the average person.

  Now the car was sitting next to the curb, probably with the mirror arranged to allow them a clear look at him. So be it.

  “This happened after you talked to your friends in Washington?” Ted asked.

  “Within three hours,” Frank said.

  “OK … Frank … stay put. Don’t come out here just yet. You’ve got access to a hell of a lot of information that I may need to tap. Besides, there’s nothing you can do to help me here. The less people in on this the better. What did you find out about the payouts?”

  There was a grunt at the other end of the line. “Ted, babe,” Frank said, almost in agony, “I just finished telling you this line might be bugged.”

  “That’s OK. What’d you find out?”

  The respect that Frank Leach demanded was already there. A respect earned through months of working together. A respect that was mutual. Right now, the man might not understand what was going through his employee’s mind, but he was going to honor his wishes. “Not much,” he said, after a short pause. “Whoever carries the freight on Dalton Research doesn’t belong to the pool or the association. I’ve got some feelers out with some other people, but so far, I ain’t got squat. I can’t seem to find out anything on Dalton either.”

  He paused for a moment and then said, “Ted, this is really getting creepy, babe. I don’t know what you’re into, but it’s serious, you know?”

  Ted sighed and looked at the gray car again. “I know, Frank. Look in your directory and see if there’s a company called …” He mentioned the name of the company that had issued the check to Terry.

  “Hold on.”

  After a short pause, Frank returned to the phone and said, “No such animal, babe.”

  “It figures. OK. Keep plugging. Obviously, we’ve got some people nervous. See what else you can find out. I’ll get back to you tomorrow.”

  “Ted! I still think I should come out there. Whatever you’re into, you could use some help.”

  “Frank,” Ted said, almost pleading, “I appreciate the concern, but there’s nothing you can really do here. If you want to help, stay put. Find out what’s going on in Washington. Find out why they’re so nervous.”

  There was another pause and then, “I think you already know the answer to that one. Take care, babe.”

  “I will.”

  Ted hung up the phone and walked towards the gray car. When he was beside it, he reached down, opened the rear door and climbed in. Two very startled men turned and glared at him. One of them said, “You outta your mind, Mac? Get the fuck outta the car.”

  “As soon as you tell me why the FBI is on my case,” Ted replied, his voice flat and cold.

  The two men looked at each other and then back at Ted. They were both wearing suits and ties, so they weren’t the usual undercover types. The one who had spoken, the driver, said, “You’re nuts! Get outta the car or we’ll call the cops.”

  They were both young. Probably fresh out of the academy. Too young for the name Kowalczyk to ring any bells.

  “Is George Belcher still RAC in San Jose?” Ted asked.

  The eyes told him what he wanted to know.

  “Who?” the driver asked, too late.

  “My name is Ted Kowalczyk,” Ted said. “I used to be with the bureau, in L.A. George was an agent then. Why don’t we go and talk to him. Maybe we can straighten this out.”

  Again, they looked at each other, seemingly mystified. Then, the driver, weary of the charade, grabbed the radio mic from under the dash and pressed the “talk” button.

  “Central, this is thirty-four.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Patch me through to Belcher.”

  “Stand by.”

  In a moment, Ted heard a voice he recognized. “Go ahead, thirty-four.”

  “Sir, we have the subject in the car. He wants to talk to you. Should we bring him in?”

  There was a pause and then a short laugh. “He made you?”

  Ted could see the blush on the man’s cheeks. “I’m afraid so, sir.”

  “OK. Talk to you soon, Ted.”

  George Belcher was all smiles when Ted entered his office. He stuck out his hand and gripped Ted’s firmly, then slapped him on the shoulder.

  He was older than Ted by two years, but looked younger, almost baby-faced. His eyes were alive with good humor, a rarity in people with jobs like his. He was tall and slim and seemed like a rich man’s son cruising through life on a free pass. His blue suit was well tailored and expensive. He looked like anything but a cop.

  It was all a carefully crafted illusion. George Belcher was, to the unknowing, a highly intelligent, hard-nosed agent with a diffuse proclivity for the psychological aspects of police work. He had stated, on many occasions, his professed belief that good humor and a pleasant demeanor were essential elements in a successful interrogation. That more people would talk to a man who appeared to be a potential ally than one who was an obvious enemy. It was a philosophy that wasn’t shared by many of his colleagues, but it seemed to work for him. The persona he’d developed was an affectation that was so well done, it almost seemed natural. Only those who’d had the experience of working with him knew of the darker side that lay beneath the surface of the man.

  He was, despite his appearance, a true manic-depressive, fighting every step of the way to control his wild mood swings. The affected affability was born of necessity, not ego.

  “So … how’ve you been?”

  It was as though they were meeting in the park. A chance encounter between two old associates. Ted wasn’t having any of it. It had been a long and disconcerting day.

  “George,” he said evenly, his eyes narrowing, “what’s going on?”

  Belcher stood behind his desk and motioned to the two chairs sitting in front of it. “Take a load off, Ted. Can I get you anything?”

  “Just some answers.”

  “I don’t really know what to tell you. We got a flash from Washington asking us to keep you in sight and report. You apparently mentioned the name of an outfit that’s supposed to be a big secret, which made some people in the Pentagon nervous. They want to know what you’re up to. They told us you’d probably try to contact somebody named Shubert. We staked out the guy’s office and sure enough, there you were. I don’t know a thing, other than that. Maybe you can tell me what’s going on.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it,” George said, his face the picture of innocence. “No shit. When I saw your name I practically freaked. Last I heard, you were in L.A. with an insurance company. What’s happening?”

  The face had lost the jovial look. The false persona had been stripped away, now that they were alone. The look in the eyes was one of concern. Genuine concern. Self-involved concern.

  Ted took a seat. “Well,” he began, “it’s a long story.”

  “For you,” George said, trying in vain not to make it sound treacly, “I’ve got all day.”

  I’ll bet you do, thought Ted.

  “Well,” Ted said, “I don’t mind telling you what’s happening. Yesterday, I received a letter from an old friend of mine from college days, guy by the name of Tommy Wilson. He said he was doing some research for the National Disaster Alert Team, NADAT for short, and he was getting nervous. A friend of his, involved in similar research, had died under what Tommy took to be mysterious circumstances and he was getting a little paranoid.

  “So, I decided to give him a call. Just to chill him out a little, you know. Make him feel better. Unfortunately, he was already dead.”

  As he said it, he watched the eyes of George Belcher very carefully. They reacted the way he expected they would. It was a bad sign.

  “We weren’t close,” he continued, “but I felt obligated to at least look into it. You’d do the same, if you were in my shoes.”

  George nodded. “I sure as hell would. Jesus! You find anything?”

  “Yeah, I did. You really want to h
ear about this?”

  The interest seemed intense. “Damn right!”

  Ted pursed his lips for a moment while he thought about what he would say next. He wanted to choose his words carefully. “I’ve only been on this half a day, but already, there are lots of things that don’t add up.”

  “Like?”

  “Well, for one thing, I talked to the locals and they can’t account for the seven or eight hours immediately prior to Tommy’s death, which was supposedly an auto accident. But they closed the case anyway, without talking to the last person to see Tommy alive, which, according to them, was this Shubert guy.”

  As he talked, he discerned that none of this was news to George Belcher. The realization gave him a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Belcher was part of the cover-up. How deep did it go?

  “I don’t have to tell you how weird that is,” Ted continued. “Then I found out that the insurance company paid off on Tommy’s life insurance so fast it would make your head spin, but the data bank at the insurance association we belong to has no record of it. And then I talked to my boss in Hartford who started making inquiries in Washington about this secret disaster team and all of a sudden, you guys are on my tail. Mighty strange, don’t you think?”

  Belcher smiled and said, “We didn’t do all that well, did we?”

  Ted smiled himself. It was time for some stroking. “Oh, I don’t know. If I had to guess, I’d say that you were pretty curious when you got the instructions to keep an eye on me. I’d say that you told your guys to make sure I spotted them, so I’d come here and make your job a lot easier. I’d say that whoever sent the orders didn’t take the trouble to check on whether or not we knew each other. If they had, they would have given the assignment to someone else.”

  George tried to look hurt. “No way, Ted. I was playing it straight all the way. Who’s this guy Shubert?”

  “He’s the local NADAT man. The secret outfit. National Disaster Alert Team.”

  Belcher thought about it for a moment and then asked, “What exactly did Wilson say he was working on?”

  “He didn’t,” Ted answered. “But I know he was a seismologist, so I assume it had something to do with earthquakes.”

  “Earthquakes? And he was working for this NADAT outfit?”

  “No. He was working for a company called Dalton Research. He just said that he was requested to make a report to Shubert, who he said was the NADAT man. I have no idea what was in the report.”

  Belcher chewed on his lower lip a moment and then shook his head. “This really sucks, Ted. Naturally, we can’t get involved in investigating your friend’s death, at least not at this point. If you dig up some evidence to indicate that things aren’t kosher, that might change things. We have to be careful not to upset the locals, as you well know. Right now, you don’t have enough. But I can try and find out what has the Pentagon so interested.”

  “No need,” Ted said, “I already know.”

  Again, the eyes gave him away. “You do?”

  “Certainly,” Ted said. “NADAT killed him for reasons unknown, and now they’re trying to cover it up. They want you guys to keep an eye on me and if I get too close, they’ll move in and take me out. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that one out.”

  Belcher looked like someone had kicked him in the groin. Almost breathlessly, he said, “Those are pretty serious allegations, Ted. You’re practically accusing a government agency of murder!”

  “I’m not practically accusing them. I am accusing them. Just between you and me, of course. I know you’ll respect that.”

  If anything, the shortness of breath was getting worse. “I do, I do,” Belcher said, too quickly. “But Jesus! You’re putting yourself out on a hell of a limb.”

  “I realize that. But there’s no other answer. Nothing else makes sense.” He pulled out the bottom half of the settlement check Terry had given him and handed it to George. “This,” he said, “is the payout given to Tommy’s ex-wife. I checked. The insurance company doesn’t exist. And yet they gave her fifty thousand dollars. That make any sense to you?”

  Belcher just stared at him for a moment. Then he asked, “Mind if I hold on to this?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Make a copy, if you like.”

  Belcher did just that. When he returned to the office, Ted was standing. Belcher handed him back the check stub and said, “What now?”

  “Well,” Ted said, pocketing the check stub, “I still have a few people to talk to. Why don’t we do it this way? I’ll nose around and call you at least once a day, giving you a full report. That way, you can save some manpower and I’ll be able to get more done. The next guys on my tail might not be yours. If I know that, I’ll be able to take care of it. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to somebody because of a misunderstanding.”

  The smile returned to Belcher’s face and the eyes took on their innocent look again. “I like that. I like that a lot. You’ll keep in touch?”

  “Yeah. You’ll drop the tail?”

  “No problem, Ted. No problem at all.”

  “OK.”

  “Good to see you again, Ted. I mean it. You’re looking really great. Fit as a fiddle. It’s nice to see.”

  “Thanks, George. I’ll be in touch. Oh …”

  “Yes?”

  “How about a ride back to my car.”

  George Belcher grinned and said, “No problem.”

  Ted watched the FBI car pull away after depositing him outside the offices of Jason Shubert, then went inside. The office was still closed. He went back outside and hit the pay phone again. He called Terry at work and the sound of her voice lifted his spirits. She sounded surprised and happy to hear from him. “I hope you’re still planning on coming for dinner,” she said, cheerily.

  “I’m looking forward to it,” he said. “Right now, I need a little information.”

  “Yes?”

  “Who’s a real authoritative expert on earthquakes around here? I’m looking for someone who’s not connected with anybody official, like the Geological Survey or Dalton. Maybe somebody retired. An ex-professor, somebody like that. Oh … and they would need to be able to keep a secret.”

  “A secret? What kind of secret?”

  “I’ll tell you over dinner,” he said.

  “I know just the person,” she said, without hesitation. “There’s a woman named Glenda Wickshire. Dr. Wickshire, actually. She’s retired now, but she comes to the campus often, to give lectures, things like that. Really fascinating woman. What she doesn’t know about earthquakes isn’t worth knowing. She lives in Palo Alto. Hold on and I’ll get you her address.”

  In a minute she was back with the address. Ted wrote it down.

  “What can you tell me about her?” he asked.

  “Well … she and Tommy used to be friends. Then he stopped seeing her … and everyone else for that matter. She’s a spinster lady, an academic who was a geology professor for thirty years at least. She’s got a good mind and she’s still very sharp. As for her personality, she’s tough. Independent. She’s been a consultant off and on for years with various groups, but never stuck with any of them. I’m afraid she doesn’t suffer fools gladly, as they say.”

  Just the ticket, he thought.

  “Thanks, Terry. I appreciate it. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” she said, her voice betraying her curiosity.

  Ted hung up the phone and started walking towards the parking lot where he’d parked his car some hours ago. He got in and drove aimlessly for a few minutes, making a lot of turns, using alleys, side streets and main thoroughfares. It didn’t take him long to spot the tail.

  He parked the car in another lot and headed inside a hotel, baggage in hand. Minutes later, the baggage checked, he was in the alley behind the hotel, using his credentials to gain access to the rear of a dry-cleaning establishment. Then he was out on another street, hailing a cab and heading for the nearest car rental a
gency.

  He paid the cabby an extra twenty to go and get his bags while he signed for another car.

  Then, his bags in the trunk of the new car, he went through the same procedure, his eyes carefully scanning in front and behind.

  The tail was gone, but the anger was building. It was deep, this cover-up. Very deep. It was going to make things difficult.

  Twelve

  * * *

  Dr. Glenda Wickshire lived in a small home nestled in the residential hills of Palo Alto. She answered the door with a small poodle in her arms and a twinkle in her eye.

  “Yes?” she said, speaking through the mesh of the locked screen door.

  “My name is Ted Kowalczyk,” Ted said, holding up his card so she could read it through the screen. “I wonder if I might talk to you for a few minutes.”

  She peered at the card through half-glasses perched on the end of her nose and said, “Insurance? I’m afraid not, young man.” The twinkle had gone out of her eye.

  “I’m not a salesman, Dr. Wickshire,” he said, smiling. “I’m an investigator. I’m looking into the death of a seismologist named Thomas Wilson.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “I understood that Thomas’s death was investigated by the police and … What exactly do you want, Mr. Kowalsick?”

  “Kowal … sis … ick,” he corrected. “Doctor, I realize you’re busy. I won’t take long.”

  She was a tall woman in her mid-seventies. Still handsome, with deep lines etching her face, particularly around the eyes. Her gray hair was piled atop her head and held by a flowered band. Her makeup was fastidiously and artfully applied. Even the hands that held the dog were carefully manicured, the nails polished in a clear lacquer. She was a woman who looked after herself as a natural part of living, like many older women who had always been considered beautiful.