by Al Roker
“Grey Wilfred,” she said.
“Whatever the hell his name is, get him and Ralph (that would be Ralph Whitman, the company’s chief financial officer) and, of course, Marv, and have them in my office in an hour.”
“It’s early Sunday morning, Daddy,” she said.
“Oh. Right. Well, get ’em here in two hours. But first I want you to come with me to fix up my couch so I can take a little nap before they get here.”
Lee, Trina, and I watched the father and daughter leave the room.
“It ain’t easy being the princess in this castle,” Trina said.
“Easy or difficult, we make our own lives,” Lee said. She turned to me. “Well, chef, will you participate in the recovery of your friends, as requested?”
“You tell me,” I said. “Speaking as an expert charged with my safety.”
“Excuse me for interrupting,” Trina said, “but I have a more immediate concern: How exactly do we handle the news report of this kidnapping?”
“You don’t,” Lee said. “We say nothing until the participants are safe.”
“That may work for a Sunday,” Trina objected. “But tomorrow morning I’m responsible for two hours of live television. If Gin hasn’t been released by then, how exactly do we handle her absence?”
“How would you handle it if she came down with pneumonia?” Lee asked.
“I’d have her coanchor say precisely that at the top of the show.”
“Then do that. Say she’s come down with pneumonia. Or migraines or whatever malady is currently in fashion.”
“Lying to our audience,” Trina said. “A lovely way to maintain their trust.” She picked up the notepad in front of her, stood, and started to leave.
“A minute, please, Trina,” Lee said. “Assuming Ms. McCauley will be unavailable on Tuesday to interview my client, Goyal Aharon, who will take her place?”
“I will,” Trina said without hesitation. “Why?”
“Just curious,” Lee said, as if she wasn’t curious at all.
Trina continued to stare at her for a beat, then turned on her heel and left.
“What was that all about?” I asked.
Lee smiled. “Just a wager I had with myself.”
“Did you win or lose?” I asked.
“To reply to a more serious question of yours,” she said, “as someone responsible for your safety, ordinarily I would advise you to avoid any involvement in the kidnapping.”
“But?”
“If we fail to meet any of Felix’s demands, it is probable he will kill your friends.”
“There’s no guarantee he’ll let them live even if he gets his way. He may be luring me to a location where he can either kill all of us or kill my friends and leave me in a position to pay for their murders. Kind of a lose-lose situation, wouldn’t you say?”
She reached out a hand and patted my cheek. “Such negative thoughts.”
“How about some positive ones?”
She moved her hand to my ear, tracing it with her index finger. It was very distracting. Not that I was complaining.
“The best scenario would be for Felix to honor his contract with the commander and not harm any of you,” she said. “After all, fifteen million dollars for a few days’ work should trump whatever his employers are paying.”
“That brings up another question,” I said. “Why did Kelstoe hire him to give me trouble? I don’t even know the guy.”
“Ah, but is Carl Kelstoe Felix’s client?” she asked, almost playfully, as if she knew the answer to the question. She moved her chair closer so that her knees nudged mine.
“You don’t think he is?” I imagined I could feel a current running from her knees to mine.
“Let me explain something, my dear, sweet chef.” She moved even closer. Her finger continued to play with my ear. Her voice was soft and almost lyrical. But she was not singing love songs. “A decade ago, the company I work for, InterTec, was the largest and most respected security agency in the free world. It had achieved that position by hard work and fair play. At the time, Touchstone was a little one-room automobile repossession and home-guardian business in a shopping mall in Bismarck, North Dakota.
“When Carl Kelstoe retired from the U.S. Marines, he purchased Touchstone. Almost immediately, he took advantage of political cronyism, the bungled war effort, and the failure of conscience among America’s leadership to transform his company into Touchstone International, currently this country’s leading supplier of mercenary thugs, provocateurs, and torturers.
“I loathe the man and everything he stands for, Billy. But I have no reason to think that he has ever condoned premeditated murder.”
I reached up and took her hand away from my ear. “Then you don’t believe he had the commander’s son killed?”
“No.” She leaned back away from me, pulling her hand free of my fingers. “It’s possible that young Di Voss was assassinated and that one of Kelstoe’s hired thugs was involved. But I don’t believe he himself was.”
“Well, you’re the expert on crime. I’m just a guy who chats up celebrities and makes soufflés.”
“That’s not exactly true, is it?” she said.
“No?” I knew where this was headed.
“InterTec wrote the book on background checks. Which means, chef dear, I am aware of a time when your skills were more criminal than culinary.”
“You had me investigated?”
“No offense meant. Tell me you’ve never Googled anyone of interest?”
“I’m ‘of interest’?”
“All InterTec clients are of interest,” she answered. “I know of your … association with the late Paul Lamont, a confidence man and thief.”
“Paul was like my father, and, as thieves go, he was a fairly moral one. None of his marks were straight or his scams wouldn’t have worked. And he’d still be alive. Hell, if I’d been with him when … But I wasn’t.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It was not my intent to stir up unpleasant memories.”
“Really?” I said. “My guess is you thought that reminding me of my failure to save Paul’s life would soften me up when it came to saving Gin’s. I’d say you’re something of a con man yourself, Lee.”
“Perhaps,” she agreed.
“I’d already made up my mind to do whatever Felix wants.”
“So you were testing me.” She brightened. “That’s why we get along so well, chef. We are both con artists of a sort.”
“I’d rather put it that we think alike.”
“Then you must know that right now I am thinking that A.W. will have another night to himself.”
“You mean I’ll probably be dead by nighttime?” I said.
“No, you fool. I mean we—”
I kissed her to indicate I knew exactly what she meant.
Chapter
FORTY-FIVE
Bettina Noor drove me back to the Bistro, staying within the speed limit.
After a period of silence, she asked, “Am I not flexible?”
“Beats me. Maybe a yoga demonstration—”
“I just had a telephone discussion with A.W., and he accused me of being too inflexible. I have heard this before. Ken Foster, whom Ms. Franchette replaced, told me that I needed to be more flexible, that, in this business, it is something to be cherished. If, as I fear, I have been guilty of this criticism, I should adapt, don’t you think?”
“It couldn’t hurt,” I said. Events would prove me wrong, of course. They always do.
At the Bistro, Bettina took a deliberate circuit through the building, making sure all was secure. By the time she arrived at the kitchen, I had prepared eggs and sausages for our breakfast.
“I don’t eat flesh or feathers,” she informed me. “Anyway, I had my breakfast at five o’clock this morning.”
“Then it’s time for brunch,” I said.
“I do not eat brunch.”
“Just out of curiosity, what did you have for breakfast?�
�
“Vegetarian lentils and a gluten-free potato-flour biscuit. And one cup of tea, unsweetened.”
“Damn, girl. You know how to party!!” I said, using my fork to spear a section of egg and a chunk of sausage. “You bake that biscuit from scratch?”
Ignoring the question, she sat down on a high stool beside me at the kitchen counter and stared at the plate I’d prepared for her. “It seems absurd for us to keep people from trying to kill you,” she said, “while you’re killing yourself with cholesterol and fats.”
She pushed the plate away. “Anyway, I thank you for the breakfast, but I wish you had asked first. With so many starving, I hate to see any food, even this, go to waste.”
“I assure you it will not.” I drew her plate closer to me. “Tell me a little bit about Lee. What’s her story?”
“Her ‘story’? I should think you’d know more of that than I.”
“Humor me.”
“She’s a strong, dedicated woman of Asian and African ancestry who has achieved great success in a business not known for sexual or racial equality. I consider this a great opportunity to observe and learn from her firsthand.”
“You’ve never worked with her before?”
“I’m assigned domestic cases. Until quite recently, she’s been global. She was reassigned when our previous supervisor died. She seems considerably more adept at leadership than her unfortunate predecessor, judging by the security arrangements she has made for the Goyal Aharon book tour.”
“What’s so special about them?” I asked.
“Aharon’s book is fiction, and is therefore frivolous,” she replied. “However, because of his candor in discussing the many Mossad operations in which he participated, his life has been threatened by both pro- and anti-Israeli groups.”
“Sounds like nobody loves Goyal, except maybe his publisher. How many InterTeckies are assigned to him besides Lee?”
“Lee does the assigning,” she said, as if I’d insulted her boss. “She has designated the coverage as a four-and-four.”
“As opposed to my one-and-one?”
She nodded. “His security will be much more difficult, since the dangers are limitless and unknown. For example, bookstore signings would require from ten to twenty agents, depending on the size of the store and the number of exits. Therefore, his promotional appearances will be limited to only key stores and on-air interviews that can be carefully controlled.”
“Beginning on Tuesday with Wake Up, America!”
“Yes.” As if to stem further conversation, she hopped from the stool and said, “Excuse me, but I have reports to prepare and submit. And we may be summoned back to the WBC building at any moment.”
I finished my breakfast and most of hers, and left the dishes in one of the sinks for the dinner crew to deal with. Then I climbed the stairs to find her seated at the desk in my office, working at her laptop. Rather than disturb her, I backed away and went to my living quarters.
The bedroom looked sad and empty, as they do on those mornings. I felt tired but didn’t think I could sleep. Especially since I was on call. I replaced the linen and gave the blanket what Paul Lamont used to refer to as a “Navy tuck.” Then I shaved, showered, and dressed in gray slacks and a charcoal wool pullover.
I picked up my cellular, checking to make sure I hadn’t missed THE call while in the shower, as if Bettina would have allowed that. There were no messages.
I sat down on the newly made bed and stared at the phone in my hands. With nothing better to do, I brought up the photo I’d taken of the blackboard in Rudy’s kitchen. The reminders he’d left for himself seemed no less enigmatic then than they had last night. “Jewel for Berry9.” “Check: 1 or 2, F or OC?”
Could the F have been Felix? Then what was I to make of OC? There’d been a television show called The OC. About Orange County in Southern California, I thought. Hadn’t one or more of the actors dropped by our show? As everyone kept telling me, Rudy had not only lived TV, he’d loved it. Had he been planning to check for some connection between Felix and that show? Or maybe he thought Felix was born in the real Orange County. Or maybe the F didn’t stand for Felix at all.
“Ahem.”
Cassandra was standing in the doorway. “I just got the third degree from Little Miss Bollywood in your office,” she said. “What happened to Andrew?”
Andrew. A.W. to the world, but Andrew to Cassandra.
“He’s off-duty. You’re here a little early for a no-lunch day, aren’t you?”
“I was up. I figured I might as well …”
“… have breakfast with Andrew?”
“I was just … never mind.”
“You blushing?” I asked.
“Abso-fucking-lutely not!” she said, storming off down the hall.
How juvenile. To prove I was above that kind of childish behavior, I called out after her. “Cassandra and Andrew sittin’ in a tree … K-I-S-S-I-N-G …”
In response, one of Cassandra’s shoes came sailing back in my direction, just missing my head. She could’ve gone after our last President with an arm like that.
“Gonna be hard, walking around on one shoe!!”
It was nearing eleven a.m. on what was starting out to be the longest day of my life. I’ve never been very good at waiting, especially for a phone to ring. When it finally does, it’s never the person you want.
I went to the office to do busywork. Since Bettina was still using my desk, that consisted of straightening picture frames, gathering newspapers and tossing them, collecting scattered magazines into piles, and putting books back on their shelves.
“Did you want to sit here?” Bettina finally asked, after I’d opened the desk drawer on her left to put away a bunch of business cards I’d collected from the various shelves.
“Not really,” I said.
That’s when I noticed the stack of Rudy’s DVDs still in the drawer. I wondered how late Melody and her roommate slept in on a Sunday morning.
Chapter
FORTY-SIX
“Who is this Melody Moon?” Bettina asked as she parked her hybrid in front of Melody’s apartment building.
“A friend. I’ll just run in, drop these off, and come right out.”
“These” were the Rudy DVDs.
“I’m coming in, too,” Bettina said.
“It’ll go quicker if you don’t, and you might get a ticket,” I said, leaving the car before she could argue about it.
Melody answered the buzzer wearing tan slacks, a bright-red sweater with silvery dots circling the neck and wrists, and a puzzled expression.
“Sorry to bother you on a Sunday morning,” I said, holding the DVDs behind my back.
“That’s okay,” she said. “Rita and I were just getting ready for a drive to Sag Harbor.”
“I won’t keep you, then,” I said, bringing the disks around and handing them to her. “I just dropped by to give you these.”
“Ohmigod,” she said, “Rudy’s shows. Come in, please, chef. Have a cup of coffee.”
She opened the door wide and I saw Rita Margolis perched on the maroon pressed cardboard sofa, glaring at me, a cup of something in one hand. She was dressed in white slacks and a matching white jacket over an orange T-shirt with a comic character I didn’t recognize at its center. A little winged man smoking a cigar and wearing a brown porkpie hat and a brown suit.
“Hi, chef,” she said. “Get those paint stains off your car yet?”
“Paint stains?” I repeated stupidly.
“I’ve seen the picture on the Internet,” she said. “I never would have guessed you for a run-and-gunner.”
“I’m not,” I said.
“Well, the Cheetah sure is. I was wondering what she was up to, sitting parked in that Hummer at the museum. I mean, the superheroes were supposed to be inside.”
“You got a good look at the Cheetah?” I said.
“I …” Rita paused, distracted by something behind me.
Bettina. “
Hi,” she said. “I’m Billy’s … friend.”
“Please come in,” Melody said, ever the perfect hostess. “I was getting Billy a cup of coffee. Can I get you one?”
“We won’t have time,” Bettina said. “I got the call, Billy.”
“Just a minute,” I said, turning back to Rita.
“This the Cheetah?” Rita asked. “I thought she was taller.”
“You think the Cheetah was a woman?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. Don’t you know who it was?”
“Billy,” Bettina said, “we’re wanted.”
“Right,” I said, keeping my eyes on Rita. “No. I don’t know who was wearing that costume.”
“Weird. Fact is, there was something weird about the costume, too. I’m not sure what. I’m not the world’s greatest Cheetah fan, like the boys at the museum. But there was definitely something off.”
“Like what?”
“I’d have to check the original art.”
“Would you?”
“We have to go, Billy,” Bettina said.
“It’s very important,” I said to Rita.
I must have gotten the point across, because she said, “They have some art at the museum. I’ll check it out when I’m there. Call me tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thanks,” I said. “We’ve got to run.”
“It was sweet of you to bring the DVDs,” Melody said. “How much do I—”
“No, they’re gifts,” I said. “My pleasure.”
“Come on, Billy.” Bettina grabbed my arm and almost dragged me from the room.
“You were rude up there,” I said to Bettina once we were back in her Camry.
“Really,” she said, zipping through the Sunday-morning traffic. “Tattooed people make me uncomfortable. And besides, she’s much too young for you. Both of them are.”
“Rita saw Felix,” I said.
“Oh,” Bettina said. “The figure in costume you were talking about?”
“If she and my driver are correct, and I suspect they are, Felix is a woman.”
“That might explain why she has been so successful,” Bettina said.