by Otho Eskin
There’s no point in telling Fletcher I already know that Victoria West was murdered. I need to know why this woman is so certain.
“How are you so sure?”
“Because I’ve known Vickie for years. She could not have killed herself. That means she was murdered. I thought you should know that.”
We sit in the police department’s waiting room, an area we sometimes use to meet with visitors who aren’t serial killers. Its inoffensive decorations are meant to convey the message that the police department is more than prison cells and torture chambers. The nice upholstery and pretty pictures of our national parks probably fool no one.
“Was Victoria West right-handed or left-handed?” I ask.
Cynthia Fletcher looks at me with some annoyance as if I made a bad joke, then closes her eyes as people do when I ask that question, trying to reconstruct a remembered image. “Right-handed, I’m pretty sure,” she says at last.
“Were you close to Vickie?” I ask.
“That’s not any of your business.”
“Were you close, Miss Fletcher?” I repeat. “And it is my business.”
“I came here to talk with you. On my own volition. I didn’t expect to be treated like a common criminal.” She takes a deep breath. “We were close.”
“Why were you at the theater the night Vickie died?” I ask. “You’re not a member of the cast or crew.”
“I was there to see to Vickie’s flowers.”
“Tell me about the flowers.”
“On opening nights, I always bring a bouquet of two dozen, long-stemmed red roses. She loved roses.”
I remember the bouquet of roses I planned to give her the last time I saw her. The bouquet I crushed under my foot.
“Vickie had to have roses on opening nights. Always two dozen. It was a kind of ritual for her.”
“Where did you put the flowers during her performance?”
“I left them in Vickie’s dressing room until it was time to pick them up and get them for her final bow.”
“Did Vickie have a laptop computer?”
“Of course.”
“We searched her dressing room. We found no laptop there.”
“Maybe she left it in her hotel room.”
“We’ve searched her hotel room. There was no laptop there, either. What do you think became of it?”
“I have no idea.”
“Whose idea was this production of Hedda Gabler?”
“It was Vickie’s idea; she very much wanted to do Hedda Gabler. She wanted to perform it once more before she was too old for the part. She even arranged to get financing for the show. She brought in Marty Close, the New York producer. Of course, Marty had conditions.”
“Such as?”
“He insisted Arthur Cantwell be cast. Arthur performed with Vickie in the New York production of Hedda Gabler years ago. She and Arthur had a notorious love affair during the production. I think Marty thought it would be good publicity to bring the two lovers together again. He thought it would sell tickets.”
“What do you think?”
“I think Marty Close’s a creep. He also insisted that Garland Taylor direct the show. That created serious problems. Vickie was dead set against Taylor and at first it was a deal breaker. But Marty insisted Garland direct, and, in the end, Vickie had to agree: otherwise, no Hedda.”
“Why was Vickie so opposed to Garland Taylor being the director?”
“They’d worked together and they didn’t like each other. Besides, Garland has a reputation.”
“For what?”
“For harassing actresses, particularly young, inexperienced actresses. Vickie didn’t tolerate that kind of behavior.”
“On opening night Miss West forgot her last line.”
“She forgot one damn line.”
“It was an important line. Isn’t that strange?”
“Everything in the theater is strange.”
“You left the flowers in Vickie’s dressing room. That means you had access to that room.”
“What of it?”
“Tell me about the original Hedda Gabler New York production.”
“Vickie very much wanted to play Hedda. I was her agent; we were both just starting out in our careers. I didn’t like the idea. I don’t much care for Ibsen myself, but Vickie was insistent. She could be very strong-minded. As you know.”
“Where does Arthur Cantwell come in?”
“He was cast in the original New York production. I have to admit he and Vickie made a fabulous pair on stage. I guess that’s why they fell madly in love—or what passes for love in our make-believe world. The affair was open and scandalous, red meat for the New York tabloids. When the show closed, Vickie and Arthur flew off to a tropical isle and got married on some goddamn beach.”
“I take it the marriage did not turn out well.”
“The world is not a beach, Detective. Understand, Arthur is a world-class shit. After the divorce, they both remarried. Arthur married some supermodel. Vickie married her hairdresser, for God’s sake.”
I must have seen some of this in Variety, which I used to read in my New York days. It was painful enough back then. It still hurts when I hear about Vickie going off the tracks like that.
“I hate to say it, but Hedda was a sensation,” Fletcher says. “It launched Vickie’s career.”
“Were you aware that Vickie and Arthur Cantwell were planning to marry when this show closed?” I ask.
Cynthia Fletcher’s face pales. “Who told you that?”
“Cantwell told me.”
She nods. “Vickie told me on opening night.”
“Just before she was murdered.”
Fletcher stares at me blankly.
“Were you in love with Victoria West?” I ask.
Cynthia Fletcher’s face flushes with anger. “You should be ashamed to ask me that question.”
“As a policeman I have no shame left.”
“You’re in a dishonorable profession then.”
“I won’t argue that.”
“I wanted to be sure you understood. Vickie could not have committed suicide. You should know that—you of all people.”
“Why do you think I should know that?”
“Because you were once in love with Vickie.” There’s a long, uncomfortable silence. “I knew she was seeing someone before she was cast in Hedda Gabler in New York. She never told me his name, but she talked about him. I’m pretty sure that man was you.”
It doesn’t matter now.
“Tell me what happened between you and Vickie the night she was murdered,” I ask. “When she told you she was getting married again.”
“I met with Vickie in her dressing room just before curtain, and she said there was something I needed to know. Arthur Cantwell was going to announce that he and Vickie were going to marry.” Her voice trembles. She can no longer hide her fury. Or is it grief? “Am I now your prime suspect?”
“What makes you think you should be?”
“I’m the jilted lover. Isn’t that one of the motives for murder in your sordid little world, Detective?”
“Some people think that makes me the prime suspect,” I say. “Did you have an argument with Vickie?”
“We had a discussion.”
“Did you also talk about someone named Valerie?” The name that Props heard Vickie yell at Fletcher the night of the murder.
Cynthia Fletcher’s face freezes. “Valerie is none of your damned business.” She rises to her feet and looks down at me, trembling. “I don’t want to talk about Valerie. This discussion is over.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“ARE YOU HERE to arrest my boy, Detective Zorn?” The woman speaks to me through a screen door I know is secured by a single latch. She wears a faded housedress, a kitchen towel flung over her left shoulder. Her forehead and her arms are dusted with white flour. Helen Stephens is in her early forties, a bit worn, a bit frazzled, but still pretty.
“Not today,
Helen. Maybe another time.”
“In that case, come on in.” She unlatches the hook, and I follow her into a warm and sunny kitchen. I smell something baking in the oven.
“Well, if you’re not after Tommy, may I offer you a cup of coffee?”
She pours coffee into a large mug that informs me she’s a supporter of Public Radio. Beneath us, the kitchen floor vibrates with the sound of bass guitar and heavy drums. In the many times I’ve visited this house, I’ve never seen or heard of a Mr. Stephens. Maybe Helen’s a widow. Maybe the mysterious Mr. Stephens ran off with a cashier from the local Safeway. Maybe he’s locked up in the attic. Maybe I’m better off not knowing.
“Tommy’s in the basement. Is he in trouble?” she asks.
“He’s probably in trouble. But I don’t know about it.”
“Thank God,” she sighs.
“Someday he’s going to step over the line,” I say. “Someday the FBI’s going to come down hard on him and his friends. And I may not be able to help next time. You better keep an eye on him.”
“I try but I really don’t know what it is they do down there.”
“I want to speak with them.”
“I’ll let them know you’re here so they can hide their stash or whatever it is they need to hide.” She walks to the door to the basement and calls down the stairs. “Officer Zorn is here, boys. He’ll be coming down in a moment.”
Helen and I talk a while, speaking about the recent weather. When I’ve finished my coffee, I rinse out the mug in the sink and go to the door to the basement.
“Thanks, Marko,” Helen says. “I appreciate what you’ve done. I’m sure Tommy does, too, although he’ll never say so.”
The basement is dim, lit by a dozen glowing computer screens. The walls and ceiling vibrate with the pounding sounds of some death metal band I don’t recognize. A dozen or so faint figures lounge around the room. One man lies on a couch, his back to the room. A couple of young men sit at what was once a Ping-Pong table now scarred with years of coffee stains and cigarette burns. A fat kid is curled up in an old armchair, its stuffing leaking out, reading a comic book.
No woman is in evidence; there never is.
Every flat surface is heaped with computers and electrical equipment lashed together by cables and wires. On the walls are old movie posters and a sign that reads, “No Swearing No Spitting.” The air is fragrant with the smell of French fries, pizza, and marijuana.
A couple of the figures raise their heads and glance at me without interest as I pass through. The group calls itself Kosmic Anomaly. I have no idea why.
I work my way through the crowded room and stop at the table. A kid no more than seventeen with bleached blond hair cut in a Mohawk is working at a computer keyboard. He looks up at me but makes no eye contact. He never does.
“Hello, Tommy,” I say.
He shrugs and returns to his computer. I’m told Tommy is a genius at computers and hacking the internet. The FBI certainly thinks so. There’s no point in my staying to talk with him. Our conversation is over. I’ve already lost Tommy to cyberspace.
“Welcome to our den of iniquity, Officer Zorn,” the man lying on the couch mumbles without turning around to look at me. “To what do we owe the honor?”
I haul a wooden kitchen chair close to the couch, and the man slowly rolls over. His name is Paul Whitestone and he was once a high-level official in the National Security Agency. That was before he served time in a federal prison.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “You’re not about to be busted.” I have to shout to be heard over the music.
“Can I go back to sleep then?”
“No. I need your help.”
Paul’s around fifty and badly needs a shave. “You want our help? Isn’t that probably illegal?” he asks.
“Do you really care?”
Paul sits up and takes a crumpled cigarette from a jacket pocket, lights it with a butane lighter, and studies the glow at the end of his cigarette. “What kind of help are you looking for?”
I take a copy of the paper the embassy code clerk gave me—a copy of one side only, not including the handwritten message about danger—and pass it to Paul. Paul puts on a pair of glasses and studies the paper.
“It’s a code, obviously,” he says. “Is this USG?”
“Nothing to do with the US Government.”
“So what is it then?”
“I believe it’s a message either going to or coming from the embassy of Montenegro.”
“Does this embassy know you have it?”
“I certainly hope not.”
“I won’t ask how you got it.” He returns the paper to me. “A lot of hard work. Not interested.”
“I may have to insist,” I say.
“Is that a threat?”
“If it was a threat, you’d know it. It’s more like a promise. I’ll keep the FBI off your back, at least for a while longer.”
“Guys, kill the sound,” Paul yells. “I need to hear what this policeman has to say.” After several seconds, the music stops. “Why do you want to read this?”
“A young woman gave this to me—a woman who worked at the Montenegro embassy as a code clerk. Sometime last night she was brutally murdered. I think she was trying to ask me for help. A message may be hidden in this code.”
“That’s heavy.” Paul twists the paper in his hand. “What language is the clear text in?”
“I suppose it’s whatever language it is they speak in Montenegro.”
“That makes it a south Slavic language. One of the Balkan ones. Yo, who here speaks Slavic?” Paul calls out to the room.
“Stevie speaks Romanian,” a voice from the dark announces.
“That’s not Slavic, idiot,” Paul fires back. “Anyone else?”
“Peter speaks some Bulgarian. His dad came from there.”
“Close enough. Where’s Peter now?”
“He’s at school—in detention,” the fat kid with the comic book announces from across the room.
“Somebody go to the school,” Paul orders. “Pick Peter up and bring him here. Tommy! Get over here. I have a project for you.”
This Kosmic Anomaly is supposed to be a democratic collective and have no hierarchy and no leader, but like all organizations made up of lazy, undisciplined people, if anyone is prepared to think, he becomes the leader.
Tommy emerges from the dimness and Paul hands him the paper. “Break this,” he says. “You know the drill.”
Without a word, Tommy takes the paper and disappears.
“This is almost certainly a substitution code,” Paul says to me. “That means, we can’t solve it.”
“You can’t?” I try to hide my disappointment.
“We can’t use a brute force attack. For one thing, the text is too short to do a letter-frequency analysis, and we don’t have the computer power. Even if this is an off-the-shelf code, which it probably is, it would take us years. Maybe with a quantum computer, a bit less.” Paul waves at the electronic equipment. “What we have here are bits and pieces of computers we got from Best Buy.”
“How about your friends at the National Security Agency? I’ll bet they have already broken the embassy’s code.”
“I don’t have any friends left at the Agency.”
“Are you saying it’s hopeless?”
“I never said that. If you can’t get in the front door, go in the back door. Can you think of any words that might appear in the message that could help us take a peek behind the curtain?”
“Nina Voychek,” I say, writing the name on the back of the sheet of paper I give Paul. “She’s the new prime minister. She’s just arrived in Washington and there should be chatter about the trip.”
“Any other names?”
“Lukshich. Vuk Lukshich. He’s the ambassador at the embassy where I found this. And try Goran Drach.” I write out the names. “How do these names help?” I ask.
“We will use side-channel analysis.”
&
nbsp; “Can you explain that?”
“Absolutely not. In the first place, you wouldn’t understand. Second, if you did, it would spoil the magic we do here.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I’D PARKED MY Honda Civic rental car across the street from a small park two blocks from Helen Stephens’s house. I don’t want anyone, friend or enemy, to connect me with what goes on in Helen’s basement. I didn’t have time to exchange the rental car I’d used yesterday for a different one this morning. I know I’m taking a chance doing that. If somebody identified me driving the Civic yesterday I could be a target. I decide to turn in the Civic at the car rental service and pick up a different car at another agency later this afternoon.
As I approach my car, I sense something is wrong—not big wrong, something small wrong—but wrong enough to make my skin tingle. I look up and down the street and see nothing out of place. There is no suspicious figure stopping to light a cigarette, pretending not to look at me. No slow-moving van cruising the street.
I turn my attention to the Honda and I see it immediately. On the right rear fender there’s a small black smudge.
I like the cars I drive to look smart. Even a rental car. Even a Honda.
The black smudge wasn’t there when I parked here an hour ago.
The smudge seems to be tar, probably from the road surface, and it looks like someone knelt on the ground next to the car and leaned in close, pressing against the side of the car for balance: Why would someone want to do that?
It doesn’t take long to find out. Under the chassis, clamped to the rear differential housing, are two objects, each about seven inches long and maybe four inches wide. They’ve been smeared with tar or mud so they almost disappear into the dark undercarriage of the car. They’re connected by two short, thick wires.
I make my call and within less than fifteen minutes, several police cruisers and a large truck arrive. The first one out of the truck is Ron Ensler, chief of the police bomb squad. We’ve known each other for several years, and almost everything I know about bombs I’ve learned from Ron.
“Are you the one who called in a bomb threat?” Ron asks.