by John Case
‘Which means she moved at least two years ago.’
‘Two years, plus. So I look up the address in the Criss-Cross, and turns out they got two hundred telephones hooked up to the place.’
‘So it’s an apartment building.’
‘Right. “The Fountains,” or something. Anyway, I get the super on the line, and he checks for me. Says Marie Williams lived there for a couple of years. Left in ’ninety-one. No forwarding address. In fact, the super says they still have her security deposit – so she must have left in a hurry.’
‘Did he remember her?’
‘No. He’s new. So are the neighbors.’
‘And that was as far as you took it?’
‘Yeah. I guess . . . I mean, she was the second one I looked at. Jodie was just starting on her list. Nothing from the foreign subs. So, at that point, I figured some of them would just, you know – answer their phones. So I didn’t press it. I mean, I didn’t even run a credit check.’ Freddy paused. ‘You want me to do that?’
Lassiter didn’t answer. Instead he got up, went to the fireplace. ‘No, Freddy. You did a good job. I thought this was going to take a couple of weeks.’
‘Tell you the truth, I was surprised, too. But when you think about it – most of these women were forty, forty-five years old. They were all doing okay, nobody’s dodging the bill collector. Most of them were married. Stable people. Ordinarily, you take a dozen people – hell, a third of them will be at least a little hard to locate. You know – they moved, they got married, the husband was transferred. These women were easy to find. Good citizens. Lotsa footprints.’
‘Except for Williams.’
‘Yeah,’ Freddy said. ‘Except for her.’
Lassiter picked up the poker and moved some wood around until he got a flurry of sparks. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ll take it from here.’
‘I kinda thought you would,’ Freddy said. ‘But . . .’
‘What?’
‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up, because . . . whoever did this was pretty diligent. I mean – why should she be the only one to survive?’
Lassiter shrugged, but what he meant was: Why not?
He spent some time matching the birthdates in the dossiers with the dates on the pensione’s register. It was just as he expected. From their dates of birth, it was clear that all of the children had been conceived at Baresi’s clinic. Marie Williams – she would have been a few months pregnant when she left her apartment in Minneapolis.
He stirred the fire some more and looked out the window. The streets were still a mess from the fourth big snowfall of the season. It was now a week since the last one, and nothing had melted yet, thanks to record-breaking temperatures, unheard of in D.C. Single digits, night after night. Along the curbs, mounds of snow and ice entombed invisible cars. One of the owners was out there now, across the street, sticking a small American flag into the top of a frozen, gray mound. Lassiter watched him as he spray-painted CAR, in huge red letters, on the dingy snow. When the job was done, he stood back, like an artist examining his work. Finally, he walked off, satisfied that his effort would keep the plows, if they ever came, from mangling his buried car. The District was strapped for cash, and half its snowplows awaited repairs that somehow never got made. So the streets had dwindled to the width of alleys, and the sidewalks to lumpy, trodden paths.
The whole city needs an angioplasty, Lassiter thought as he stood at the window, watching a new snow begin to fall.
The intercom buzzed. ‘Detective Riordan,’ Victoria said in her musical voice. ‘Line one.’
He started to tell her that he wasn’t in, then changed his mind. ‘Put him through.’
‘So?’ Riordan said. ‘You call Conway?’
Lassiter sighed. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I was just about to call him.’
‘You’re acting like a chump – you know that, don’t you? After what happened in Italy –’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘Don’t give me that, all right? You’re kidding yourself. You got Grimaldi out there – I don’t know what he’s doin’! You got – I don’t know what you got! So do me a favor. Don’t make me put a coupla guys on ya – ’cause I will, Joe, honest to Christ. Get yourself some protection. You can afford it.’
‘All right,’ Lassiter said. ‘I’ll call.’
‘You promise? I swear to God I’m gonna call Terry – I’m gonna check.’
‘I promise.’
‘Okay.’ Lassiter heard Riordan thump his desk. ‘That’s good.’
‘So . . . what’s the news?’
‘About Grimaldi?’ Riordan gave a little dismissive snort. ‘Nothing. Zilch. The guy’s Houdini.’
‘Well, he had help, didn’t he?’
‘Yeah,’ Riordan said, ‘and we’re talking to her.’
‘I don’t mean the nurse. I’m talking about the surveillance.’
‘What can I tell you? Drabowsky’s a fuckup. Obviously.’
‘You sure about that?’
Riordan was silent for a moment, and then he asked, ‘What – you think the Bureau helped him?’
‘I don’t know what I think,’ Lassiter said. ‘But . . . forget that. I’ve got some news for you.’
‘About what?’
‘The list I gave you. From the pensione’s register.’
‘Oh yeah, the women who went to what’s-his-face’s place. The clinic. We’re just getting started with that.’
‘Don’t bother.’
‘Why not?’
Lassiter looked out the window. It was snowing harder. ‘They’re dead.’
‘Who’s dead?’
‘The women. And their kids.’
There was a long pause, and then: ‘All of them?’
‘Probably. There’s one we haven’t been able to run down. Marie Williams. Middle initial A.’
‘I’ll see what I can do at this end,’ Riordan said, ‘but – just a second.’ Someone was screaming in Spanish, and another voice was screaming back at her, not far from the telephone. Lassiter heard Riordan put his hand on the mouthpiece, muffling the sound, and then Riordan screamed, too: ‘Hey! Shut the fuck up, all right?’ The silence was instantaneous. A moment later the detective said, ‘Keep me apprised, okay?’
‘Whatever you say, Jim. I will keep you apprised.’
‘And call Terry Conway – like you promised.’
‘I will.’
Riordan paused and when he spoke again, his voice was pointed and hard. ‘Lemme ask you something.’
‘What?’
‘You think it’s over, don’t you? They’re all dead, except for what’s-her-name, who’s probably dead, too. So you figure that’s it. Am I right?’ The detective didn’t wait for an answer. ‘You bet I’m right. But lemme tell you something: We still don’t know what the fuck it’s about, do we? So we don’t know when it’s over; only they know that.’
‘I’ll call Terry.’
‘You do that,’ Riordan said, and hung up.
But he didn’t call Terry. Not immediately.
Instead he flipped through his Rolodex until he found the card for his favorite information broker – the bucket shop in Florida.
‘Mutual General Services.’ The woman answered the phone on the first ring, which was one of the things he liked about the firm. They were efficient; they were fast; they were discreet. And you didn’t get voice mail.
‘It’s Joe Lassiter at Lassiter Associates. We have a standing account?’ He read off the numbers.
‘What can we do for you?’
‘I want a credit report on a Marie A. Williams. Last known address was Minneapolis.’ He gave her the address and asked, ‘How far back can you go?’
The reply was immediate: ‘About as far back as you can afford – remember Bridey Murphy?’
Gateway Security was run by a nice guy named Terry Conway, an ex-NFL tight end with a law degree and a good head for business. He was making more money now than he ever did in football, which was sayi
ng something, because Terry had been all-pro until his knees went.
Gateway was a niche company in the security field, providing bodyguards for the rich, the famous, and the infamous – diplomats and politicians, celebrities and CEOs, their families and properties. He did not compete with Wackenhut or any of the rent-a-cop agencies, but specialized in executive protection services. The people he hired were professionals, not bouncers.
Even so, Lassiter hated the idea of hiring bodyguards. It amounted to placing himself under surveillance – in effect, paying through the nose to invade his own privacy. And they were annoying, as well, precisely because they were always there. With their code words, cell phones, and static.
He knew what it was like because he’d arranged the same service for a number of clients. At first they were grateful to feel ‘safe,’ and flattered to be at the center of so much effort. But after a while, they began to whine. And then to plead. Is this really necessary? How much longer is it going to go on?
In the end, he placed the call with a grimace, and when Terry came on the line, he described the assignment in a nutshell: ‘I got a CEO in Washington – civilian, no family, thirty-five –’
‘Government ties?’
‘No. Anyway, there’s been some pretty credible threats on his life –’
‘Such as?’
‘People shooting at him.’
‘That qualifies.’
‘So we were thinking, maybe it would be a good idea –’
‘Who’s the client?’ Terry asked.
‘Me.’
A long silence ensued. Finally, Terry said, ‘Now, that’s bad news: you get killed, I lose one of my best customers.’ He paused again. ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘I’ll send Buck over. He’s got a light touch – you’ll like him.’
‘Is that Buck like the dollar, or Buck like the deer?’
‘Very funny. I’ll have him at your office around six – and we’ll send someone over to your house to take a look at the perimeter. In the meantime, I think you should get a hotel – just for the night. You and Buck.’
Lassiter muttered to himself, and said, ‘Yeah, well, let’s hope I do like him.’
As Lassiter hung up, the fax machine trilled, and he turned to it. The top of the letterhead fed through first, and he saw it was from Mutual General Services. Headed, Williams, Marie A., he was delighted to see that it was the credit report he’d requested, and that it included her date of birth (March 8, 1962) as well as her social security number.
With a name, address, DOB, and Social, he could locate and access bank accounts, medical records, mortgage agreements, tax documents – and a lot more, if he wanted. Even the Social itself was embedded with information. From the first three numbers he could tell where she’d been born, which might help him to find her.
He pulled a copy of The Open Sourcebook from the shelf and opened it to the chapter on social security data. There, he found a list of numbers and locales: 146 was Maine. He put the book away and turned back to the credit history itself. Immediately, he was struck by several peculiarities.
For one thing, her record was immaculate: there were no slow-to-pay entries, ever, and no bounced checks. Not one. That was unusual, but what was strange was the fact that the credit history didn’t begin until 1989. Which meant that, if her DOB was correct, she’d paid cash for everything until she was twenty-six years old, at which point American Express had given her a Platinum Card. There were a couple of Visa cards issued at the same time – both with huge credit limits – but nothing before then.
How do you do that? Lassiter wondered. It was as if she’d sprung full-blown from the forehead of the Great Creditor. Where had she come from?
And where had she gone? The credit cards were allowed to lapse in 1991, and her bank accounts were closed at the same time. Since then, nothing. No mortgages, no liens, no comments. In effect, she’d disappeared.
Nor was that all. Credit reports always included a list of inquiries. If you wanted to rent an apartment, the landlord would request a credit check, and that request would be listed on future reports. So, too, if you applied for a charge account at Macy’s, bought a car for something less than cash, or went looking for a job – a credit check would probably be made, and it would be listed on subsequent reports. Indeed, his own inquiry – or, more accurately, Mutual’s inquiry – was now a part of the record. It was automatic.
But, with a single exception, Marie Williams’s credit record hadn’t been checked since 1991 – which meant that she’d vanished from the economy. And while that was possible, it wasn’t likely: even bankrupts went out of their way to obtain ersatz credit cards, paying cash deposits to offset future charges. Otherwise, they found it almost impossible to rent a car, make reservations, or cash a check.
Moving abroad wouldn’t explain the lack of activity on Marie Williams’s credit history, and neither would a marriage. Joining a cult might, and so, also, would living by barter. Maybe she’s a Moonie, Lassiter thought, or trades potatoes for Pampers. Or maybe she just doesn’t need to rent a car, make reservations, or cash a check.
Whatever the truth, it wasn’t obvious from the report.
The exception to all this was a credit inquiry dated October 19, 1995. Two weeks before Kathy and Brandon were killed.
According to the report, the inquiry originated in Chicago with a firm called Allied National Products – which, judging by the name, was probably a bucket shop like Mutual.
It didn’t mean anything, of course, but it was odd. If there had been a cluster of inquiries, Lassiter would have assumed that Marie A. Williams was picking up her old life after a long sabbatical. But that wasn’t the case. There was just that one, in October – and then nothing until Lassiter weighed in.
He put the file to the side and buzzed Judy.
‘What?’ she shouted.
‘Uh . . . it’s Joe Lassiter. I own the place?’
Judy giggled. ‘Sor-ry, Joe, my desk’s on fire. How can I help ya . . .?’ She laughed again. ‘Come on, come on – whattaya want?’
‘A subcontractor in Minneapolis. We got one?’
‘Of course we do. The Cowles case – remember? Guy out there did marathon legwork. George something . . . Gerry?’ Lassiter remembered the case but he didn’t remember a subcontractor. Judy was already pulling it up on her computer. ‘Gary. Gary Stoykavich. Twin Cities Research.’ She rattled off the telephone numbers and hung up.
With a name like Stoykavich, and a base like Minneapolis – which had to be the white-bread capital of the world – Gary Stoykavich’s voice was a surprise.
‘Good after-noon,’ he boomed. ‘Twin Cities Research.’ He spoke in a gravelly baritone like Fats Domino’s; his voice was unmistakably African-American. ‘You’re speaking to Gary.’
‘It’s Joe Lassiter – you did some work for us a while back –’
A rich chuckle. ‘’Course I did, ’course I did. Whole lot of work as a matter of fact. For Miss Joo-dee Rif-kin.’
‘Right.’
‘So what can I do for you, Mr. Joseph Lassiter? I take it you’re the big boss – or are we in the presence of a massive coincidence?’
‘Nope – I’m the one.’
Stoykavich laughed, a long rumbling chortle. ‘Well, then,’ he said, ‘I’m listening.’
‘I’m looking for a woman who lived in Minneapolis – 1991.’ He dictated the details.
‘I have a question,’ Stoykavich said. ‘This Marie Williams: Did she move, or is she “missing”? And if she’s missing, is she hiding?’
Lassiter thought about it. Good question. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘Because that could make a big difference in the budget.’
‘I realize that, but . . . Mr. Stoykavich? What I think you’re going to find is that Ms. Williams is dead.’
‘Oh.’
Lassiter said he’d fax the credit report, and recounted the steps that Freddy had taken. Stoykavich said he’d check with the DMV, the newspa
pers, and the courthouse.
‘One other thing,’ Lassiter added. ‘I think she may have been pregnant. In fact, I know she was. About four months.’
‘I might be able to do something with that,’ Stoykavich said. ‘Anything else come to mind?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘I’m full-tilt, then,’ Stoykavich said.
Lassiter was going through the preliminary contracts for the sale of Lassiter Associates when Victoria buzzed and said there was a Deva Collins to see him. From Research.
‘Send her in.’
Deva Collins was young and nervous. She shrugged back her long blond hair and took off her glasses. Then she stood at attention, holding a stack of documents. He told her to sit down, and she did.
‘This is the initial material,’ she said, ‘a pull-down from online sources.’
‘What material are we talking about?’
She looked startled and somehow exposed. She jammed her glasses back on and seemed a little more comfortable. ‘Ummm – the Italian doctor: Ignazio Baresi.’
‘Looks like a lot.’
‘Oh, it’s mostly secondary sources – references to his work by other academics and research scientists. I weeded through them. The second half of the stack – from the yellow sheet down, those are fairly inconsequential references – just his name or someone citing one of his publications. I only saved them because I thought – I don’t know – just in case. You might want to call the writer or something.’
‘What about Baresi’s own publications?’
‘That’s going to take a little longer, although, as of today, I’ve tracked most of them down.’ She hesitated. ‘Well, not me personally, but all of us. Some of the material is available in university collections, but it’s scattered all over the place because he worked in two different fields. I knew about him, actually.’
‘Really.’
She blushed. ‘Well, his biblical scholarship. I was a comparative religions major, and he was footnoted all over the place.’
‘That’s terrific, that should help out – with the research.’ He wanted to encourage her, but she only seemed embarrassed.