by John Case
‘Maybe a little,’ she admitted grudgingly. ‘At least I know where the major collections are. But the genetics was a problem. We had to call Georgetown for help.’
‘That’s good.’
She began to brighten, and took off her glasses again. ‘Anyway, most of his work, the articles, we can get through interlibrary loans. But you’re going to have to have it abstracted – unless you want it translated.’
‘What would that take?’
She seesawed her head. ‘The abstracts would take . . . I don’t know. The translations could take forever. I mean, it’s not like translating a short story. It’s hard science.’
‘What about his book?’
‘It’s in a number of university libraries,’ she said, ‘but so far, I can only find the Italian language edition. It was published in English, but it’s kind of tough to get a copy. I’ll keep trying, and if I can’t get it, maybe I can find a review somewhere.’
He glanced at the dossier on his desk. ‘Well, thanks, Deva. It sounds like you’re doing a good job.’ He stood up and shook her hand.
She blushed for the second time, and for a moment he was afraid she was going to curtsy.
When she’d left, he picked up the first document in the stack on his desk and looked at it. It was an article published in the Journal of Molecular Biology. By somebody named Walter Fields, Ph.D.
The Role of Repressor Proteins in Ribonucleic Acid Polymerase Transcription: Comments on published findings of Ignazio Baresi, Ezra Sidran, et al., as presented at the Annual Conference on Bio-Genetics in Bern, Switzerland, April 11, 1962.
Lassiter struggled through the first paragraph, and found that he understood not a single sentence. Frowning, he set the document aside and picked up the next one in the stack.
Eucaryotic Gene Regulation: A Colloquium
(Under the Auspices of Kings College, London):
Remarks
Impenetrable.
And another:
Sex-Linked Traits: X Chromosome, Recessive Alleles, Klinefelter’s and Turner’s Syndrome. Comments on recent studies by I. Baresi, S. Rivele, and C. Wilkinson.
This one was actually intelligible for more than a page, though it became increasingly technical as Lassiter went on. Frustrated, he tossed the paper on the desk, sat back, and closed his eyes. The problem, he thought, was more complicated than it seemed. To begin with, he needed a rabbi – someone who could explain the science to him, in terms that an English major could understand.
He made a note. Rabbi.
But even that might not be enough. Baresi’s published papers might well be incomplete. What if, after ‘leaving genetics,’ he’d actually continued his researches on his own – in his clinic, underground. The newspapers were filled with articles about the ethical dilemmas posed by genetics research. What if Baresi had come up against something of that sort, and . . . The hell with it, Lassiter thought. This isn’t getting anywhere: it’s just speculation. And bad speculation at that: there wasn’t any evidence that Baresi had continued his researches.
With a growl, he turned to the stack of articles and began to arrange them into two piles, separating Baresi’s research in genetics from his later work in theology. It occurred to him that he might actually be able to read one of the latter. Such as:
Early Christian Communities and Kerygma: an analysis of textual similarities to regional sources contemporaneous to the Gospel according to Mark. By I. Baresi, Journal of Comparative Religion, Vol. 29, August 11, 1971.
Victoria buzzed. He put the document down on his desk. Maybe theology wasn’t going to be any ‘easier’ than the material on genetic research.
‘Yeah?’ he said.
‘Have we been sold?’ Victoria asked.
‘What?’
‘Business Week’s on line one.’
‘Tell ’em no.’
‘No-we-haven’t-been-sold, or –’
‘No-I’m-not-in.’
‘Oh-kayyy. Also: a Mr. Stoykavich is on line two.’
‘I’ll take it.’ He picked up. ‘Hey – Gary – what do you need? You got a question?’
‘Oh no,’ he boomed. ‘I don’t have a question. What I have is an answer.’
‘In two hours – you’re going to tell me you found Marie Williams?’
‘Oh no, not that one, not yet. Remember when I asked you did this woman want to be found or not? That’s the one I know the answer to.’
‘And what is it?’
‘She most definitely does not want to be found.’
‘Where are you going with this, Gary?’
‘It hurts me to tell you this – because I was ready to put in a large number of billable hours. But this is a no-brainer, my friend. Marie Williams took off on September nineteenth because, on September eighteenth, her identity was revealed.’
‘What are you talking about – her “identity”? What identity?’
‘Marie Williams is Callista Bates! How ’bout that?’
‘You’re kidding,’ Lassiter said. A tabloid photo flashed in front of his eyes: Callista at Cannes. Callista at Le Dôme. Callista in Seclusion. The actress hadn’t made a picture in seven or eight years, but her face – always beautiful – still looked out from the tabloids in the supermarket racks. Like Garbo, she was an icon precisely because she’d walked away at the apex of a brilliant career, exchanging glamour for obscurity. But it was even more mysterious (and sinister) than that. Like ‘Lindbergh’ or ‘Sharon Tate,’ when you said ‘Callista Bates,’ you alluded to a story – and everyone knew the details.
An inmate at the state prison in Lompoc, California, a man serving an eighteen-year sentence for malicious wounding, burglary, and rape, had become obsessed with Callista midway through his sentence. He’d written to the studio for photographs, joined her fan club, and recorded her comings and goings in an ever-thickening scrapbook – until, in the end, his cell had become a cinder-block shrine dedicated to his One and Only, Sweet Callista Bates.
Paroled in 1988, the man had taken a bus to Beverly Hills, where tour guides pointed out her house. In the months that followed, he haunted the neighborhood, while leaving a string of unwelcome ‘gifts’ at the front gate to her estate. Among them, Lassiter recalled, were an S&M video filmed in Germany, and a snapshot of a weightlifter with pierced nipples, wearing a black hood and nothing else. It was creepy stuff.
And it got worse. Night after night the speakerphone buzzed at Callista’s front gate, though no one was ever there. And while her unpublished number was repeatedly changed, the telephone rang at all hours, and the voice and the message were always the same: ‘Callista, you cunt – let me in.’
Twice, the man climbed the wall that separated her property from the street, only to be chased off by the excited barks of her aged Lab, Kerouac. Once, on retrieving letters from her mailbox, she found them soaked in blood. On another occasion, as the gates to her property opened, the stalker materialized beside her car, yanking furiously at the door handles, screaming to be let in.
The police were polite, concerned, and ineffective. For a month or so there were increased patrols – squad cars rolled past the house in the late night hours, shining their searchlights into the trees and bushes. But nothing ever came of it. At the cops’ suggestion, she arranged for a telephone service that identified incoming calls, but the stalker always used pay phones. After months of false alarms, or real alarms with no apprehensions, the police shook their heads and shrugged. Kids, they said, as if that explained the blood, the porn, and the lunatic yanking at the car door.
The night he killed the dog and forced the door, she was in the living room, reading. She heard the animal’s low-throated bark, the agonized yelp that followed, and then the sound of breaking glass. Her breathless call to 911 was played on every news broadcast for a week thereafter: ‘This is Callista Bates . . . 211 Mariposa . . . there’s a man . . . with a knife . . . he killed my dog . . . now he’s standing in the living room . . . and . . . this is not a kid.�
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To their credit, the police arrived in less than four minutes, but not before he’d slashed her twice – severing the tendons in her right wrist.
The last footage of her was taken on the steps of the courthouse, after the man’s sentencing. She was impossibly beautiful in an ice-blue suit, and all she had to say was, ‘That’s all, folks.’
She gave an occasional interview after that. There was talk of returning to work. But the tabloids were right when they said she was a woman in withdrawal from the world. Over the course of the next year, she sold her house and furniture – and disappeared.
She was never seen again – or, rather, she was seen everywhere, and often in different places at the same time.
In the equations of popular culture, then, Callista Bates was part Marilyn and part JFK – an image spray-painted on the sides of bridges and buildings. A piece of work.
And there was something else, something about her . . . For a moment Lassiter felt a surge of adrenaline, a momentary alertness. It was on the tip of his tongue – and then it wasn’t. It was gone. Something he’d remembered. Something he’d forgotten.
‘No, Mr. Lassiter, I am not kidding. I found the previous superintendent, the man who worked at the apartment building. Lives in Florida. And when I called him about Marie Williams, he says, “You from that paper?” And I say, “What paper?” And he says, “The Enquirer.” So we’re off and running. He says, Marie Williams is the one tenant he does remember – and you coulda knocked him over with dust – that’s what he said – when he learned she was Callista Bates. Why, he himself was in the paper, showing the reporter around her apartment – and would I like to see the clips?’
‘Gary,’ Lassiter began, his voice heavy with skepticism, ‘the Enquirer isn’t exactly –’
‘Wait a second! Wait a second! I know what you’re going to say. But hear me out: I remember that story. You wouldn’t remember it because you don’t live in Minneapolis – and because it seems like someone spots Callista Bates about once a week, somewhere or other. Didn’t I see somethin’ the other day, sayin’ she was on Norfolk Island, or someplace weird like that?’
‘Yeah, and she weighed sixty pounds and had leukemia.’
‘Right – that’s the one where they morphed her picture, made her all bony and wasted-looking. But what I’m saying is, Minneapolis is my hometown. And I remember the lady who spotted Callista being interviewed on television and all. I just didn’t pay it much mind. And I didn’t remember the name “Marie Williams.”’
‘So what makes you think it was her?’
‘Because I talked to the reporter.’
‘At the Enquirer?’
‘Yes.’
Lassiter scoffed.
‘Hold on, now! Those boys are a lot more careful than you’d think. They have to be, ’cause they’re sued every other day.’ The detective paused. ‘You listenin’?’
‘Yeah, I’m all ears.’
‘Okay. Now, here’s the way it worked. Somebody called in a tip to the Callista Bates Hot Line –’
‘There’s a Callista –’
‘That’s what I’m saying! Someone dimed the hot line at the Enquirer: “I saw her!” they said. “With a real estate agent. Century 21!” It was some nosy woman, you know, out in the suburbs.’
‘I thought she lived in an apartment building. Downtown.’
‘She did – but now she was buying a place. Comfortable house. Nice neighborhood. All cash. Realtor said it was a done deal. Then some stringer from the Enquirer shows up and finesses Williams’s name out of the receptionist. Next thing, he’s banging on her door at the Fountains – knock knock! Who’s there? The Enquirer! That’s it – she’s gone.’
‘Good story. The only thing is, how do you know it was Callista Bates?’
‘The stringer – guy named Michael Finley – takes pictures. Before he goes to the door, he’s sittin’ out front in his car, takin’ pictures. She’s comin’ and goin’, comin’ and goin’. I seen the pictures. Now, I admit – her hair is brown, cut different. Sunglasses. But it looks like her. No question.’
‘“Looks like her.”’
‘I’m not done! I called Finley. And he told me he knows this was Callista Bates.’
‘And how’s that?’
‘He ran a credit check. Tried the same Social with a different name: Callista Bates. And he got everything! Turns out, this Callista thing was a stage name, something her agent came up with when she came to California. Something that would stand out on the marquee, you understand? But she didn’t mess with her social security number – why should she? No matter what she’s calling herself, she’s still got withholding taxes. So she used her own number.’
‘Wouldn’t that show up in a lot of places?’
‘Not really. And besides, she wasn’t hidin’ – then. Her agent paid her through a loan-out corporation – and get this, she called it ‘A Large American Firm’ – with a capital A? – so she could say she was chairman of a large American firm! Real sense of humor. Anyway, all the agent had was a federal ID number. Callista – she did her own books. And she did her own taxes. So my guess is, her Social didn’t come up a whole lot.’
‘So let me get this straight. Her real name is . . .’
‘Marie Williams.’
‘But she changed it to Callista Bates when she started to act.’
‘And when she left California,’ Stoykavich said, ‘she went back to Williams.’ The P.I. paused for a moment, and then went on. ‘You know, this was a helluva thing she pulled off, especially when you think how well known she was. Talk about a chameleon. This woman is one . . . terrific . . . actress.’
‘What happened to Finley?’
‘Oh, Finley did fine! Don’t worry about Finley. Finley got her damn charge records. He’s still living off the stuff. You know: ‘Callista’s Favorite Restaurants!’ ‘Callista Hits Rodeo Drive!’ ‘Callista’s Secret Getaway Spots!’ That kind of thing.’
Lassiter felt a twinge of panic. He could see the headlines at the Safeway: Serial Killer Stalks Callista and Her Secret Love Child. There’d be a special on ‘America’s Most Wanted.’ Scenes of Riordan plugging away at his phones, the camera zooming in to an open file on his desk. A long look at Grimaldi’s ruined face. A grisly parade of slaughtered infants, murdered moms, torched houses. And a hotline number: Call 1-800-Calista (1-800-225-4782). Help us find her before They do!
‘Uhhh, Gary, let me ask you something: How much did you tell this guy? I mean, did my name come up, or what?’
‘No. It did not. I told him I’d been hired by a help group – women who’ve been stalked. I also had to give him two hundred bucks before he’d talk about anything.’
Lassiter thought for a moment. ‘That’s good,’ he said, ‘but . . . I’m not sure what to do at this point. It seems to me, if she was hard to find before –’
‘She’s gonna be even harder now. I agree. But we got some leads. The super said she did volunteer work at the library. Took some classes at the community college. And then there’s the pregnancy bit. She may have taken Lamaze classes, joined some kind of support group, you know, like that. I could check.’
‘Yeah, why don’t you do that? See what you can find. And while you’re there – give me the reporter’s number. What’s his name? Finley.’
Stoykavich recited the number. ‘Just one thing,’ he said.
‘What’s that?’
‘When you call Finley? Hang on to your wallet.’ And then the black Minnesotan laughed. Like rolling thunder.
Callista Bates.
It was like a good-news/bad-news joke in which the news was the same in either case. The fact that she was hard to find made her hard to warn – but it also made her hard to kill. And if he couldn’t find her, Lassiter thought, no one could. Of that he was sure.
He stood up and went to the window. It was twilight, and so cold that the snow had stopped. Behind the Pentagon the sky was a rare and deep sapphire color that glowed with
almost supernatural clarity. The floodlit dome of the Capitol shone with cold brilliance, its ridges and curves and details so precisely cut that it reminded him of the ivory carved and sold in Chinatown. Above the dome an attenuated moon hung amid a jumble of stars. The stars glittered with such vitality that it was easy to imagine the universe enclosed by a gigantic dome – visible only where the metal had been pierced to allow a glimpse of heaven’s glory.
He felt his mood lift; he felt almost good. Maybe she was alive, after all. Maybe –
The intercom buzzed.
‘What’s up?’
‘There’s someone here to see you,’ Victoria said, in a voice heavy with disapproval.
‘Who’s that?’
‘“Buck.”’
32
THE MAN WHO came through the door was about five feet five inches tall, maybe forty years old. His hair was slicked back into a ponytail, and his skin was a deep chemical bronze. He had no neck to speak of, just a column of flesh that seemed to be an extension of his shoulders. He looked like a character in a bad action film.
‘I’m Buck,’ he said, extending his hand.
‘Thanks for coming,’ Lassiter replied as the smaller man crushed his hand in his own.
‘You mind if I look around?’ he asked.
‘Help yourself.’
Almost idly, the bodyguard moved through the room, turning his head this way and that, taking everything in, but without ever evincing real curiosity. ‘What’s in there?’ he asked.
‘Shower.’
Buck opened the door and glanced inside. ‘Nice,’ he said. Moving to the windows, he studied the street for what seemed like a long time, then pulled the blinds closed. Turning back to the room, he surveyed it with a restless, unfocused gaze, remarkable in its neutrality.
Finally, he sat down on the edge of the Barcelona chair next to the fireplace and cracked his knuckles. ‘Terry already briefed me, so you just go ahead with whatever you’re doing. I’ll just . . . observe.’ And with that, Buck pulled a book from his briefcase and began to read. Lassiter glanced at the title: Intermediate Japanese.
Returning to the papers on his desk, Lassiter continued sorting them into two piles, one concerning Baresi’s career as a scientist, the other his career as a religious scholar. When he finished, it was five-thirty. He asked Victoria to get the woman from Research on the line. ‘You think she’s still here?’