by John Case
‘So Grimaldi called Naples and –’
‘Bibbity bobbity boo! Drabowsky takes over. Thomas takes over, and he does some outreach, all right. The surveillance disappears. And so does Grimaldi.’
Lassiter thought about it. Finally, he said, ‘What are you going to do?’
‘What am I going to do? I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m going to crawl inside a mummy bag and zip it up. Then I’m gonna mail myself to Mars, that’s what I’m gonna do.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘So am I. Look at it from my point of view: I’m gettin’ out in thirty-four days. I don’t need this shit. And not only that: I can’t prove anything, anyway. It’s all speculation.’
‘It’s not! You’ve got the toll slips.’
‘Right – as if the toll slips told us what was said. Except they don’t! We’re guessing. And as for Drabowsky – you can’t use the guy’s religion against him. Think about it. What am I gonna say? “Arrest that man, he’s feeding the homeless.” Are you kiddin’? Not to mention, this guy ain’t exactly a foot soldier in the Bureau. He’s more like a brigadier general. You fuck with him, you’re in a world of trouble.’ Riordan sighed as the two of them fell silent. Then he asked, ‘What about you? You got anything for me?’
‘No,’ Lassiter said, and then he remembered. ‘Well, maybe.’
‘Maybe? What’s “maybe”?’
‘I have a letter . . . from Baresi.’
‘He wrote you?’
‘No,’ Lassiter replied, ‘it’s a letter to a priest. When I get it translated, I’ll send you a copy.’
When Riordan rang off, Lassiter sat back in his chair and thought about Drabowsky. And what he thought was: This is trouble. If anyone can find Callista Bates, the Bureau can. And if someone in the Bureau wants to fuck me up, he’s got the resources.
The intercom buzzed, and Victoria said, ‘Dick Biddle’s outside – can you see him?’
‘Sure,’ Lassiter said. ‘Send him in.’
Biddle was an older man who’d retired from the State Department five years before. Tall, thin, and patrician, he was partial to dark gray suits, burgundy ties, and expensive cuff links. He was also a chain-smoker who had the disturbing habit of letting the ash on his cigarette grow to the point that those around him were distracted by the question of when it would fall.
Entering the office with a cigarette in hand, he laid an eight-by-ten glossy on Lassiter’s desk and sat down, crossing his legs. The cigarette fumed in his hand, a few inches from his ear. Lassiter noticed that the ash was almost an inch long. How does he walk with it? he wondered.
‘I’ve always liked the Lowell,’ Biddle said, ‘but I hear nice things about the Peninsula. Either one will be fine.’
‘For what?’ Lassiter asked, glancing at the photo. It was the Enquirer’s picture of I-think-it’s-Callista, standing outside the McDonald’s in God-knows-where.
‘My weekend in New York. I’m claiming the prize.’ He took a drag on his cigarette and Lassiter watched, fascinated, as gravity tugged at the ashes.
‘You know where it is?’
‘I do.’ Smoke curled toward the ceiling.
‘And . . . do you want to share that information?’
‘Absolutely. It’s somewhere . . . Mainey.’
Lassiter gave him an incredulous look. ‘“Somewhere Mainey” . . . Like what? Lillehammer?’
Biddle smiled. ‘No. Like Sunday River. Or Sugarloaf. One or the other, but definitely Maine.’ He took another drag, and the ash hung in the air like a fallen parenthesis.
Lassiter looked at the photograph. ‘How can you tell?’
‘Well, there’s the snow, to begin with. That’s a clue.’
‘Ye-ahh . . .’
‘And there’s a ski resort . . . which, of course, Maine has.’
‘Right . . .’
‘And then, there’s the bears.’
Lassiter looked at the picture again. ‘What bears?’ he said. ‘There aren’t any bears.’
‘There are bears,’ Biddle replied, and nodded toward Lassiter’s magnifying glass. ‘Polar bears.’
Lassiter picked up the magnifying glass and applied it to the photo. ‘Where?’ he asked.
‘On the window of the van.’
Lassiter looked. A veneer of salt and dirt was caked on the rear windshield, on which someone had scrawled Clean Me! and Go You Bears!!! ‘You mean the graffiti?’ he asked.
‘I mean the polar bear,’ Biddle said. ‘In the lower right-hand corner.’
Lassiter moved the magnifying glass closer to the photo, then pulled it back. There was an oval white spot on the window. ‘The white dot?’ he asked. ‘You can’t tell what that is!’
‘It’s a polar bear. Galloping.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I went to Bowdoin. It’s my alma mater. I know the bear.’
‘But lots of schools have bears as their . . .’
‘Totems,’ Biddle said.
‘Thank you,’ Lassiter replied, glancing around for an ashtray. The long parabola of ash trembled at the end of the investigator’s cigarette.
‘But those are brown bears or black bears or grizzly bears – or some such thing. And besides, when the students cheer for them, they say, “Go Bears!” or “Yoo-rah-rah Bears.” But not at Bowdoin. We say “Go You Bears.” No one else says that.’
‘C’mon –’
‘We’ve practically patented it. Which is why I can tell you that the white dot you’re looking at is definitely, unquestionably, Ursus maritimus. Trust me on this.’
Lassiter sat back and laid the magnifying glass aside. ‘That doesn’t prove the van’s in Maine. Just that it’s from Maine. At most, that’s what it proves.’
Biddle tapped his forefinger against the cigarette, and smiled as the ash crashed to the carpet. Lassiter winced. ‘I take it you’re looking for the woman in the picture?’ Biddle asked.
Lassiter nodded.
The older man moved his right leg in an arc, brushing the ash into the carpet. ‘Do you have any reason to believe she’s anywhere other than Maine?’
Lassiter shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘In fact, she was born there.’
‘Really?’ Biddle said, getting to his feet.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, then,’ he said, turning toward the door. ‘Should I make a reservation or not?’
Lassiter picked up the magnifying glass and looked at the photograph for the hundredth time. Finally, he put the magnifier down and said, ‘Yeah. Enjoy yourself.’
As the door closed behind him, Lassiter walked to the window and looked out. The blue Taurus was still there.
He went back to his desk and roused Victoria on the intercom. ‘Send Buck in, would you? And tell Freddy I’d like to see him.’ Then he dialed the number Deva had given him for the genetics guy in Boston. The phone rang once at the other end, and a man answered, ‘Was ist?’
Famously plain-spoken, my ass, Lassiter thought. ‘Dr. Torgoff? David Torgoff?’
‘Da-ahh!’
Buck and Freddy came into the room, and Lassiter waved them to sit down. ‘This is Joe Lassiter . . . in Washington.’
‘Oh,’ Torgoff said. ‘Sorry about that. I thought you were my racquetball partner.’
Lassiter smiled with relief. ‘Is he German?’
‘No,’ Torgoff answered. ‘That’s just something . . . we do. It’s kind of hard to explain. I guess you’d have to be there.’
‘Actually, I will be – that’s why I’m calling. I’m coming up to Boston this afternoon, and I was hoping . . . if you have any time on Saturday –’
‘I’m afraid I don’t – but I could see you on Sunday. Is the afternoon all right? Two-ish?’
‘Two’s fine.’ Lassiter wrote down Torgoff’s directions and hung up. Then he turned to Buck and Freddy. ‘Is Pico downstairs?’ he asked.
Buck nodded. ‘Yeah, sure. He’s waiting in the garage. You want him up here?’
; ‘No. I want the three of you to get in the car and take it out of the garage – fast. Don’t kill anyone, but when you hit the street, hang a right, and floor it.’
‘Where do you want us to go?’ Buck asked.
‘I don’t care where you go, as long as the Taurus across the street follows you.’
‘You want me to ride with them?’ Freddy asked.
‘Yeah,’ Lassiter said. ‘I want you to sit in the back. Like a decoy.’
Freddy nodded thoughtfully. ‘Is that a decoy, like an optical illusion . . . or is that a decoy, like a sitting duck?’
‘More like an optical illusion,’ Lassiter replied, getting up from the desk. He went to the coat tree, grabbed his overcoat, and tossed it to Freddy. ‘Put this on,’ he said, ‘and see if you can borrow a hat.’
Buck shook his head and frowned. ‘I don’t know about this, Joe . . . Terry said I should stick to you like white on rice.’
Lassiter nodded, pulling on the leather jacket that he’d gotten back from the cleaners that morning. ‘When you see Terry? Just tell him I said the Buck stops here.’ Freddy groaned. ‘Floor it,’ Lassiter repeated, and pushed the two of them out the door.
Returning to his desk, he stuffed Baresi’s book and a handful of the Callista articles in his briefcase, turned off the light, and walked to the window. Standing to the side, he looked out at the street. There were a few pedestrians navigating the icy sidewalks, but very little traffic. A minute went by, two, three – and suddenly the Buick exploded out of the parking garage, leaped the curb, and pancaked as it hit the street. Swinging to the right, it fishtailed away, accelerating into and through the intersection. A moment later the Taurus arced out of its no-parking space and, tires spinning on the snow, roared off after the Buick.
Briefcase in hand, Lassiter shut the door behind him and walked toward the elevators at the end of the lobby. Seeing him, Victoria called out, ‘Joe?’
‘What?’ He pressed the button for the elevator.
‘There’s a federal marshal downstairs at the reception desk,’ she said, holding her hand over the telephone receiver. ‘And a man from the Italian embassy. What do I tell them?’
‘Tell ’em to come up,’ Lassiter replied. Victoria spoke into the phone as her boss waited for the elevator to arrive. When it did, he remained where he was, holding the doors ajar, his eyes on the indicator above the second elevator.
4 . . . 3–2–1 . . . 2–3–4–5 . . .6 – In a few seconds it would be here.
With a little wave, Lassiter stepped into the elevator, turned toward Victoria and released the doors. ‘Tell ’em I stepped away from my desk,’ he said. ‘Tell ’em I’ll be right back.’
34
HE REGISTERED AT the Marriott Long Wharf as Joe Kelly, paying cash in advance, along with a fifty-dollar deposit to cover any telephone calls he might make. It wasn’t like he was on the run, not really, but he wasn’t strolling, either. If Umbra Domini wanted him indicted in Italy, he was sure they could get it done – if they hadn’t already. The only reason a marshal would come to his office with someone from the Italian embassy would be if the Italian police wanted to talk to him – and thought he was dangerous.
And so, in the interests of prudence, he’d decided to be discreet, at least until he found Marie Williams.
There was a day to kill, and nothing much to do, before his appointment with Torgoff. So he trudged through the snowbound Boston streets until he found a hole-in-the-wall that sold falafel sandwiches. Ten minutes later he was back in his room, sitting on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table, reading from a stack of clips about Callista Bates.
There wasn’t much that was new. After a while the press recycled its own stories, repackaging them with a different headline and different photos. Lassiter went through half a dozen stories without encountering a single detail he hadn’t read somewhere else. It was drudge work but, in the absence of anything better to do, or any other leads, it was a way to kill the afternoon.
He picked up the transcript of an interview from a defunct late-night talk show called ‘Reel Time.’ In the late eighties the show had enjoyed a reputation as low key and hip, although in the end it proved too intellectual for commercial success. He remembered it fairly well. Stark sets, and one-on-one interviews with actors, directors, screenwriters, and critics.
The date on the transcript was April 27, 1988, when Callista was promoting a noir thriller called Rose Red. Her interviewer was Valery Fine, and she was obviously determined to do more than flack Callista’s new flick.
VF: So – an Oscar in your pocket for Lost Horizon, the new movie’s a hit – you’re pretty high-flying, aren’t you? What’s it like?
CB: Like? I don’t know. (Laughs) High-flying? I guess it’s like catching a thermal.
VF: You seem so . . . unfazed – is that a real word? I mean, it’s been a pretty wild ride for you, and yet – you seem so . . . together. You choose your roles carefully, you turn down a lot of work . . . you seem immune, somehow, to the glitz.
CB: I wouldn’t say that.
VF: I would. You’re so . . . amazingly level-headed. And I wonder: Did you ever do anything really . . . stupid?
CB: (Laughs) Of course. God – level-headed. How boring is that?!
VF: Well, ‘level-headed,’ considering that you’re everybody’s love goddess. I mean – you’re sitting there – you’re Callista Bates! But at the same time you’re so much the girl-next-door.
CB: (Laughs) Where are you going with this? You make me sound like Betty Crocker – with boobs!
VF: Well, hardly. For one thing, you’re much too elusive for Betty Crocker. Tell us about yourself – about the real Callista Bates.
CB: No.
VF: ‘No’?!
CB: Unh-unh. I want to be elusive.
VF: But why? I know the ground rules – we won’t talk about your family or childhood or any of that. But why do you want to shut people out? You’re a bright, intelligent woman. You read, you have interests. Why shouldn’t people know about that? It would give you – more dimension.
CB: But I don’t want them to know that about me.
VF: Why not?
CB: (Sighs) It’s like this. You know how when there’s a camera around – at some news event – or maybe a sports-caster is doing a stand-up after a game? And, in the background, there’s always a bunch of people, jumping up and down, waving at the camera, trying to get on TV?
VF: (Waving) You mean – Hi, Mom! Hi, Mom!
CB: Exactly. And if they actually make it onto the news or something, they’re thrilled. It does something for them. It makes them part of another world – the Televised World – and somehow they think that’s more real.
VF: You know what’s really weird about that – this has happened to me. I mean, I don’t have to tell anybody to watch me because, of course, everybody does already. (Laughs) But, what you were saying? Friends tell me to watch, all the time. ‘Heyyyyyy, Val – if you catch the Laker game on the tube, look for me! I’m six rows back of the bench and off to the right.’
CB: Yes! Even though this is your friend, you know, and you see her all the time. Life-sized. In the flesh. So you don’t have to watch her on television. But she wants you to see her on television.
VF: Actually, this was a guy.
CB: (Laughs) Anyway – that’s one reaction to the camera, but there’s another one, too. There are people who don’t want to be on television, who don’t want their pictures taken – because it makes them less real. You know the cliché – about the tribesman who doesn’t want his picture taken because he thinks the camera will take his soul?
VF: Of course, but – wait a second! We’re supposed to be talking about you!
CB: (Laughs) I’m getting to me! My point was – I’m a little bit like both of those examples. When I’m acting, I’m jumping up and down like crazy and I want everybody in the world to see me. But in real life, me, the real me? No. Then, I’m like the guy in Borneo. I don’t want to
talk about my personal life because, when I do, it makes me feel bad. It makes me feel like I lost a part of my soul.
VF: Come on, now – isn’t that a little . . . pretentious? I don’t want a piece of your soul. Just a story. Something about Callista the Person – instead of Callista the Star.
CB: (Sighs) You don’t understand because you’re not – I mean, you’re the one asking the questions.
VF: Okay. Fair enough. Ask me a question. Go ahead. Anything.
CB: Okay. (Clears throat) Tell me – how often do you masturbate?
VF: (Screeching and laughing) That’s not fair! I didn’t ask you anything like that!
CB: A radio shock-jock would.
VF: But then you’d just refuse to answer, right?
CB: Yes – but then people would say I’m being elusive. Or not a good sport. Look – I’m not trying to be difficult. I used to blab all the time about myself.
VF: Not really.
CB: All right, not really. But even what I did say – it got so it kind of creeped me out.
VF: What do you mean?
CB: Well, I’d meet somebody. And he’d know everything about me – or think he did – and it was just . . . lopsided. After a while you just stop talking about a huge part of your life because, once you share it, it’s not yours anymore. It’s gone. I mean . . . I’m not explaining this very well.
VF: But those are the wages of fame, aren’t they? If you want people to pay six bucks to go and see you – don’t you owe them something?
CB: I don’t think so. I mean, they’re paying to see the movie, not to find out who my favorite Laker is or what I looked like when I was five.
VF: So you’re not going to help me out?
CB: You’re relentless!
VF: Pleeeeze! Just one thing – one dumb thing!
CB: (Sighs) All right. But only because it might stop someone else from making the same mistake. Although it won’t, of course. Who am I kidding?
VF: Come on, come on. We’re waiting!
CB: Okay, but it’s really stupid. Not foolish or funny, but dumb – as in dangerous. (Sighs) When I first came to the West Coast, I was nineteen years old, I had almost no money, and I drove all the way out here by myself, in Gunther –