by Jack Adler
“A little gallows humor to mix in the pot,” Bender said as Luke and Rona took their own measure of the Boomie episode.
“I’m sure the mayor enjoys your brand of humor,” Rona said.
“She must be really embarrassed,” Luke ventured.
“She’ll get over it,” Bender said. All in all, a good day's work, he thought as he, Rona and Luke relaxed with soft drinks. Holly, who had been kept away from Jez during the ministrations, stayed aloof in her room. Aloofness would have its price, and as fatalistic as Holly appeared to be now, she might still be surprised by his plans for her. . . .
“We’ve put a special task force on this case,” Police Chief Dexter Calpin said, “and we will stop these terrorists. We’re following up on the leads we have, but for obvious reasons, I can’t give you any specifics.”
I stood in the rear of the room amidst a crowd of reporters from print and electronic media. TV cameras cast off heat as they burned, and cameramen vied for the best angle. Sweat hung like wet medals on their foreheads. Calpin was standing by himself behind the lectern, but other LAPD officers were standing off to the side, looking on with serious and sometimes disapproving expressions. The media was out in force, and some of the questions were less than salutary.
“Do you think the bomb was set to go off when no one would be hurt?” asked a reporter, waving his notebook as if this would insure a response.
“We can’t be sure of the intentions of the terrorists, but we’re glad no one was hurt,” Calpin said. He was a burly man in his fifties with a well-tended thick mustache and steel gray hair combed severely back off his broad forehead. If he had ever played football, he must have been a fullback. He also reminded me a bit of DeCosta, though he was taller and more hirsute.
“Is the city going to agree to the demands of the HAP?” asked a pert TV reporter with long black hair and a combative look.
“The mayor has authorized me to say that the city of Los Angeles won’t bend to the will of terrorists,” Calpin said.
“Follow-up!” the reporter screamed. “What was your recommendation, to negotiate or not?”
Calpin was obviously displeased. “Again, this is a matter that the mayor can elaborate on when the time is appropriate.”
“Is Holly Baxter still considered a murderer and a willing member of the HAP?” asked another reporter.
“We’re still investigating that,” Calpin said, “but the radio broadcast speaks for itself.”
“Is this HAP group connected to any terrorist organization?” asked a television reporter as his cameraman angled to get him squarely in the frame.
Good question, I thought, because it broadened the possibilities of the political spectrum. So far little of use had emerged.
“That aspect of the investigation is also in dispute,” Calpin said, maintaining his professional calm, “but I can tell you that we haven’t as yet found any information linking them to anyone else.”
“So,” jumped in another reporter, “do you think this is a new organization or just a front?”
Showing no signs of irritation, Calpin responded, “At this point we’re considering all possibilities.”
“Do you think Baxter is being kept under duress?” asked a reporter from the rear of the room.
It was kind of provocative question, and I would have asked it myself, except I was afraid of revealing my identity somehow and casting a shadow on Tramerica. In an involuntary movement, I leaned forward to better hear the response.
“We have to go with the evidence we have: her prints on the murder weapon, her participation in the bank robbery, and her own voice on the radio broadcast,” Calpin said, laying out the incriminating evidence.
I waited a second and then decided to risk posing my own question, though I certainly didn’t have press credentials. “What were the results of the voice analysis?”
Calpin stared back at the area where I was standing to find the source of the question. Hardly anyone else looked at me, which was fine.
“We have no doubt that it was Holly Baxter speaking and no conclusive evidence that she was under duress,” Calpin said as if he were dismissing the notion for all time.
Conclusive?! Was Calpin fudging the issue?
Far from satisfied, I had the nagging thought that the police were just looking at the obvious. I couldn’t blame them. The police, I figured, must be under terrible pressure to stop the HAP before more people than just our tour guide were killed. And if the police had any doubts about Holly, they surely wouldn’t express them here at the press conference, which was, after all, a public relations event. I ought to realize that, I scolded myself.
Now Calpin introduced Deputy Police Chief Hal Johnson, head of the special task force. He was a tall man in his early forties with cropped brown hair, wide-set eyes, a jutting chin and a determined look. No doubt he was Detective Ruiz’s superior and much too busy to see me himself.
“I don’t have much to add except to say we’ve heightened security around the city, and we’re asking citizens to be especially alert to anything or anyone unusual,” Johnson said. “We’ve established a special toll-free line to call, but we ask you to urge your readers and viewers to only use this number for matters related to this terrorist organization. The number is (877) 999-9994.”
“Is the FBI working on this case?” asked a reporter.
“Yes,” Johnson said. “They’re part of the task force, which is being led by us.”
Leadership was important, I thought. I wondered if there had been any jurisdictional struggle of any sort. Perhaps I should visit the Los Angeles office of the FBI.
Suddenly, a young, rather heavy but attractive brunette sidled over to me. She was carrying a notebook, so I assumed she was a reporter.
“Excuse me,” she said, “aren’t you with Tramerica?”
“Yes, but how did you know?” I wasn’t wearing a name tag.
She didn’t smile. “I figured your company would have someone here. I called your office, and they described you, more or less.”
More or less? I wondered if Corinne or Stacy had done the honors of describing me. But it wasn’t worth asking.
“OK, I’m Derry Greene. What can I do for you?”
“I’m Gail Wooten with the Los Angeles Advisor, and I’d like to interview you.”
I wasn’t particularly flattered. I had been interviewed before. The usual policy was for me to refer such requests to Wolcott back in New York, though I had carte blanche to make statements if time was of the essence. That wasn’t the situation here, so I gave her my customary response: I needed to check first with headquarters.
Gail Wooten pouted, disappointed and perhaps thinking she had been brushed off. Having been in her position, I understood her reaction.
“Look, you’ll get your interview, either with me or my boss, Wolcott Harris in New York. Give me your card, and one of us will get back to you in a day or so, no later.”
Not entirely reassured, she handed me her card, which I stuck in my pocket. But I felt a lift. Like a splash of sunlight illuminating a barren plot, Gail Wooten had given me an idea.
I drove back to the office and called Wolcott at home. Corinne had already left for the day, but Stacy was still there.
“Wolcott, the mayor isn’t giving in, and the police have established a separate toll-free line for this case. They’re apparently satisfied; their voice analysis showed that it was Holly speaking and that she was not under duress. I’m not so sure. I’m not sure that they’re sure.”
“But you have no proof,” Wolcott said.
“Not yet,” I countered.
“Mr. Baxter listened to the tape,” Wolcott said. “I think it broke his heart to say so, but he had to admit he thought it was Holly. But he still maintains she was forced.”
That must have been a tough scene, but I didn’t want to ask Wolcott if he had been present. I agreed with Baxter, but there was no point in saying this, as Wolcott was already well apprised of my opin
ion. “I’ve been asked for an interview, and I’d like to do several,” I said. “I think it will explain our position without being an obstacle to the police. By drawing attention to me, it may lead to something.”
Wolcott was silent for a moment, and I knew he was considering the ramifications of doing interviews. “Derry, you can’t just go out and say the police are wrong.”
“I wouldn’t do that, but I don’t think everyone agrees with the police. As you know, the people on the tour, who met Holly, have their doubts. I think the interview would actually help the police by getting the HAP folks to realize their act isn’t convincing everyone.”
“It might work,” Wolcott conceded hesitantly, as if he were still unconvinced, “but I’m also concerned about what all the attention might mean.”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” I said with my usual bravado, though I knew this argument would be ineffective.
“Don’t be ridiculous. It would be most unwise to place you in any danger. We have enough problems.”
“What danger?” I had to convince Wolcott that my tactic—I could hardly call it a plan—didn’t pose any problem. Tramerica had enough liability concerns with Holly Baxter for Wolcott to allow me to compound the situation.
“Derry, it’s clear this group is dangerous. Ashley Wells is dead. Holly Baxter’s . . . role isn’t clear yet, but it doesn’t sound good. We don’t want to add you to the list.”
“Wolcott, I’m not Ashley or Holly. I can take care of myself. Give me a shot.”
Another long pause ensued. “All right,” Wolcott said dubiously, as if it were a difficult mental extraction, “but be very cautious in what you say and do. Don’t be confrontational.”
“I’ll send you a transcript.”
“By all means. And set the interview up as soon as possible. We’re still expecting you to be back here no later than Monday.”
Four more days, I thought. Would I be able to do anything useful in such a short time? I hated to have to tell Val I was slated to leave so soon, but I wasn’t going to lie to her; I would just delay the news until it was definite.
After ending the conversation with Wolcott, I considered calling Val again but decided against it. I could tell her about the press conference, which would be on television in the morning anyhow. I didn’t want to give her the slightest notion that I was lusting after her. Instead I called Gail Wooten and set up an interview early the following afternoon at her office.
Stacy stuck her head in the conference room. “So how’s it going, Derry?”
I shrugged. I must have appeared downcast because she gave me a sympathetic glance. “You look like you could use some TLC, not that I’m offering,” she said with a grin, though we both knew she was.
“Long day,” I muttered. I had to admit that female companionship was a welcome thought. And Stacy looked good. She was wearing a tailored black outfit with an open neck and a light blue blouse that revealed the swell of her ample bust. She stood close enough to where I sat that I caught a whiff of her perfume. She must have anointed herself freshly in her office before coming into the conference room.
“I know what you mean,” she said to commiserate with me, coming closer.
“Stacy,” I said, my tone of voice stopping her in her tracks. “I have to be frank with you. If I let myself go, I’d ravage you right here on the desk.”
The thought seemed to appeal to Stacy as she studied the gleaming desk for an instant and then tilted her head as if the notion had possibilities. The spark in her eyes was lascivious and unmistakable but marked by a touch of humor as well. To her credit, Stacy had no illusions about herself.
“But I can’t,” I said. “Wolcott wanted me to come back already, and he asked me, more or less, if I had any romantic interests out here in the Wild West.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Well, lifelong commitments are seldom made on office desks,” Stacy said, exhibiting a welcome bit of humor.
I had to smile. Stacy had her own brand of subtlety and sophistication that could always surprise me, even when it was risqué.
“True enough,” I admitted. “But, as I’m sure you know, I have a strike or two against me already on this score.”
“What does my record say on this burning issue?” Stacy asked; I could tell she was not very amused.
“I don’t know, love. I just know what my boss told me about my sorry record.”
“Who’s this woman who’s calling you here?”
Either Corinne had blabbed, or Stacy had overheard Corinne or me speaking to Val. It didn’t make any difference. Val wasn’t a secret; only my attraction to her was, I hoped.
“A freelance journalist with good contacts who’s assisting me, and there’s no hanky panky. Wolcott has approved it.”
Stacy seemed unconvinced, and I could hardly blame her. Wolcott was in New York, Stacy was here and she had all that vaunted female intuition, which I fully respected. I just wondered how transparent I was. Good thing, I thought, that Wolcott couldn’t see my face while we were speaking. My situation was on the ridiculous side. I was lusting after one woman and refusing the charms of another while I should have been concentrating on the situation I was sent to Los Angeles to handle. I had a knack for complicating things or finding myself in complicated situations. A dubious talent.
I stood, approached Stacy and put my arm on her shoulders like a brother. Looking her straight in the eye, I said, “This is real.”
“I know,” she said, her lips curling into a pout.
I kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Come on,” I said, “I’ll walk you to your car.”
They were at a new safe house, Holly saw, with more dowdy furniture. The couches had worn-out upholstery, and the rugs needed cleaning in the worst way. The same safeguards against her escaping were in place: locked doors and drawn blinds and curtains. At least one of her captors was always in the house. She was doomed to be their pawn forever, or until they no longer had any use for her, and then they'd probably kill her. Clearly, they couldn't let her go now. She knew too much, and Bender was just playing with her. She hadn't convinced anyone with her lukewarm interest or compliance. She might as well find a way to at least take one of them with her. But how? She was only really alone in the bathroom, and there was nothing in that untidy area she could use. The bitch had made sure of that.
Holly stared at herself in the mirror. Her face was more gaunt. She was eating; she wasn't starving. But her cheekbones were more accentuated, and there was a toughness to her face and her eyes. These bastards had hardened her complexion. She had seen and experienced too much, and it was searing her mind. Even if she finally escaped or was rescued, her life would never be the same.
"What're you doing in there?" Rona shouted from outside the bathroom. Her voice was always so cutting and harsh.
"Go to hell!" Holly said, taking her sweet time. She knew Rona wasn't alone in the house with her. While Luke ran errands, the other two often stayed with her. There had to be more to the group than just this trio, but they were the only ones she had ever seen. How large an organization was the HAP? How come she had never heard of them before?
She flushed the toilet, though there was no need to, and then came out of the bathroom. Rona bumped into her on purpose as she started back down the small hallway to her room. Holly instinctively pushed back. With surprising agility Rona spun around and struck Holly on her cheek with a clenched fist. It hurt, but her anger diluted the pain. Holly ducked a follow-up blow and threw herself at Rona. They fell to the ground, wrestling, as Bender ran over to separate them.
"Cut it out!" Bender ordered, trying to disentangle Rona and Holly, neither of whom obeyed him. Finally, he managed to shove Holly aside and then placed a foot atop her head to keep her from trying to strike Rona. Scrambling to her feet with her hair disheveled and a raw scratch underneath her left eye, Rona glared at her prone opponent.
"She hit me!" Rona screeched, ready to attack
Holly again.
Seeing that Holly was not resisting, Bender removed his foot. "She hit me first," Holly said, still prone on the floor. She had a welt on her right cheek.
"All right, the fun and games are over," Bender decreed. "Rona, use the other bathroom and clean yourself up. Holly, in this bathroom, and be quick about it."
Bender waited until Holly was in the bathroom and then stared angrily at Rona. He beckoned her to follow him and walked back into the living room.
"You made her feel like she’s a guest here and we serve her," Rona said. She gave Bender a petulant stare as she ran her hand over her wound.
"She's serving us," Bender said, "or haven't you noticed?"
"BB, you can see it in her eyes."
"Well, I don't think she's enamored of us, but fighting doesn't help. I asked you to control yourself. I won't ask again."
Steely resolve glinted in his eyes, and Rona knew BB meant his threat. "I'm sorry," she said. "She just gets to me."
"Evidently. But we still need her, and I have plans for the young lady, which I’ll reveal when the time comes.”
Six
THURSDAY
The fun and games were over, Bender thought. The mayor was not even bending, let alone breaking. Meanwhile, the city was slowly being strangled. Now it was time for more serious efforts to finish the job and bring the city to its municipal knees.
It was astonishingly easy, Bender thought with relief, to leave a bomb on the new subway linking the San Fernando Valley/North Hollywood Station with downtown Los Angeles. All Luke did during the early morning rush hour was pretend to forget a nondescript overnight flight bag, leaving it partially covered by the sports section of the Los Angeles Times on the floor in one of the cars. Even with increased security due to the protracted threat of terrorism, no one seemed to notice a bag left alone before Luke left the train. Once outside on the street, he phoned Bender and simply said, “Blue.”