Mission

by Patrick Tilley

  Some keen students of logic may have noticed that I appear, in the foregoing, to have outlined a situation which implies we have a choice whereas earlier I reported that, according to The Man, predestination was the order of the day. Bear with me. An answer to the paradox will be forthcoming.

  Chapter 16

  Thursday, 7th of May. I took a break in the late afternoon and returned to the bookshop where I had purchased the paperback reprint of the Zohar. I browsed along the shelves, picked out a book on the Kabbala, and several volumes by Rudolph Steiner then, as I rounded the end of the aisle, I ran slap into Gale McDonald.

  ‘Small world,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘How long have you been interested in this stuff?’

  ‘Ever since someone told me it would give me power over women,’ I said.

  ‘And has it?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not yet. I’m still trying to find the right book. The guy who told me about it couldn’t remember the title.’

  She followed me to the check-out counter where a young bearded guy whose shoulder-length hair started on the crown of his head, manned the cash register. I glanced down at the book she was buying and saw it was an illustrated guide to Tantric Yoga. She stood aside and watched as the bearded guy checked off the prices of my six books and put them into a paper bag.

  ‘They look interesting,’ she said.

  I handed over a fifty dollar bill and held my hand open for the change. ‘Yours looks as if it might be more fun.’

  ‘Yes, well, I hear it’s better than walking the dog,’ she said. She held the street door open for me. ‘Listen, I was just on my way over to see you. Can you spare a few minutes?’

  ‘Is this business or pleasure?’ I asked.

  ‘Let me buy you a cup of coffee.’ She steered me across the street and round the corner into a neat little coffee shop with a bronzed glass window.

  It was crowded but, as we entered, a couple of guys got up from a table in the window. McD cut in ahead of two purple-rinsed matrons and motioned me to sit opposite her. The waitress cleared the table and took our order. McD lit another of her brown cigarettes.

  I gazed idly out of the window and saw the two guys who’d been sitting at the table get into a brown VW delivery truck that was parked right outside. McD lifted her chunky leather bag on to the table, pulled out a tissue and left the bag lying at our elbows.

  I established firm eye-contact and adopted a matter-of-fact tone. ‘So … how’s the miracle market today?’

  ‘Down several points,’ she said. ‘The moment I told my editor what I was on to, he told me to forget it. He didn’t even bother to look at the stuff I’d typed up. It was quite amazing the way his face changed. It was just like a steel shutter coming down.’

  ‘Yeah, well, there you go,’ I said. ‘I can understand your disappointment but I think he made the right decision. TV coverage of what happened to Mrs Perez won’t do anything for people who already believe in God and it will only draw howls of derision from those who don’t. Metaphysics and the media just do not mix.’

  She pulled some smoke down into her lungs. ‘You could be right.’

  I fished out my pack of dwarf whites and got one going. ‘So, what else is new?’

  She answered me with pursed lips. ‘Oh, nothing much. I just wanted to dot a few i’s. Cross a few t’s.’ She leaned away from the table as the waitress arrived with our coffee. ‘That was a neat snow job you laid on me the other day.’

  I frowned. ‘Let me get this straight – are we talking about Mr Sheppard?’

  She smiled crookedly. ‘Well, let’s say we’re talking about the person who occupied Room 315 at the Mayflower Hotel under that name.’

  ‘I see …’ I blew on my coffee and took a cautious sip. ‘Does that mean you think there still may be some doubt as to his actual identity?’

  She blew smoke at the plate glass window. ‘You could say that. Yes.’

  I did my best to look puzzled. ‘I don’t quite understand. I thought I’d explained what the situation was.’

  She took off her tinted glasses. ‘Yes, you did. You were very helpful. Which is why I thought you might be able to explain something else.’

  I noticed that her slate-bue eyes had turned a cold grey. ‘What’s the problem?’

  She burned through some more brown paper. ‘The problem is this, Mr Resnick. A friend of mine, who works for the NYPD, helped me check out your story. None of the airlines flying the Los Angeles-New York route had a lost baggage claim for a Mr Y. Sheppard, or had him listed as a passenger on that particular Monday, or over the previous weekend. The airport police at JFK have no record of finding his wallet, ID papers or passport, and Mr Y. Sheppard was not listed as a passenger on any of the afternoon or evening flights to Europe and the Middle East on Tuesday, the day you told me he flew out to Israel. Does that surprise you?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ I said. ‘You may recall me telling you that was not his real name.’

  ‘That’s what I’d thought you’d say,’ she replied. ‘What name was he travelling under?’

  I fanned my cigarette smoke from the air in between us. ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you that.’

  ‘That figures,’ she said. ‘Would it come as any surprise to learn that the airport police did not carry out a search of the baggage handler’s lockers?’

  I spread my palms. ‘Listen, I can only tell you what he told me. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Sure …’ McD dumped the last quarter of her cigarette and pulled out another.

  I sat back as she fired a three-inch pencil of flame at the end nearest me. ‘Do you use that to blow-torch muggers?’

  ‘No. But now that you mention it, I must give it a try.’ Her grin had a tough edge to it. ‘This client of yours gets stranger by the minute. Why do you think he made up a story like that?’

  ‘Search me,’ I said. I glanced out of the window. The brown VW truck hadn’t moved from the curb. I checked my watch. ‘Listen, I don’t want to rush you but – ’

  McD nodded. ‘I know. This won’t take a minute. Jeff Fowler told me about those two meetings he had with you about some, uh, you know – uh, blood samples.’

  ‘Oh, yeah…’ I said, wondering why she had deliberately stumbled over her delivery.

  ‘Yes,’ she continued. ‘I just wanted to check over a couple of points because, well, quite frankly, both of us are a little confused.’

  I considered walking out there and then but decided to sit tight and brazen it out. ‘What is it you find confusing?’

  McD put her glasses back on and gave me the perplexed look of a college student seeking enlightenment from her professor. ‘Well, when Jeff analysed the blood taken from the statue, he found that it contained the same striking abnormalities that were present in an earlier sample that came from another client of yours, who apparently died a few weeks ago at his daughter’s home in California. A Mr Abraham – Lucksteen?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ I replied.

  McD nodded soberly. ‘Amazing … It’s almost as big a coincidence as us using the same bookshop.’

  I swallowed some more coffee. ‘I’m not quite sure what you’re getting at.’ This time, my puzzlement was genuine.

  ‘Your client, Mr Abraham Lucksteen,’ explained McDonald. ‘He’s got the same name as the rabbi who bar-mitzvahed you. You know – the one who lives on Fisk Street, in Brooklyn, and whose daughter lives in California. She was your classmate in junior and high school, remember?’

  My coffee cup almost slipped through my fingers. ‘You’ve certainly been busy,’ I said. The feeling of being suddenly cornered brought a note of aggression into my voice. ‘Is this what they call investigative reporting? Because from where I’m sitting, publication of any of this would be seen as “invasion of privacy”.’

  Her teeth flashed, like a shark scenting blood. ‘Oh, come now, Mr Resnick. Stop stonewalling. I just want to know what is going on. I made enquiries
at your office and was told that Mr Abraham Lucksteen was not on your list of clients. The rabbi of the same name has assured me that he is alive and well and sends you his regards.’

  ‘Well done,’ I said through clenched teeth. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Something happened at the Manhattan General on Easter Saturday. What is it that you and Doctor Maxwell are covering up?’

  We sat back as the waitress came to refill our cups. I put my hand over mine. When she’d gone, I slid my elbows back on to the table. ‘Let me put it this way, McD. If you’re off duty, it’s none of your business and if you’re wearing your Channel Eight hat, the answer is “No comment”.’

  She added some Sweet ‘n Low to her coffee and stirred it in with a patient sigh. ‘Look, you’re a busy man, so I won’t waste your time. When Jeff Fowler took a look at the blood samples on those slides that your Doctor Maxwell gave him, he found it was still fresh, and it stayed that way.’

  I pulled out another cigarette. ‘He didn’t tell me that.’

  ‘No,’ said McD. ‘But then, you weren’t exactly forthcoming with him. The point is, since the samples didn’t come deep frozen, they could not have been sent from the Philippines. When you told him that story, he already knew where they’d come from.’

  ‘Oh? Where was that?’

  McDonald paused for effect then let me have it right between the eyes. ‘From an unidentified Hispanic male who was tagged DOA when he was delivered to the Manhattan General at nine p.m. on Easter Saturday.’

  All of which, as you can imagine, was familiar stuff. But in the wrong hands, it could be dynamite. I sipped the last of my coffee and feigned a studied disinterest.

  McD dragged down more smoke. ‘Before Jeff came to see you, he went over to the hospital to have a word with Doctor Maxwell. She wasn’t there but he ran into an intern called Paul Lazzarotti who was using her office to proposition a nurse. I won’t bore you with the details of their conversation but Jeff asked Lazzarotti if, as her assistant, he knew anything about the slides. Lazzarotti mentioned he’d seen Doctor Maxwell with them in her hand on the Saturday when you came up from the morgue. That led to the dead Hispanic, and the discovery that drawer eleven was empty and back to Doctor Maxwell’s office where Jeff, by sheer chance, happened to see a white coat hanging up in a half-open locker. It was one Doctor Maxwell had been wearing which should have gone in the laundry basket but hadn’t. And it had bloodstains on it.’ McDonald shrugged.

  ‘So Jeff took it away for analysis,’ I concluded.

  ‘Yup,’ said McDonald. ‘And there was some blood on it that matched the samples on the slides. So when Doctor Maxwell went along with your story about faith-healing in the Philippines, Jeff knew that she was in on the cover up too.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. It was the best I could manage. Obviously Fowler was much less of an idiot than I thought. As for McDonald, it was clear she possessed the nose of a bloodhound plus the speed and tenacity of a ferret.

  McD paused to drink her coffee. Doubtless to leave me, in the style of John Ehrlichmann, dangling slowly in the wind. I knew she was baiting the trap but I could not resist walking into it with my mouth wide open. ‘Is there any more?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she replied. ‘This is where it really gets interesting. Lazzarotti’s description of the Hispanic gentleman who went missing from drawer eleven is almost identical with Mrs Perez’s description of the man she met in Central Park, and your secretary’s description of Mr Sheppard. When you put all that together with the statue, Fowler’s analysis of the blood, and what that implies about Mr Sheppard’s physiology – ’

  ‘Oh, yeah, what does it imply?’ I said sharply.

  She looked about her then lowered her voice. ‘Listen. We both know that nearly everything you told me about this guy has either been a bare-faced lie or an evasion of the truth. Who is he – and where does he come from? Is he, uh – ’ she hesitated, ‘ – part of a Close Encounter-type situation?’

  I laughed. So near and yet so far. ‘Fowler’s already asked me that. Come on, McD. You know damn well if that was true I’d be beating a path to your door. Jeff Fowler’s given you a bum steer. I don’t know anything about what happened to the guy who was in drawer eleven but I can assure you of one thing – he is not Mr Sheppard. I’m sorry. I’d like to help you but I have nothing to add to what I’ve already said.’

  She formed a loose circle with her mouth and let the smoke drift out slowly, taking it back in through her nose. It had been years since I’d seen anyone do that. ‘Are the other partners in your law firm involved in this cover up?’

  The smile froze on my face. ‘You’re starting to tread on my toes, McD. Let me give you some sound advice. Stop wasting your time and mine. There is no cover up. This is not another Watergate. And you are not Carl Bernstein or Bob Woodward. There is no story. So just drop it, okay?’

  Which has to be the most provocative thing you can say to a pushy reporter. I don’t know what got into me.

  Her expression didn’t change. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to say anything?’

  I led with my bottom lip. ‘Listen. You know as much as I do.’

  ‘You mean, like the fact that the amazing Mr Sheppard is not in Israel but in your apartment on 75th Street?’ She put the question to me as if she didn’t quite understand it herself.

  I sat there with egg on my face. ‘You’ve spoken to him?’

  ‘No,’ said McD. ‘Mr Sheppard appears unwilling to answer the door-buzzer or telephone, but the janitor was very helpful.’

  You may remember me telling you he was nosey. He would also sell his tenants down the river for five bucks. And what he didn’t know he would make up. ‘Has it occurred to you that he might be mistaken?’ I suggested.

  She shook her head. ‘I checked. A lady on the fourth floor of the apartment building opposite was kind enough to let me look out of her window. She even loaned me a pair of binoculars.’

  ‘Now that is grotesque,’ I said.

  ‘Not at all,’ smiled McD. ‘It was a touching gesture of solidarity. I told her that I was your estranged wife and wanted to find out if you were cheating on me.’

  ‘I think I know the woman you mean,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, well, for what it’s worth, if you’re going to go on inviting girls up, from now on I’d close the blinds.’

  ‘Thanks a bunch …’

  It was her turn to shrug. ‘My pleasure. Anyway, there in your living-room was a bearded man in his thirties who answers the description of Mr Sheppard. He was lying on the sofa watching television.’

  ‘Oh, really,’ I said. ‘That’s very interesting. Which channel?’

  ‘Couldn’t say,’ she replied. ‘The back of the set was facing the window.’

  Which it was. I nodded with grudging admiration. ‘You’re a sharp lady. You should have been a lawyer.’

  McD shrugged modestly. ‘Must be in the blood. My father’s the local sheriff, my mother’s the daughter of a judge, and my favourite uncle is States Attorney.’

  I had to laugh. This kid was really rubbing my nose in it.

  She smiled along with me. ‘My brother is with the Justice Department in Washington. I’m the dumb one of the family. That’s why I rode horses.’ She killed her cigarette and her smile at the same time. ‘What I thought of doing was asking Mrs Perez along to see if she could positively identify Mr Sheppard as the man she met in Central Park. How does that grab you?’

  ‘Don’t,’ I said, with a shake of the head. ‘I’ve got enough problems.’ I looked out of the window of the coffee shop and toyed with the idea of telling McD that she’d been spying on Jesus. And it was at that point that I saw what I’d failed to notice before; the videocamera that was aimed at us from the cab of the VW delivery truck.

  I turned back to McDonald, pulled her bag towards me and found the mike that had been taped under the flap.

  She tried to play it like Jane Fonda in The China Syndrome but underneath
she was like a kid who’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. ‘I was, uh – hoping you’d give me something I could use to beat my editor over the head with.’

  ‘Well, you just crapped out, McD,’ I said, exulting in the fact that it was now her turn on the receiving end. ‘In the first place, you did not obtain my permission for an on-the-record interview. And in the second place, your friends are photographing my worst side.’

  The flush in her cheeks started to fade as she bounced back. ‘What friends?’

  I jerked my thumb at the window. ‘Your friends in the van.’ As she looked out of the window, I ripped the mike from her bag and said goodbye. ‘Okay, cut it right there, fellas. It’s a wrap.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ she said.

  I dunked the mike head first into her coffee and walked out leaving Channel Eight to pay the bill.

  I found a pay-phone at the end of the block and rang the Manhattan General. I hung on for what seemed an age then finally got Miriam on the line. ‘Our cover’s been blown,’ I said. ‘I’ve got Carol’s roommate and a camera crew from Channel Eight on my tail. She and Jeff Fowler have been working overtime and both our faithful assistants have been shooting their mouths off.’

  ‘Paul?’ She sounded surprised. ‘But I didn’t tell him anything.’

  ‘You didn’t need to. Fowler managed to put it together from the bits Lazzarotti remembered. They don’t know it all, like the way he disappeared from the slab, for instance, but they’re pretty damn sure where that first blood sample came from, and they know that drawer eleven is empty.’ I told Miriam about Fowler’s fact-finding trip and how McD had been checking up on me.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she sighed. ‘I wish to hell I’d been there.’

  ‘I’m glad you weren’t,’ I said. ‘You might have spilled the whole story. You’re really hopeless when it comes to telling lies.’

  She greeted this with a brief silence. ‘So what did you say to this lady?’

  ‘Nothing. I stuck to my original story and didn’t admit a thing. But she knows that The Man is in my apartment and she’s threatened to send Mrs Perez round to flush him out unless you and I start talking. Fowler has her partially convinced that they’ve stumbled across The Man Who Fell To Earth.’