She leaned back and pointed, her breathing hurried and excited. The headline read, DEAD IN HIS TRACKS! ATTORNEY IN GENOA CROSSING CASE MURDERED.
Alvarez’s attorney, Donald Andersen, had been found dead of a broken neck in his office. His client, Umberto Alvarez—his last known appointment—had been wanted for questioning. Tyler scanned the piece, this time faster than Priest. Assault… broken neck… arrest warrant…
“No way,” he gasped, marveling at the similarity to his own recent past. That image of Chester Washington beating the baby against the wall suddenly filled the screen. The room felt small. He felt hot.
She added, editorializing, “Six months later the derailments began. Every six or eight weeks. Signal failures, engineers drunk at the controls. Every excuse O’Malley could fabricate. But he must have known all along it was Alvarez.”
“Of course he knew! And he sent Harry Wells out to catch him,” Tyler added. “Kill him, if possible.”
She whispered, “And he sent me to find Harry Wells before you did.”
“Yeah? Well, that backfired,” Tyler pointed out.
She leaned back against Tyler, practically into his arms. She tapped the computer. “They don’t want us knowing any of this, or they would have told me in the first place.”
“And that begs a larger question,” Tyler suggested, rhetorically. “Why, if you know a particular person has cost you a hundred million dollars, don’t you want every cop, every fed, looking for the guy?”
A cavernous silence hung between them. She said tentatively, not really believing it herself, “Maybe they just don’t want the press knowing the connection, dragging the Alvarez deaths into the national press.”
“You don’t actually think that?” Tyler asked.
“No.”
“More likely, Umberto Alvarez has been a victim all along. They were responsible for that crossing accident and of course they know it.” Tyler knew something about what that felt like. “They can’t afford to have his side heard. It’s business as usual for them.” He added, speculating, “What if Alvarez didn’t kill this attorney Andersen? What if that was intended to put him into legal problems?”
“Isn’t that just a little bit paranoid?”
Tyler answered, “Is it? This guy had turned into a nightmare for them. What if Harry Wells was supposed to end their problem once and for all?”
CHAPTER 19
“I didn’t expect to see you again,” Jillian whispered into Alvarez’s ear as she poured him a glass of red wine.
Following his visit with Miguel, Alvarez had driven nearly six hours to Toledo, Ohio, in time for the 12:33 A.M. Amtrak for New York. The train actually left from Chicago, but he feared the Union station would be crawling with them. He had retired the black leather jacket and blue jeans to the duffel in favor of a sweater and down vest because he’d been seen in the other clothes. His only concern came from driving the stolen car, but at night, keeping within the speed limit on an interstate, and with the car less than a day in his possession, it had seemed a risk worth taking. He slept lightly on the train and arrived in New York that same afternoon at three o clock, somewhat refreshed.
The test run of NUR’s bullet train was scheduled to take place in four days, departing New York’s Pennsylvania Station for Washington, D.C. Everything Alvarez had labored for now came down to these next four days.
The bistro across from the Powell hummed with conversation and the bell-like percussion of tableware against Breton pottery. The aromas were of dill and rosemary and a warm, sweet chocolate from the soufflés. Jillian stood at attention, pencil poised as if awaiting his order.
“I wanted to see you again,” he told her, looking down at his wine glass as he spun it by the stem.
Jillian glanced around the room, ensuring privacy, and maintained a stiff posture that imparted none of the intimacy they had once shared. “And here I am.”
“I wanted to apologize,” he said. “I’m not sure for what, but I feel one is owed.”
“I’m a big girl, Bert. No apologies necessary. I’d wanted to do that since I was thirteen.” She grinned. “Another of life’s little conquests taken care of.”
He toyed with his place setting and ordered food.
“The baked sole would be nice. With the spinach, if you have it.”
“Who was that woman the other night?”
“I told you.”
“Yes. But I didn’t believe you.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have come back.”
“Then why did you?”
“Some potatoes if you have them, and pâté to start.”
“Don’t do this.”
“Goose pâté,” he clarified. “None of that vegetarian crap. You don’t serve that, do you? Not a place like this.”
“You need a place to stay,” she theorized. “You can stay with me.”
He said, “I’ve a room of my own. I’m fine.”
She leaned in close and whispered angrily, “First you sleep with me; then you feel guilty and come back. You’re limping. You’re hurt. You’re in trouble, judging by that limp and your reluctance to tell me about anything that’s going on. And now you want me to simply put up your order?” She turned on her heel and stormed off back toward the kitchen.
Alvarez felt he should leave before she returned. Complications. He had hoped for a pleasant dinner. He’d made a mistake by coming here. She must have caught on to his intentions, for she cut back across the room, her purse in her hand. A waitress carrying her purse was somehow an unusual sight. He was standing by the time she reached him.
“Have you ever had one of those moments where everything suddenly seems so clear? So sharp? So right? Don’t ask me why, but when I saw this in the paper… I thought of you.” She dug out a torn newspaper article from her purse. When he declined to accept it, she placed it on the table. The photo showed an aerial of the Terre Haute train wreck. She said, “I know about your family. The tragedy. And then the way you were with me, so…jumpy…the other night. Mysterious and all. And then this.” She leaned in and lowered her voice to less than a whisper, a warm wind on his neck giving him shivers. “What’s going on, Bert?”
Alvarez crumpled the article. He found it hard to breathe. “This has nothing to do with me.”
“No?”
“Forget this!” He looked around. Some customers were staring. He felt cornered.
“Explain it to me,” she pleaded.
“Nothing to explain.” He pushed past her for the door. “Yes, there is!” she called out loudly enough to lift every head in the restaurant.
Alvarez reached the outside and ran.
An hour later, Alvarez adjusted the doors to the hotel room’s hand-painted armoire, holding one of the doors open with the back of a chair. Opera played from the radio built into the television. Big lungs. He sat back and attempted to enjoy the moment, but the encounter with Jillian had shaken him.
The Plaza Hotel room cost $380, and yet it felt cheap to him. He had a little over three thousand in cash split between two pockets and the sock of his right leg. With everything ready, he waited impatiently as a teen before the prom, sitting first on the edge of the bed, then in the chair at the desk, and finally on the toilet. Dinner hadn’t agreed with him, his nerves were frayed.
He felt giddy with anticipation. If this proved successful, he believed he would gain the leverage to crush William Goheen, whether or not he managed to derail the bullet train.
As a student of science, Alvarez deemed data the most powerful tool, information, the most powerful weapon. This premium on information accounted for his risky forays into Northern Union’s offices, as well as the hundreds of hours he’d spent in surveillance of both Goheen and his daughter, Gretchen. He knew their day-to-day lives as well as they did, their routines, the exceptions to those routines, their preferences for travel, their friends. He checked his watch: she was late. Elation briefly gave way to anxiety. He had severed all ties with his past other than with M
iguel. He had no place of his own except a sparsely furnished loft south of the Flatiron Building that he rented by the month. For a while, this nomadic lifestyle had been tolerable, exciting even, his hunger for revenge so overpowering, but now it dragged him down. Jillian’s discovery had shaken him. She knew about him! Knowledge was just as dangerous as it was powerful.
The ringing of the room’s phone jolted Alvarez. He answered it quickly. “Hello?”
“Mr. Cortez?” a woman’s smooth voice inquired.
“Speaking.”
“It’s Gail. May I come up to the room?”
“Twelve-seventeen.”
“Twelve-seventeen,” she repeated. “See you in a minute.”
Alvarez hung up, his chest tight, adrenaline casting aside any lingering fatigue. Gail. Even the sound of her voice gave him a shiver. He had played roles for the past eighteen months, but none as exhilarating as what was required of him over the next hour. This woman, too, was playing roles. He pushed Jillian from his thoughts as he studied the room, reminding himself to keep his back to the armoire and the video camera it concealed. He reminded himself that for this performance he’d have to make demands of this woman that would not come easily to him. Fifteen hundred dollars, and he wouldn’t use a cent. He wondered how far he could go.
He looked into the mirror at the man he had become—the tired eyes, the oppressive sadness, the slightly discolored broken bridge to his nose that was still healing, a few scars that interrupted his own recollection of that face. His body, like the soul inside him, was worse for the wear. He felt like a train wreck himself when he compared whom he’d become with the eighth grade teacher who had once taught Buckminster Fuller’s mechanics to eager minds. That former Umberto Alvarez could no longer be seen in this mirror.
When the knock came, Alvarez checked the security peephole. His heart misfired in his chest at the sight of her. Even distorted by a wide-angle lens, this woman’s perfection spoke of high society. Escort or not, she was no street urchin. Black hair, cut in bangs, framed her oval face. She wore blue pigmented contacts and enough makeup for the theater, including a haunting application of eye shadow. In an unusual twist, the cosmetics hid, instead of emphasized, her high cheekbones. Her small Roman nose perched haughtily above sensual, pouty lips painted rose. Those lips held his attention. Captivating. He drew in a deep breath, opened the door to a wind of lilac and French soap, and faced a welcoming smile. She could have been a woman of Paris, London, or Milan.
“Gail,” she said, her voice now husky and raw. She intended to earn every penny.
“Fernando,” he lied. They shook hands, hers frail and delicate, not at all what he had expected. She kissed him lightly on the cheek and walked past him, the scent more intense. She wore a tailored, blood red jacket, buttoned to emphasize her chest. Her pleated black skirt reminded him of a schoolgirl, except for the smooth curve of her hips.
She placed her handbag on the bedside table and turned to face him. “In town for long?”
“A couple days is all.”
“You flew in from?”
“Train, actually,” he said, waiting to see her reaction.
She smiled, amused. “I love trains.”
“Last romantic way to travel,” he said.
“I couldn’t agree more.”
He couldn’t have scripted it any better. He said, “Do I pay you now?”
“No business, please. Your credit card was charged when I confirmed you were in your room. You are a regular on the site?” she asked suspiciously.
“A friend of Takimachi,” he answered.
She smiled. “Oh, yes. Fine.”
“Ohio,” he said, answering her initial question.
“Do you live in Ohio?”
“No, I don’t live there. It was business. Same as New York.” He moved toward the minibar. “Drink?”
“No, thank you. But go ahead. I’ll just take a minute.” She pointed to the bathroom.
“While you’re in there, please lose the wig,” he instructed her, “and remove the eye makeup as well. I like the feel of a woman’s hair.” He added, “I like a woman plain. God given. I’d like to undress you, if that’s all right?”
“This is your time, Fernando. I’m here for you. Whatever you like. However you like it.” She didn’t look or sound the least put off by his request. Probably hears a lot worse than that, he thought. She nodded obediently. “We’re going to have fun, Fernando.”
He found her confidence disarming.
“Leave the bathroom door open,” he told her.
“Excuse me?” Again, surprise.
“I want you to leave the bathroom door open. I want to watch. And remember: I want to undress you.”
“I need a private moment, Fernando.”
“Then take one, but with the door open.”
Now she looked troubled. He wanted her on her heels. “I beg your pardon?” she said.
“Listen,” he answered, “it can’t be disrobing that bothers you. Not even using the toilet—you must have freaks who like that stuff as well.”
Her brow knitted, but then she forced it smooth and she relaxed, letting the customer have his way.
“And if it’s drugs…you should know that the idea of that turns me on: a woman giving up control of herself like that. Not that I want any. Whatever it is, do it in front of me. Right here,” he pointed to the bed. A puzzled expression gave way to submission. She nodded reluctantly. “Never mind the bathroom then.” She slipped a small glass bottle from her purse and spooned a substantial amount of cocaine up her nose, her eyes nearly constantly on him.
“I will undress you now,” he said. “Remove the wig.” He motioned to the room’s mirror. “And also the contact lenses.”
She snorted even more cocaine and put away the small vial. “Fine.” This word she had at the ready.
He took her by the hips from behind and turned her so that she addressed the mirror. She carefully lifted the wig and pulled it off her head. She shook out her hair and asked if he wanted her to comb it out. Alvarez stepped behind her, told her not to worry about it, and then helped her out of her waist-length jacket. He carefully unfastened a hook and unzipped her black skirt. He pulled it down around her ankles, revealing a red garter belt over a red lace thong that disappeared into her cheeks. He sensed no nervousness in her whatsoever, a woman accustomed to others undressing her. His own heart rate had doubled.
“Would you like me to hang it up?” he asked.
“If you don’t mind. Yes, please.” She toyed with her hair, again trying to improve its look. “I can brush it out,” she offered again.
“No,” he said, clipping the skirt to a hanger. He returned, reached around her, making contact with both breasts, and slowly unbuttoned her cream-colored blouse. “Just like that is fine.”
“I’d prefer to leave my face on,” she said. “I made myself pretty for you, Fernando.”
He slipped the blouse off her. “I prefer an honest face to one adorned,” he explained. And I want the camera to clearly see you.
“What do you mean by an honest face?” she asked, clearly troubled. “Are you insulting me?”
“Insulting? I’m complimenting you, Gail. This face of yours isn’t close to your real face, is it? I think not. Not in the slightest. You’re probably a much more beautiful woman without all of that. Do you use warm water or cold?” He pointed toward the bathroom.
“I’m afraid it’s not negotiable,” she protested. “My face stays as is.”
“How long to redo it? An hour? I’ll pay for the extra hour.” He pulled out a wad of bills. “Cash,” he added.
“One cloth hot, the other warm,” she answered.
Alvarez returned with the two washcloths, and she began working through layers of color, the accents to her cheeks, the highly decorated eyes. “It’s a strange thing to ask,” she said, mostly to herself.
“Have you never been asked this before?”
“Never.” Clearly uncom
fortable to discuss such things, she gave in to her client’s questioning and informed him, “Oh, sometimes I add something. Some men prefer a certain look, you know?”
“I like a woman to be herself, not an invention.” He made sure she heard each word that followed. “Except for the occasional party, my wife never wore any makeup at all. None.” He had hoped she might fish for more information, but not this one. She’d been well trained, well schooled. “My use of the past tense was supposed to incite curiosity on your part.” The bra was black satin. He unhooked it and slid its straps down her arms. No gooseflesh; no response on her part whatsoever. His blood pressure now chased his pulse. His mouth was dry. Her pupils were dilated from the coke.
“Was it?” she asked.
“Absolutely.”
“Then I’ve disappointed you,” she apologized. “I’m sorry. Shall I ask you now?”
“She’s dead, you see,” he explained, interrupting. “It was ruled an accident, but to me it was murder.”
“Murder?” She frowned, disturbing her practiced smile. Alvarez fell to his knees and gently drew the garter belt and the red silk thong slowly down the length of her tan legs. His head came even with her waist. He took her by the hips and turned her around slowly so that she faced the camera in full frontal nudity. The transformation complete, it was no longer a fifteen-hundred-dollar-an-hour call girl with a captivating face and million-dollar body. It was Gretchen Goheen.
She lived for the way they worshiped her, the way they physically responded so quickly to her. She loved this sense of dominance, of total control. They became putty in her company. Grown men. Some of the most powerful—certainly the richest—men in the world. For an hour or two they placed her above all other women on the face of the earth. And though the hour was theirs, ironically most would do anything she asked.
He knew nearly everything there was to know about Gretchen Goheen. She had been educated at Choate and Princeton, afforded privileges—the private jets, the presidential suites, the limousines, nannies, maids, and kitchen servants—that only a handful of children ever saw. She had lost her mother to alcoholism, although the press had reported the death as cancer, when she was just fifteen. Alvarez assumed that Keith O’Malley, who played cleanup hitter for his boss, had skillfully kept Leslie Goheen’s drug and alcohol abuse hidden inside the walls of private clinics. Reading her New York Times obituary, one heard of the philanthropic socialite. It had taken him some digging to discover the Midwestern adolescent swept off her feet by the Machiavellian husband who knew nothing but work, competition, and excess. And girls. Alvarez believed her husband’s philandering had probably driven Leslie Goheen to the bottle in the first place.
Parallel Lies Page 18