by Joshua Corin
Tom was impressed. What an elegant liar she was! He almost complimented her, right then and there. Truly excellent fabricators, like her, were able to believe two contrasting ideas (what they knew to be the truth, and what they knew to be the falsehood) at the same time. They were able to convince themselves, on the spot, that one was just as valid as the other. It was a very difficult skill to master, if only because awareness that one was lying underlined—and undermined—the lie itself. Good for her.
“That’s okay, Mrs. Watson.”
“Please. Call me Roberta.”
“Roberta, can we maybe speak upstairs? The noise…”
She shook her head and grimaced. “It’s awful, isn’t it? It seems to be never-ending. Some people are never satisfied unless they’re making a racket.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Anyway, there really isn’t much to see upstairs. The nature of our business being what it is, our non-administrative employees, like Mr. Booth, don’t require offices. And, the nature of our business being what it is, the space we do have is, I’m afraid, restricted.”
“That’s too bad,” replied Tom.
“I don’t make policy, I’m afraid. If only I did, right?”
“If only.”
“Now I know you inquired specifically about Mr. Booth. Perhaps if you told me the nature of your investigation, I might be able to pass that information to either Mr. Yolen or Mr. Yates when they return and they could get back to you?”
“Well, do you know where Booth might be?”
Roberta pretended to think for a moment, and then she shook her head. “No. I’m sorry, I don’t. If he’s not currently on assignment, he might be at his home address. Have you checked there?”
“His home address. That’s good thinking.” It was time. Tom took out his cell phone and dialed a number. “Hi, Norm. Are you in place?”
Twenty miles away, in the Baltimore suburb of Severna Park, Norm Petrosky and a squad of armed (and armored) FBI agents stood outside 1114 Charleston Court, an old split-level on a long row of old split-levels on a long, old residential street.
“We’re in place, Tom.”
Roberta cocked her head. She seemed confused. Her confusion was about to get quite a whole lot murkier.
Tom then dialed another number, and set up a three-way call.
“Agent Cofer, I saw your team outside the building. Are you ready?”
“Affirmative, sir.”
“All teams,” said Tom, “it’s a go.”
Twenty miles away, Norm and his squad smashed into Henry Booth’s house. Twenty yards away, Agent Cofer and his squad rushed into the lobby, submachine guns at the ready.
The security guard slowly removed his earplugs.
The drilling ceased.
Tom slid a folded warrant out of the inside pocket of his black leather jacket and handed it to Roberta. Her brown eyes went from the barrels of the guns, some pointed at her, to the paper.
“So,” said Tom, offering a friendly grin, “how about we go upstairs?”
Henry Booth had a bird. It was an orange-yellow parakeet and it was very happy to have visitors. It squawked and squawked all throughout the FBI’s search of the house. After about thirty minutes of it, Norm grabbed the bedsheet off of Booth’s bed, dragged it into the living room, and draped it over the parakeet’s cage. Convinced that it was night, the parakeet soon went to sleep.
The parakeet turned out to be the only interesting find in Henry Booth’s house. Norm and his company of nine field-trained agents searched every room. It was a typical suburban domicile, albeit abandoned. Four navel oranges in the crisper drawer of the refrigerator had about a month’s worth of mold on them.
Madmen tended to collect esoteric books, but Galileo’s selection was far from exotic. He had only a few shelves, and they were only half-filled. Norm browsed through the selection, trying to glean whatever insights he could into the mind of their owner. There was a well-thumbed physician’s desk reference, but what household these days didn’t have one of these for self-diagnoses and first aid? Most of the books were a hodgepodge of used paperback fiction which ran the gamut in both genre and quality. There was no artwork on the walls. There was a stereo, but no CDs.
Aside from the parakeet, the house lacked any semblance of personality.
Norm pondered the discovery. Absence of affectation could, after all, itself be an affectation. But this felt different.
This felt wrong.
Galileo had quoted Mencken. Galileo had dubbed “God Bless America” over footage of the Atlanta massacre. But there were no literary texts here, and the computer in the bedroom was so antiquated that it ran DOS. There was no camcorder. Certainly he might have taken some of these with him on the road, but that didn’t fully account for the absolute banality left in this house.
“I’m glad you shut that thing up.” The field agent, a horse-faced woman named Pamela Starkey, indicated the birdcage with a thumb. “If you hadn’t, I might’ve shot it.”
Norm was about to offer a reply when he realized exactly what was wrong here. He rushed past Agent Starkey and lifted the sheet off the birdcage. The orange-yellow parakeet bobbed its head at Norm and squawked.
Norm stared at the food and water bins latched to the side of the cage.
They were both full.
“Freeze!” Starkey suddenly bellowed, and Norm turned in her direction toward the front door. Cowering there, arms full of groceries, was a small man, maybe five-four, his brown hair slicked over his bald spot, his brown eyes magnified behind a clunky pair of glasses. His jacket was 100% polyester.
Now this, this was the type of man who lived here.
The groceries tumbled out of his hands. TV dinners, mostly. Two boxes of Twinkies. The latest issue of People.
“On the floor!” demanded Starkey.
The man pressed his face against the issue of People. The parakeet squawked. As one of the other agents on scene took out a pair of handcuffs, Norm sauntered over and reached into the back pocket of the man’s chinos, where a wallet noticeably bulged. Norm opened the wallet, took out the man’s license, sighed, and dialed Tom.
“We got a problem.”
From the top floor of Bellum Velum, Tom listened patiently to Norm’s bad news.
“It would have been easy enough to do,” concluded Norm. “Our guy finds someone in the metro area who has the same name as him, and that’s the address he gives.”
“While his real home could be anywhere.” Tom leaned back against the wall. All around him, Agent Cofer’s squad was inventorying the contents of Bellum Velum. Much of this inventory was computer-based, so Agent Cofer was being walked through the firm’s many pass codes by the CFO, Mr. Yates, who Roberta had seen fit to call into the office despite his “flu.” Yates was in his sixties, but had the physique of a monster truck, barely concealed by his brown U.S. Army sweats.
“Thanks, Norm. Do a full sweep anyway. Maybe this patsy knows something. I doubt it, but at this point we’ve got nothing to lose.”
Tom hung up. He hadn’t expected all the cards to fall into place, but surely some of them would. Surely they’d be able to find something of value here, wouldn’t they? Galileo worked for a mercenary company. There had to be some link between his job and his current activities.
“Tell me about Booth,” Tom said to Roberta. She was supervising the agents, instructing them where everything was, the tricks to opening certain file cabinets, etc. Bellum Velum probably looked like every other office in downtown Baltimore, only Tom doubted that the other offices had vaults packed with automatic weapons, body armor, and C-4 (all obtained legally, of course—Roberta had documentation).
She smiled toward him. Her rosy, calm disposition hadn’t faded, not one bit. True, she had been momentarily fazed downstairs when the agents had swept into the lobby, but she had quickly regained her composure and her confidence. Perhaps it wasn’t a veneer after all. Perhaps Roberta Watson was just that secure in her own skin.
“The nature of your business being what it is.”
“Exactly.”
Tom wandered over to Yates. His office was austere. Apparently he tended to keep to himself too, although he undoubtedly had other offices in other countries.
“Do you know Henry Booth?”
“Of course I do,” growled Yates, pointing at something on the screen for Agent Cofer’s benefit. “He works for me, doesn’t he?”
“Well, you’re just the chief financial officer. I don’t know what kind of relationship—”
“I own forty percent of the fucking company.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Roberta tells me you called first. Why was that? Did the judge stipulate you try to get this information from us peaceably before he’d issue your warrant? It’s good to know some jurists in this country still actually read the Bill of Rights before using it as toilet paper.”
“Where is Henry Booth?”
“Check his house.”
“We did.”
Yates shrugged his boulder-shoulders.
“That was real clever of you by the way, Piper, what you did.”
“What’s that?”
“Waiting until you were here before you invaded there. A two-pronged assault. Didn’t give him much of an opportunity to go to ground or for us to shred any incriminating documents.”
“Are there incriminating documents to shred?”
“There are always incriminating documents to shred. If our roles were reversed, I’ll bet I could find a thing or two in your office. Of course, no judge is ever going to offer me a warrant to search your workspace. The street doesn’t go both ways.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“What is it exactly you think Henry did?”
Yates presented himself like a dumb jock, but he was the CFO of a multimillion-dollar company. Tom knew better than to underestimate the man.
“As you implied,” said Tom, “we all have skeletons in our closets.”
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“But Mr. Yates, I get to see yours for free.”
Yates glared at the warrant, lying placidly on his desk. Like a dead albatross.
“You don’t think we couldn’t dig up your dirt, Piper? How long have you been a government employee? Twenty-five years? You don’t think with the resources we got we couldn’t unearth some nastiness about you?”
“Are you threatening me, Mr. Yates?”
Yates smirked. “I know better than to threaten a big, powerful member of the FBI. I open my mouth and words just seem to come out. I can’t be held responsible for their interpretation.”
Tom resisted the urge to smack that smirk off his face.
Agent Cofer continued plowing through files on the company server.
On the other hand, Yates didn’t take his eyes off Tom. The CFO was probably envisioning the many ways he could shape Tom into bloody pulp. They eyeballed each other, lions on the Serengeti, circling, each without moving a muscle.
“You’ve been with the Bureau, what, twenty-five years?”
Tom nodded. “Mmm-hmm.”
“You know a guy named Bobby Fink?”
Tom gritted his teeth at this toad’s mention of his beloved ex-partner. “We used to work together.”
“Nice guy, Bobby Fink. From what I hear. Runs a surf shop down in Miami now, right?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
All Tom had to do was ask Agent Cofer to step outside for a minute. It wouldn’t be a clean fight, and he’d probably lose, especially with his arm in a sling, but he’d get in a few good kicks to Yates’s groin and that would satisfy his Id.
“I know where Henry Booth is.” This came from Agent Cofer, who was reading the information from Yates’s computer terminal.
Tom moved to behind the desk and peered over Cofer’s shoulder at the screen.
“He’s on assignment?”
Cofer clicked on a key, and the assignment was revealed.
“Son of a bitch,” said Tom.
Sometimes he hated it when he was right.
21
“I’m so thrilled! I want to give you a big, big hug! Can I give you a big, big hug? I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Go ahead,” replied Esme, and Amy Lieb wrapped her arms around her and gave a big, big hug. They were in the mini-foyer of Amy’s mini-mansion.
The Liebs’ house was all about space and light. Massive bay windows filled the walls of every room and allowed the maximum amount of sunlight to wash across the soft grass-green carpeting, creating the illusion that one was outdoors and in union with nature, when in fact one was inside and in union with fiberglass. It always felt a few degrees too warm here. Esme removed her coat and a servant, patiently waiting in the corner, whisked it away to wherever the coats got whisked.
Amy led Esme into the study, where six of Oyster Bay’s civic-minded adolescents were hard at work on the Kellerman campaign.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Mrs. Stuart. She’s a great friend of mine and she’s going to be helping us out.”
They welcomed her with the usual hello’s, hi’s, etc., then got back to working the phones and labeling the postcards.
“Can I get you anything, Esme?”
“No. I’m good.”
Amy brought Esme to a table. On the table was a blue binder.
“Our big event is in three weeks and Billy had to pull out. Something about a niece’s graduation.”
“Billy…?”
“Joel.”
“Right.”
“Anyway, but I know you’re a huge music fan so how would you like to choose the band for the fundraiser?”
“Uh…”
Amy opened up the blue binder. “In here are the listings for every band that’s contributed to the Democratic Party in the past six years. I didn’t know how to arrange them so they’re arranged alphabetically. Bands that begin with the word the are listed under “The” but artists are listed last name first. Each page also has contact information, vitals, all that jazz. If you have any questions, I’ll be in the den. I have a three o’clock phone conference with the candidate.”
“You have a three o’clock phone conference with Bob Kellerman?”
“And his campaign manager. We’re the governor’s first stop after his vacation next week. If you’d like to say hi, come on in around 3:10. He’s so approachable.”
“Even on the phone, huh?”
“Especially on the phone! Oh, and Esme, I’m so glad your mind got turned around about this benefit. I know how skittish you were about it. Word travels around, after all. But it wouldn’t be the same without you.”
Amy waved goodbye to her troops and sashayed off to her three o’clock with the probable future president of the United States.
This is my world, thought Esme. She sat down at the table and flipped through the binder. Personal phone numbers for John Mellencamp, Bruce Springsteen, each member of R.E.M. (even Bill Berry). This is my world. Of course, it had been her world for the past seven years really, this planet of prestige and accessibility. She just had kept it at arm’s length. And was it so bad? Amy Lieb was using her power and status not to buy the latest Ferrari or to traipse off to the hippest Mediterranean villa but to help elevate by-all-accounts a decent man to leader of the free world. If anything, it was commendable, wasn’t it?
“You’re that woman, aren’t you?”
This from one of the teeny-boppers, a pert redhead with braces.
“That woman?”
“You know, from the news.”
“Rachel…” Her friend, a bottle-blonde, punched her in the shoulder. “I want to apologize for Rachel. She got dropped on her head when she was a baby. Repeatedly. From great heights.”
&nb
sp; “Shut up, Cassie. I’m just asking.”
“And I’m just asking you to mind your own business,” replied Cassie.
“It’s okay,” said Esme.
They both turned to her.
“Yeah, I’m the woman from the news.”
The room fell silent. Obviously the others had been listening, and waiting.
“So you, like, met him?”
Most of the girls, and a few of the guys, sat effortlessly cross-legged on the floor. Esme remembered when she was that flexible. Now she could barely tie her sneakers without her back spitting hellfire. But she was getting better.
“What was he like?” Cassie asked.
“Well…” Esme saw she had an audience. They were young. She wondered if she should water down her account, or perhaps avoid it entirely. She didn’t need late-night phone calls from angry mothers.
“Were you scared?”
“Yes,” Esme answered, without hesitation. “I was terrified.”
“My uncle’s an EMT in the city,” chimed one of the boys. “I overheard him talking to my parents. Last week, in the middle of the night shift, they got a call. Someone found the body of a homeless person just lying in the street. What my uncle said was, nobody wanted to take the call. Nobody wanted to go out to the scene and pick up this poor guy who probably died from alcohol poisoning or a drug overdose. They left the body out there in the street until the morning.”
“Why?”
“Galileo,” replied Rachel. “They thought it might be like what happened in Atlanta.”
“I bet that kind of thing is happening a lot now. Cops and firefighters and teachers all scared to do, you know, go to work and do their jobs. No one’s talking about it, but remember what school was like the day after Santa Fe? I don’t think anyone got detention for a week. No one wanted to stay after school.”
“I heard Mrs. Phillips moved rehearsal of My Fair Lady from the auditorium to one of the music classrooms.”
“That was so they could work on the songs, genius.”