The Tomorrow File

by Lawrence Sanders

  “A little at a time,” I told her. “Gently, gently. You deserve it all. You were magnificent.”

  “I was, wasn’t I?” She smiled wanly. “Did you have to break his arm?”

  “Yes.” I nodded seriously. “We did. We could have put the splint on a whole arm and told him it was broken. But what if he insisted on proof? Show him someone else’s plates? What if he wanted to see it himself on the laserscope, or asked for another doctor, another set of plates? Or went to another Hospice? Also, we couldn’t put a bugged splint on Seymour Dove’s arm. Roach is very cautious, very careful. He’d have been immediately wary of taking a bribe from an em with his arm in a splint. Roach would have suspected an implanted bug. But it won’t occur to him that he might be shared. This way, he won’t take the other em to a sauna or steam room. And because the splint covers his left wrist, where he usually wears his digiwatch, he’ll have to wear the watch on his right wrist. That reduces the possibility of his wearing a wrist monitor and discovering he’s a walking broadcasting station.”

  “You thought of everything,” Maya marveled. Sipping her brandy.

  “We tried to anticipate every eventuality.” I nodded. “But tonight was just preparation. We’re not home free. Now we—”

  The door was unlocked. Paul strode in. Grinning from ear to ear.

  “Clear as a bell,” he laughed. “We’re home free.”

  “Mary,” I said, “will you take care of Maya? Get her cleaned up, into a hospital gown. Bandage that hand. Maybe a romantic head bandage, a turban, would be nice.”

  Maya looked at me.

  “What I’ve got aching you can’t bandage,” she said.

  That brandy had served quickly.

  October 19.

  1010: I was in the offices of Group Lewisohn. Had been since 0800. A Hospice nurse was sitting with Art Roach. Her orders were to call me the moment he showed signs of regaining consciousness. When the call came, I grabbed up the file of laserpix and went directly to his room. He was sitting up in bed, looking as ridiculous, helpless, and furious as any object wearing a short paper gown slit up the back. He gawked when I came in.

  What are you doing here ?” he demanded. Instantly suspicious. “Nurse,” I said quietly, “would you leave the room, please.” After the door closed behind her, I went up to his bedside. I lifted his right wrist. Pressed the inner surface professionally. Not bothering to count.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked sympathetically.

  “Lousy,” he said. He repeated: “What are you doing here?” “I’ve been here for five days. Treating Hyman Lewisohn. Angela knows where I am. When you were brought in, they called me. Because of your security clearance.” I added virtuously: “Regulations.”

  “I know the regulations,” he said angrily.

  Suddenly he realized what I had said.

  “Brought in?” he said. “Brought in from where? When?” “Don’t you remember?”

  He groaned, rubbed his free hand across his forehead.

  “I don’t remember a damned thing since—since—what day is this?”

  “October 19.”

  “Then it was yesterday. The eighteenth. I was sitting in my office at Headquarters. About 1600. I was signing requisitions. That’s the last thing I remember.”

  “Oh-oh,” I said. “That doesn’t sound so good. Let me take a look.”

  Fear came into his eyes. We had been counting on his hypochondria.

  “What is it?” he gasped. “What’s happened to me?”

  I didn’t answer. I pressed him back onto the pillow. I shoved up his eyelids, beamed a pencilite into his pupils. Then I felt his skull, fingertips probing through his fine, brush-cut hair.

  “Hurt here?” I asked. “Here? Here? Here?”

  “No. No. NO! Goddamn it, doc, what’s wrong?”

  I don’t like to be called doc.

  “Loss of memory might indicate possible concussion,” I said coldly. “But I see no gross indicators. Eyes clear. No cranial contusions. But that amnesia bothers me. Maybe we should take some tests.”

  “What kind of tests?” he cried desperately.

  “Very simple,” I said cruelly. “We go into the brain with a needle—local anesthetic; you won’t feel a thing—and draw off some fluid for analysis.”

  “My brain feels fine,” he said. Shaken. “Just fine.”

  “Sure it does,” I said softly. “The brain has no capacity to feel pain inflicted on itself. You think everything’s normal, and then—’ ’ I snapped my fingers.

  “My God,” he breathed.

  “Well,” I said briskly, “we’ll discuss that later. Now . . .how’s the arm?”

  “This?” he said. He raised the inflated splint in front of him and looked at it with wonderment. “What the hell is it?!’

  I shook my head. Discouraged.

  “You really don’t remember, do you? You broke your arm. We put it in an inflatable splint. Want to see the plates?”

  I held the laserpix to the light. I pointed out the hairline fracture. He saw his own signet ring.

  “Will it heal okay?” he asked anxiously.

  “It should,” I said. Doctorial hedging. “You’ll have to carry it in a sling for about two weeks. I don’t anticipate any complications. Any other aches or pains?”

  “My neck,” he groaned. Rubbing it. “Here, on this side. It hurts.”

  Where Paul had shot him with the hypogun. I inspected it carefully.

  “Just a minor bruise,” I told him. “If that’s all you’ve got, you’re lucky. After that accident.”

  “Accident?” he cried. Horrified. “What accident?”

  “Oh, that’s right. Amnesia. Well, do you remember having a date with Maya Leighton?”

  “Yes. Yes, I remember that. I was supposed to go to her place for dinner last night.”

  “Very good,” I nodded approvingly. “Now do you remember being there?”

  “No. I don’t remember that at all.”

  “Oh. Too bad. Well, according to Maya, you arrived on time,' had dinner, and then, about2140, you both decided to go out. Some cabaret or tavern. The King’s Pawn, I think it was. Does that ring any bells?”

  “I don’t remember going there last night. But I know the place. We’ve been there before.”

  “Well, you and Maya were on your way there. Maya was driving. It’s a two-lane road. A semitrailer was coming in the opposite direction. Some nut swung out to pass just as the truck went past you. Maya swerved to avoid a head-on. Her car went off the road, down into a gully, banged into the trees. Thankfully, she wasn’t driving too fast. The doors were sprung, you were both thrown out. No one stopped to assist. Maya came to, and, when she couldn’t bring you around, staggered down the road to call for help.”

  I could almost hear his synapses clicking.

  “Who did she call?” he asked.

  “The Hospice. Here. She knows the regulations. She wouldn’t call the local cops. So they sent out an ambulance from the Welcome Ward to bring you and Maya in.”

  “What happened to the car?”

  “Maya’s sports car? Banged up considerably. Ruined front fender. Probably need new doors. It’s in a garage over in Hamlet West.”

  “How’s Maya?”

  Sweet em. I thought he’d never ask.

  “Maya’s doing fine. She’s got a bad hand and scalp lacerations, but we can’t find anything worse.”

  “Listen, doc, can you gloss this? I mean, I don’t want to get Maya in any trouble.”

  It was his own muffin ass that was troubling him.

  “Well.. . .” I considered thoughtfully. Frowning. Chewing my lips. “I can probably gloss it at this end. Lose the file, and so forth. As a personal favor to you. ...”

  “Oh sure, doc. I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Look,” I said, “suppose we do this. Suppose you stay here

  until noon tomorrow. You’ll be able to gloss that at your office, won’t you?”

  “Wel
l . . . maybe,” he said doubtfully.

  “I’ll take another look at you tomorrow morning. If everything shows go, you can check out. By noon. October twentieth. Then you can consult the Medical Section at Headquarters if you need further treatment. How does that sound?”

  "Sounds fine, ” he said. Almost laughing. "Sounds real good." Why shouldn’t it? He could make the meet with Seymour Dove.

  “There’s your digiwatch,” I told him. “Your zipsuit, underwear, shoes, and so forth are in that closet. I have your identification, BIN card, wallet, and keys in a downstairs safe.”

  “Keys?” he said. “Was I driving?”

  “You drove over from Washington. Your car is parked in front of Maya’s apartment. I’ll have it brought over here. Anything else?” “Can I visit Maya?”

  “You better stay flat on your back as much as possible if you want to get out of here tomorrow. But I’ll send her in for a short visit. She’s just next door.”

  “Good, good,” he gurgled. “Maybe she can fill me in on what happened.”

  And maybe the anaphrodisiac was wearing off.

  1845: Paul had connected two tape decks to the receiver in the back of the Rover. One was temporarily switched off, the other was operative and voice-actuated. We ran through the tape that evening.

  Most of it was kaka: Roach snarling at nurses, Roach trying to lure Maya Leighton into his hospital bed for a session of rub-the-bacon. “No way,” Maya said firmly. Apparently pointing to her turban bandage. “Can’t you see I’ve got a headache?”

  Roach made two phone calls. We couldn’t share the entire conversations, of course—just his part. One call apparently went to his office. He explained he was personally investigating a “serious security problem” at R&R Hospice No. 4, and expected to return to Headquarters the following day.

  The second call apparently went to his residence hotel. Me told them he would be absent for a day, but was expecting an important phone call from a Mr. Seymour Dove. He gave the hotel his phone number at the Hospice and instructed them to tell Mr. Dove to contact him there.

  I immediately called the Morse Hotel and left a message for Mr. Seymour Dove. He was to call me as soon as he registered.

  And so the checkers went flying about the board.

  October 20.

  1135:1 was in the Group Lewisohn offices. Paul was monitoring Roach’s gimpy arm in the Rover, moved to a deserted end of the Hospice parking area.

  Seymour Dove called me from the Morse. I explained the situation, told him to call Roach’s hotel and then call Roach at the Hospice as he would be instructed. I asked him to give me ten minutes before making the call to Roach.

  1150:1 was out in the Rover with Paul when we heard Roach’s phone ring. His conversation went like this:

  “Harya. . . .Yeah. . . .What hotel? . . . Real good. You got it?

  . . .Fine. . . .No problem. . . .Be in the lobby at, oh, say 1400. I’ll meet you there. . . .Yeah, 1400. . . Right. . . .See you then.”

  After he hung up, I called Dove’s hotel room on the Rover radiophone. I told him to meet Roach at 1400, play the role he was expected to play, and try to follow the original San Diego script as closely as he could.

  “We’ll be shared?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. But I didn’t tell him how.

  1210: I went up to Roach’s room. He was already dressed, * slipping his digiwatch onto his right wrist.

  “Harya, doc,” he said genially.

  He had the splinted arm in a sling, a wide strap of plastiweb around his right shoulder.

  “How does the arm feel?”

  "Real good, " he said. Rapping the splint with his knuckles. "No hurt at all.”

  I went through the stethoscope charade. Lifted his lids to peer into his eyes. Took his pulse.

  “Well ... all right,” I said doubtfully. “But check with your Medical Section as soon as you get back.”

  “Oh, sure. Where’s my bumf?”

  “Right here.” I handed him all his identification. He began stuffing it into his pockets. “Your car’s out in front,” I told him. “Take care of yourself.”

  He was still checking to make certain no one had raped his wallet when I walked out. I went directly to the Rover. Paul had all the equipment ready. We were away and heading toward Washington , before Roach came out of the Welcome Ward.

  1410: We were parked across from the Morse Hotel. We saw Art

  Roach come down the street, striding purposefully. Actually, we heard him before we saw him. His arm was picking up street noise: honk of horns, screech of brakes, a siren, bits of passers-by conversation. Paul got his Instaroid movie camera fixed and focused before Roach turned in to the hotel.

  We picked up a lot of lobby gabble. Interference from somewhere. Then, suddenly, voices clear enough to understand. Both tape decks were running now:

  Roach: “Car accident. A kid ran out and I had to go off the road to avoid hitting him.”

  Dove: “My God!”

  Roach: “Nothing serious. Come on outside.”

  In a moment, they came through the powered revolving door, Roach first. Seymour Dove was carrying an attache case. Paul got busy with his camera, adjusting the telephoto lens. They crossed the street to the park, looking both ways.

  “Good shot,” Paul murmured. “Got them together.”

  He continued to photograph the two men. They walked through the park slowly. No conversation. Roach looked about, spotted an empty bench that apparently appealed to him. He led Dove over to it. Seymour set the attache case down between his feet.

  “Very good,” I said approvingly. “Can’t share a random park bench, can you, Art?”

  I pulled the Rover away from the curb, circled until I found a parking space across the park, almost facing them. Paul got film on the two of them, huddling together. Then switched off the camera.

  Roach: “—out in time. But it worked out real good. Mind opening your coat?”

  Dove: “My coat? What for?”

  Roach: “Just standard operating procedure.”

  We saw Seymour Dove unbutton his violet velvet topcoat. We saw Roach pat all the pockets, feel the seams.

  Roach: “Now your jacket.”

  Dove: “What is this?”

  Roach: “Just take a second. The jacket. . . .”

  We saw him give Dove a quick frisk, patting pockets, waistline, trouser legs. He even bent over to feel Dove’s moccasins.

  Dove: “I’m not shared, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” Roach: “Afraid? Not me. But if you’re bugged, you better be afraid. Did you bring it?”

  Dove: “Yes. Five thousand new dollars.”

  Roach: “Small bills? Unmarked? Out of sequence?”

  Dove: “Just the way you told me. It’s in twenties.”

  Roach: “In the case?”

  Dove: “Yes. Want to take a look?”

  Roach: “Why not? Is it locked?”

  Dove: “Yes.”

  Roach: “Just bend over casually and unlock it. Then hand it to me. Slowly.”

  “Get this,” I said to Paul hurriedly. “It’s the actual payoff.” Paul switched on the camera again. I watched Dove lift the attache case. Roach took it from him, placed it on his lap. He opened the lid halfway, peering inside. He inserted his right hand, began pawing.

  Dove: “It’s all there. Five thousand new dollars.”

  Roach: “I know you wouldn’t scam me. I’m just making sure there’s nothing else in here.”

  Dove: “A bug? Would I do that? Listen, I’m taking an awful chance doing this.”

  Roach: “What do you think I’m taking?”

  Dove: “But how do I know I’m not throwing it away? If you don’t come through, Scilla Pharmaceuticals is stopped. We’ve made heavy investments in raw materials and new machinery. We need that contract.”

  Roach: “Don’t worry. You’ll get your contract.”

  Dove: “I wish I had a guarantee.”

  Roach: “This five t
housand is your guarantee.”

  “What a good little boy he is,” I whispered to Paul. “This time he’s following the scenario.”

  Roach: “Can I have the case?”

  Dove: “Sure. Take it. Here’s the key.”

  Roach: “I’ll return it to you.”

  Dove: “No need. It’s yours.”

  Roach: “Thank you very much. Real good doing business with you.” We watched the two ems stand, stroke palms. They separated, Roach carrying the case in his free hand. He walked across the park, angling away from us. Dove headed back to his hotel. We watched Roach.

  “He won’t go to Headquarters.” Paul frowned.

  “Doubt it,” I agreed. “Not with the loot. He wouldn’t go directly to Angela’s apartment at the Watergate, would he?”

  “I don’t know,” Paul said. Worrying it. “I don’t think so. She wouldn’t allow it.”

  “No. She wouldn’t. Maybe he’ll go directly to a bank, put it in a safe deposit box. But I don’t think so. He’ll want to count it. Examine it. That means his place. The Winslow on N Street. We’ll lose him in this traffic if we try to follow. Want to take a gamble?” “Sure. The Winslow it is.”

  We left the park, headed for N Street.

  “We’ve got him, haven’t we, Nick?” Paul said happily. “Screwed, blewed, and tattooed,” I agreed. “He’s down the pipe. One down, one to go.”

  We were parked across the street, near the corner, when Roach drove up to the Winslow Hotel in his official black Buick. He got out, carrying the attache case. We heard him say, “Be down in twenty minutes, Al,” to the doorman. Then he went inside. “Now what?” Paul said.

  Suddenly, at his question, I felt a curious lassitude. Having come so far, I wanted to rest. Hadn’t I done enough? Hadn’t enough been accomplished? I had to flog my resolve, telling myself it would all be wasted if I didn’t finish. But I was weary.

  “Got any uppers?” I asked Paul. “Amphetamine? Anything?”

  “The Pharm Team gave me a new methylphenidate. Experimental. No results yet. Want to chance it?”