Shares

by A. W. Gray

  Orville Sing was a third-generation descendant of Chinese immigrants, and in bearing, demeanor, and facial expression somewhat resembled Charlie Chan’s Number One Son. Five years earlier his name had been listed as a co-plaintiff in a class-action lawsuit accusing the FBI of racial discrimination, and ever since had had his coworkers walking on eggs. The special agent-in-charge, in fact, had cautioned Agent Wilson to “Watch what you say around this guy,” and had even suggested offhandedly that Wilson take notes of any discrepancies he observed in Sing’s performance. Wilson saw the interest from the head man as a stepping-stone toward his own advancement with the Bureau. As a result he was a bit overzealous in watchdogging his partner, once causing Agent Sing to remark, “Look, if you want to ride around in my hip pocket just say so.”

  When the Request for Interview form landed in Agent Sing’s in-basket, Sing was in the process of loading his attaché case with the materials he and Wilson needed for that day’s foray into the field. He picked up the form, held it by one corner to look it over, and muttered, “As if we didn’t have enough shit to do.”

  Which prompted Agent Wilson, who was lounging in a chair near the entrance to Sing’s office, to observe mentally that Agent Sing’s manner indicated a somewhat-less-than filial devotion to the job, and in the long run could cause Sing to become a security risk.

  Sing then squinted long and hard at Darla’s photo clipped to the page, and said in an interested tone, “Man, this is some babe we’re going to see.”

  Which caused Agent Wilson to wonder if Sing’s behavior could be considered sexist in nature, and to decide that the remark should be brought to the agent-in-charge’s attention. He then rose to his feet and, hands in pockets, said noncommittally, “Guess we better be going,” and kept his gaze on the floor as he followed Sing from the office.

  The pair arrived at the Theater Center a few minutes before two, parked in the main lot, and stepped quickly across the asphalt under stately elms and sycamores to the entrance. A sign in the air-conditioned lobby directed them to the offices upstairs. On arriving at the theater office they encountered a comely brunette seated behind an oval desk. She wore a black sheath dress and blood-red nail polish. Agent Sing snapped open his wallet and exhibited his ID. The woman’s eyes widened slightly, and she uttered a breathy, “Oh.”

  Sing closed the wallet, put it away, and squinted at the Request for Interview form. “We’re here to see Mr. Howard Holly.”

  The woman, obviously relieved that the agents weren’t there to see her, scooted back from her desk and crossed her legs, exposing six to eight inches of stockinged thigh. “Molly,” she said.

  Sing blinked and accepted the invitation to gaze at the brunette’s leg. “Yeah, hi,” he said. “I’m Orville.”

  Agent Wilson, who stood by with his arms folded, noted Sing’s overfamiliarity while in the line of duty, and further observed that the brunette was more his own type than Sing’s.

  She appeared confused for an instant, then curved her lips in a smile. “No, I mean Howard Molly. That’s his…name.”

  Now it was Sing’s turn to appear confused. Wilson leaned over and, after making eye contact with the woman, pointed over Sing’s shoulder at the form. “She means that the guy’s name is Molly.”

  Sing looked closely at the handwriting on the form. “Doggone. It is an ‘M.’ “Then, to the woman, “Well, can we see him?”

  She shook her head, now obviously enjoying herself. “He’s not here.”

  Sing assumed a more official air. “And he’s expected…?”

  “Good question,” she said. “He hasn’t been in today. Missed a couple of appointments, in fact.”

  Sing exchanged a glance with Wilson, then said, “Have you heard from him?”

  “No, but that’s not unusual. Howard sort of comes and goes. Listen, is there something I can help you with?” She scooted forward so that her desktop obscured the agents’ view of her thigh.

  Sing’s expression showed disappointment. “Actually, we’re looking for an actress.”

  The brunette pressed a polished nail between her thumb and forefinger. “I do some acting. This is just my day job.”

  Agent Wilson intervened, assuming his best Joe Friday posture. “We mean a particular actress, ma’am.”

  “That sounds pretty easy, detective. What actress?”

  Wilson considered correcting her, that he was an agent and not a detective, while Sing rattled the form in irritation over Wilson’s butting in. Sing read over the form. “Darla Bern,” he finally said.

  “Never heard of her.”

  Sing chewed the inside of his cheek. “Our information is, we can contact her through Howard Molly.”

  “You can contact a lot of actresses through Howard,” the woman said. “But no Darla Bern.”

  Wilson raised on his tiptoes and read over Sing’s shoulder. “How about,” Wilson said, “‘aka Victoria Lee’?”

  The brunette’s nose wrinkled as if she’d just smelled something offensive. “You call her an actress?”

  Wilson reverted to his Dragnet pose once again. “No, ma’am. We call her a suspect.”

  The woman placed her elbows on her desk and pyramided her fingers. “Oh? Of what?”

  Which took some of the wind out of Wilson’s sails, but did cause Sing to get snappily to the point. “Just her address, please. If you have it.”

  “Officially she’s living in a motel,” she said. “Between us girls, I suspect she’s been staying at Howard’s lake house.”

  “We’d want her official address first,” said Sing, “and then take it from there.”

  “The Quality Inn LBJ,” she said. “Which is where you probably can find her days. It’s nighttime when they go to the lake.” She widened her eyes. “I’ve heard.”

  Wilson and Sing exchanged a nod, after which Sing turned to lead the way out. He paused in the doorway and turned. “I’ll need your name and phone number.”

  She lowered her lashes. “Detective.”

  “For records purposes.”

  Wilson, who’d already memorized the number by reading it upside down on the phone, decided that Sing’s demeanor was pushy, and something that the agent-in-charge should know about. The woman toyed with a printed business card, turned the card over, and furnished her home number on the back before handing it over, and watched the agents leave with an impersonal smile.

  Wilson and Sing wasted little time with the manager of the Quality Inn, a grossly overweight woman in her forties. She seemed as unimpressed by the FBI as the agents were with her, verified both men’s credentials with a call downtown, then rattled her computer keys and squinted at her monitor. “Checked out,” she said.

  “Oh?” Sing said. “When was that?”

  “Less than a half hour ago. You just missed her.”

  Which caused Agent Wilson to observe that if Sing had spent less time ogling the brunette’s leg, the two wouldn’t have missed their interview. He said, “She give a home address?”

  The manager continued to peer at the computer screen. “General Delivery, Los Angeles, Pretty large area.”

  “She pay by check, or…?”

  “Cash, in advance,, day by day. She was with us about two months.”

  “Isn’t that unusual?” Sing asked.

  The manager folded chubby hands. “Very. So much so that ordinarily we wouldn’t have booked her. Dallas Theater Center vouched for the lady. A Mr….”

  “Howard Molly,” Wilson furnished.

  She smiled. “You’re way ahead of me.”

  Sing stood. “Mind if we have a look at her room?”

  “You’re in luck there. Housekeeping hasn’t made it to the fifth floor.” She reached in a drawer for a card-key blank, entered a room number into a smaller computer keypad, and ran the blank through a magnetizing slot. “I’m actually suppos
ed to accompany you, gentlemen. But I have other things to do. Room five-seven-seven. I won’t tell if you won’t tell, all right?”

  Less than Five minutes later the agents stood outside Room 577 and looked up and down the corridor. An elevator opened fifty feet away, and a rosy-cheeked Hispanic woman pushed a cart holding sheets, pillowcases, and towels out into the hall. Wilson poked the card key into the slot, waited for the resulting click, and opened the door a foot. He reached inside, withdrew the pasteboard sign from within, and hung the sign from the handle with “Do Not Disturb” facing outward. With a final glance at the cleaning lady, the agents barged on in.

  And stopped in their tracks, colliding in the entry, both staring open-mouthed at the young woman wriggling around on the bed. Bouncing, actually, her hands down as she tried to fasten the catches on the suitcase on which she sat, shapely legs flexed in red shorts, slender arms bare in a navy blue sleeveless pullover. Her auburn hair was disheveled and she wore dark sunglasses with an emblem etched into one lens. She ceased her contortions as the two men came in, said, “Oops,” then grinned and said, “Listen, could you help me close this?”

  Sing reached inside his coat, groping for his wallet. Wilson watched the woman’s legs.

  “I was about to call you guys,” she said. “I don’t have everything ready, so if you’ve got something else to do for a few minutes, well…”

  Sing paused with his hand thrust inside his coat, like Napoleon. “Our information was, this room is vacant. That the—”

  “Well, you can see that it isn’t,” she said.

  “—occupant had checked out.”

  She climbed off of the suitcase and stood away from the bed. “I settled my bill. Checkout time isn’t until three.”

  Wilson had the Request for Interview form out, studying the lower left mug shot, looking at the woman, back at the picture, and then at the woman again. “Darla Bern?”

  She came over to stand beside him, raised on her tiptoes, and looked down at the form. Wilson caught a faint scent of Estee Lauder as she brushed against him. “It’s not very good,” she said. “They don’t let you put on makeup.” Her voice registered disappointment. “You guys aren’t from the motel.”

  Sing had the wallet out, open. “FBI.”

  She sagged visibly. “Good for you. Listen, I’m off parole. Not required to register with anybody.”

  “Can we ask you some questions?” Sing said.

  Wilson watched her from a scant foot away, a ray of light glinting from her soft lower lip. She reminded him of a girl he’d once known at Chattanooga State U.

  She extended a hand toward the suitcase. “Go ahead and look. Have at it. I haven’t touched so much as a joint in three years. The bathroom, too, I’ll waive my right to a warrant. Gee, don’t I ever get left alone?”

  Sing let the wallet hang down beside his hip. “This isn’t about drugs.”

  She walked around to the other side of the bed, gesturing with her hands. “And my taxes are filed. I haven’t filled out any loan documents, false or otherwise.”

  Sing went over by the window, to a small table surrounded by three chairs. “Can we sit over here?”

  She pulled back one of the chairs and sat, crossing her legs and folding her arms. “I can’t afford a lawyer. I’m barely making ends meet.”

  Wilson pulled the cord, parting the drapes a foot, and took one of the other chairs. Sing remained standing, taking the form from Wilson and looking it over. “You know a Jack White?”

  She remained deadpan. “No.”

  “Frank,” Wilson said.

  “Yeah, excuse me. Frank White.” Sing towered over Darla, looking down on her. “You know a Frank White?”

  Her mouth softened. “Is he in trouble again?”

  “I didn’t say that. I asked if you knew him.” Sing showed his version of a slit-eyed, suspicious glare.

  Wilson observed that Sing’s manner was menacing, a far cry from the mild-mannered, let-them-do-the-talking approach taught in the Academy at Quantico. He watched the girl, noted her look of fear.

  “Well…yes,” Darla said. “Listen, that stuff about no contact with felons, I told you I’m off parole. We were friendly at Pleasanton, but you already know that or else you wouldn’t be here.”

  “You’ve been in contact with him, then,” Sing said.

  She curled her fingers around her forehead, heavy drama style. “God, I told him to cool it.”

  Sing folded his arms and leaned his rump against the windowsill. “When did you last talk to Mr. White?”

  Darla propped her feet against the edge of the table, turning her head and looking up. “I won’t lie. No matter what, I learned my lesson. You guys were tailing him or something?”

  Sing exchanged a look with Wilson and didn’t answer, not telling an out-and-out lie but giving the impression that he already knew. Wilson noted that his partner’s performance continued on the heavy-handed side.

  Darla’s lips twisted in anguish. “So I met him for a drink, okay? But that’s all. One drink. Then later I bumped into him at our cast party. I didn’t see any way out…”

  “That’s the play you just finished?” Sing said. “The cast party.”

  “Yeah, Autumn Midnight. He came with this schoolteacher. When I saw him standing there I couldn’t believe it.”

  “What schoolteacher is that?”

  Darla gave Agent Wilson a helpless look, then said to Sing, “You’re scaring me to death. Couldn’t you sort of relax?”

  “What schoolteacher is that, Miss Bern?” Sing said.

  “Oh, a Meg something. Margaret, I think.”

  “Margaret Carpenter? Margaret Ann Carpenter?”

  “Meg Carpenter,” Darla said. “Yeah, I think so.”

  Sing firmed up his mouth. “He came to the cast party with her. Can that be verified?”

  “I’m sure they signed the register,” Darla said.

  “Let’s go to this earlier meeting you had with Mr. White.”

  “At the bar? It was sort of a sleazy place, I wouldn’t want you to think I make a habit of…”

  “Sure, that one,” Sing said.

  “We had a drink. Said hello.” Darla seemed suddenly on the verge of tears. “Listen, what’s he done? I told the dumb…”

  Sing ran his tongue over his front teeth. “Told him what?”

  Wilson pictured his report to the agent-in-charge. Sing failed to make the interviewee feel at ease.

  Darla fidgeted with her hands. “Look, I can’t get in trouble over this.”

  “If you haven’t done anything,” Sing said, “then you won’t.”

  “And nobody’s going to know you’ve talked to me?” Darla said.

  “If that’s the way you want it.” Sing nodded.

  Wilson noted for the second time that day that Sing offered relief not approved by the U.S. Attorney’s office.

  “He asked me,” Darla began, then twisted her fingers in her lap and said, “God,” her lashes down.

  Sing watched her. Wilson shifted his weight in his chair.

  “He didn’t tell me exactly what,” Darla said. “But he asked me if Td help him with something he was doing.”

  Sing blinked. “That’s it? He wanted you to help him with something, but he didn’t say what?”

  “Well, it wasn’t exactly that way,” Darla said. “He didn’t say, Hey, help me, and then just quit talking. I’m not a total dork. I told him to stop, that I didn’t want to hear any more.”

  “But you got the impression,” Sing said, “that he was planning something “

  “It’s what he said. That he wanted me to help.”

  Sing softened his tone a bit. “Where were you last night, Miss Bern?”

  “Well, I,” Darla said, then looked away. “I wouldn’t ask you something like that. It mig
ht be personal.”

  “This is an investigation, miss,” Sing said. “Not a verbal window-peeping.”

  Wilson liked the phrase, verbal window-peeping, and immediately included it in his dictionary of FBI-isms, for future use.

  Darla sighed in resignation. “I’ve been seeing this guy. If you have to know.”

  “It’ll be better for you if we do know,” Sing said. “What’s his name?”

  “I only met him this week. He’s staying here.”

  “At this motel?”

  “Listen, I don’t usually,” Darla said. “Sometimes you meet someone and, wow, you know?”

  “Who is this man?” Sing said.

  Wilson felt sorry for her, the pretty mouth twisted in anguish, Sing pouring it on. Like he enjoys making her squirm, Wilson thought.

  “Listen,” Darla said, “I don’t want to get him involved. He could be married or something.”

  “You don’t know if he’s married?”

  “A lot of these guys are, that you meet out of town.”

  “I thought you normally didn’t take up with men you didn’t know.” Sing looked to Wilson as if for confirmation. “Isn’t that what she just said?”

  “I said normally.” Darla replied. “Doesn’t mean it’s never happened.”

  “So, who is he?” Sing plodded ahead.

  She lowered her head, resigned. “Two doors down the hall. Five eighty-one.”

  “And his name?”

  “Harold,” she said firmly, then, more hesitantly, “I think. Maybe Gerald. Look, this is embarrassing.”

  Sing rose and went to the door. “Let’s hope it doesn’t get even more so, miss. Agent Wilson will keep you company while I check this out, okay?”

  The man in 58I wore shorts and a T and had a towel draped around his neck. There was a sheen of perspiration on his muscular forearms. Fifty-pound dumbbells rested on the floor near the foot of his bed. He reclined on one elbow, and tossed shoulder-length blond hair as he spelled out his name. “H-O-D-G-E. Listen, I got no truck with federal people.”

  Sing carefully wrote down the name. “I didn’t say that you did, Mr. Hodge. I’m just trying to verify a story I’ve heard.”