by A. W. Gray
Standing behind the pair, FBI Agent Turner nudged Assistant USDA Felicia Tate. “Who the hell is George Patman?”
“New,” Tate said, lowering her lashes, “United States Attorney for the Northern District.”
“What happened to the other guy? Brown,” Turner said.
“Too close to Whitewater,” Tate said. “The guy resigned.”
“Jesus, he wasn’t there a year,” Turner said.
“We change quite often,” Tate said.
Janet Wheeler lowered her microphone and made a sour face toward the red panel truck. “I thought we had an exclusive on this. Who called that bitch?” Her mike had a Channel 8 logo on the handle.
AUSDA Tate murmured apologetically to FBI Agent Turner, “They were supposed to be called off if we didn’t get the girl back.”
Morgan Carpenter looked at Tate and Turner over his shoulder. “You people called another television.”
Tate studied her white canvas Keds and yanked on the fabric of her jogging suit.
The Channel 4 crew lugged their paraphernalia up and gathered around the Channel 8 crew. The second female newsperson smiled an identical Entertainment Tonight lead-in smile to the one that Janet Wheeler had smiled just moments ago. “Barbara Reed, gentlemen,” she said. “Channel Four. Is the victim going to be available for an interview?”
“Listen,” Brickman said, “there’s been a problem, since our office inadvertently alerted the media.”
“Your office didn’t call us,” Barbara Reed said. “It was the United States Attorney, Mr. Patman, over there.”
Turner stared daggers at Tate. Tate continued to watch her shoes.
“Whoever called you,” Brickman said, “these Channel Eight folks have agreed to keep the lid on the story until we can get the victim back. This was premature.”
Janet Wheeler slapped her microphone against her well-formed thigh. “We didn’t agree to shit,” she said, “unless they’re going to keep their mouths shut, too.” She pointed at Barbara Reed.
Brickman looked past the knot of media people. “What’s this?” he said.
A Honda pulled in to park behind the red Channel 4 mobile unit. A pretty young woman got slowly out, barefoot, wearing gym shorts and a T ripped at the neck. Her face was smudged and her auburn hair was messy. She limped on her right foot as she made her painful way up toward the porch.
Felicia Tate stepped to the front and called out urgently, “Young woman, I don’t know what your business is, but this is private.”
Morgan Carpenter was looking at the newcomer with his mouth agape. “Meg,” he said, choking.
Meg Carpenter came around the reporters and faced her father. “I hope I’ve saved you the ransom, Daddy.” She held up a set of keys. “You think you could spring for the Avis car? I can’t afford it, to tell you the truth.”
United States Attorney George Patman stepped quickly in front of FBI Agent-in-Charge Wilson Brickman, and faced the television people. “We’re glad to announce,” he said loudly, “that we have a suspect. An ex-convict, name of Frank White.”
Meg’s face relaxed in shock. “Frank?”
Brickman grabbed the collar of Patman’s suit and yanked the United States Attorney backward. “Hold it. This is our fucking investigation,” Brickman said.
• • •
Because of the size of the ransom, the networks selected the kidnapping as an item on the coast-to-coast 6 p.m. newscasts. Both Janet Wheeler and Barbara Reed received national exposure, causing CBS execs to add Barbara’s name to the short list of anchor candidates for an Entertainment Tonight clone in development, and ABC honchos to discuss Janet as possible competition for Sally Jessy Raphael.
Frank White watched the broadcast in a diner on the outskirts of Deming, New Mexico, fifty miles west of Las Cruces on the I-10 access road. He was seated at the counter, hunched over a plate holding a scorched cheese omelet and half-raw hash browns. On his left sat a grizzled man with burly forearms, munching a cheeseburger. On his right was a woman who weighed at least three hundred pounds, and who was eating a wilted salad. The TV sat on a shelf over the register. The rabbit-ears antenna was adequate, but occasional static sizzled across the face of the picture tube. Frank’s Jeep Cherokee, its windshield peppered with bug spots, sat in the parking lot among the forty-foot trailer rigs and wheezy old pickups.
The image of Meg, limping badly as she entered the Carpenter home in between Assistant USDA Tate and FBI Agent Turner, brought tears of relief to Frank’s eyes, and he dropped his fork and lowered his head to regain his composure. When he looked up, there he was, Frank White in living color, the mug shot taken on his release from Pleasanton, his hair in an inch-long burr, his expression menacing. Frank tucked his chin and risked two glances, left and right. The grizzled man laid his burger down to chase a bite with milk, and the overweight lady morosely studied a piece of brown-edged lettuce. Neither looked at Frank. He picked the check up from under the edge of his plate, slid from the stool, and backed away from the counter. The girl at the register, wearing a soiled white uniform, was chewing gum and barely glanced at his face as she rang up the sale.
Frank took the access road away from the diner, dusty expanses of cactus and sage on both sides, and bore to his right on the business route into Deming. Once in town he cruised streets lined with adobe, flat-roofed houses, and located a battered Buick station wagon parked near the entrance to an alleyway. He left his engine running, rummaged in his tool box for a screwdriver, then relieved the Buick of its New Mexico tags. Less than fifteen minutes later, the stolen license plates now attached to the front and rear of the Cherokee, Frank gunned onto I-I0 headed west. He set the cruise control on 65, leaned back, and draped his wrist over the steering wheel.
The road map told him that Interstate 10 would do a dipsy-doodle just south of Phoenix, skirt the northern edge of Phoenix proper, and then make a beeline across the desert into Los Angeles. His dashboard clock read 6:38 but was an hour fast because he’d crossed over into Rocky Mountain Standard Time at El Paso. He figured to make the Arizona/California line around three in the morning, and tried to remember the last time he’d driven all night. Probably twelve years ago, when he’d come home from the army after his mustering out in Kentucky. He felt inside the glove compartment, and touched the grip on the .38 police special he’d bought from Wilbur Dale. Frank stretched, yawned, slapped his cheeks, and concentrated on the highway ahead.
31
When Howard Molly hadn’t appeared in his office at Dallas Theater Center by Thursday morning, his brunette secretary began to fidget. Her concern wasn’t for Howard Molly’s safety. Friday was payday, and it was up to Molly to pick up the checks from the board of governors and pass them around.
When Molly hadn’t called in by one in the afternoon, the brunette secretary rang his apartment and left a message on his answering machine. Three o’clock rolled around and she hadn’t heard back from him, so she tried again, with the same results. No Howard, only his recorded voice cooing that he was anxious to speak to all callers, and that if they’d leave their number he’d get back to them lickety-split. She hung up, drummed her fingers, then called her boyfriend at the collection agency where he worked.
She told her guy of the moment, in her softest it-just-kills-me-to-do-this voice, that she was leaving the office to audition for a part in a play, and that their Five o’clock meeting for drinks and discussion of wedding plans would have to wait until tomorrow. Then she flicked on her own answering machine, gathered up her purse and car keys, left the office with her spike heels beating rhythm, and drove to Howard Molly’s apartment in far North Dallas.
Once there, she pressed the doorbell until her thumb was sore. Then she stood on one tiptoe, with the other leg fetchingly bent at the knee, as she brought down a key from the overhanging ledge. After hasty glances in all directions, she went on in. No sign of Howard Molly in the living or dining
rooms. She opened a hall closet, took two dresses from hangers and tossed them over her arm, then entered the bedroom. She stopped and blinked in consternation.
Howard Molly, dead as a doornail, was bound to a straight-backed chair. A rope was tied around his neck so tightly that his windpipe was crushed in. He was naked save for boxer trunks. His protruding belly was the color of ripe plums. The secretary wrinkled her nose. Howard was beginning to smell.
She walked over to the bureau and went through the drawers, draping four pairs of panties and two brassieres over her arm to go along with the dresses, then carried all of the articles of clothing outside and locked them in the trunk of her car. Back inside the apartment, she picked up the phone in the living room and called the Theater Center’s board of governors. She notified the secretary there that she, and not Howard Molly, would be picking up the checks in the morning. That chore accomplished, she punched 911 into the dial, left the receiver dangling from its cord, and gently pulled the door to behind her as she left. She stretched up to replace the key on the ledge, looked all around her once again, then made her way toward the parking lot.
Homer Knighton thought that Ralston Tagg needed some work on hitting his woods. Holy Jesus, the guy lying two on the second hole, to hell and gone over in number one fairway directly in front of the tee, in the path of guys ready to play their shots, who in turn were yelling and shooting the finger. Ralston Tagg ignored the insults as he peered through the trees toward the second green like Nick Faldo, one of those guys. As if after two wild slices in a row he was now ready to pull one out of his ass and save the day. All of which, Homer Knighton thought, explained the reason that the noon Thursday foursome here at Great Southwest Golf Club wouldn’t tee off without the guy, figuring to make cart fees and a whole bunch more gambling with Ralston Tagg. Which suited Homer just fine as long as Tagg had enough left at the end of the day to pay Homer’s caddy fee.
Tagg stood with folded arms, a skinny, fortyish man with a knit polo draped around his hips. “What do you think, caddy?” Tagg said.
Get the hell out of the way before one of those guys up there tees off and brains you with a Maxfli balata, Homer thought. He shifted the bag of clubs from one shoulder to the other. Visible far in the distance, the other three men in Tagg’s foursome sat around the second green, scratching their asses and waiting for Ralston Tagg to hit. Homer said hopefully, “Pitch out? Maybe try to get back in the right fairway?”
Tagg firmly shook his head. “Too late, I’m laying two. I’ve got to go for it. Gimme the five wood.”
Holy Jesus, Homer thought, another wood he’s going to hit. Up on number one tee, one of the foursome waiting to play yelled, “Hit and get the hell out of our way.”
Homer studied the trajectory Tagg had in mind, a thirty-degree hook up and over the trees, hopefully clearing the parking lot, a shot which, say, Paul Azinger might pull off once in a bucket of practice balls. Ralston Tagg, never in a lifetime. Not to mention the dark green four-door Buick with the guy inside, parked directly in Tagg’s line of flight, the guy slumped against the driver’s window like he was asleep, the odds-on favorite to wind up beaned by Ralston Tagg’s golf ball. What the hell, Homer Knighton was nothing but the caddy. He drew the five wood from the bag, removed the headcover, and handed the club to Ralston Tagg.
Tagg took a couple of lazy practice swings as one of the men on the tee yelled, “Hit, goddammit.” Tagg ignored the guy and shaded his eyes, gazing toward the parking lot. “Guy’s parked in my line of flight,” Tagg said.
What a newsflash, Homer thought. He leaned on the bag and didn’t say anything.
“Guy’s in my way.” Tagg said.
And you’re in those guys’ way, the guys on the tee, Homer thought.
Tagg tapped Homer on the elbow with the toe of the Five wood. “Aren’t you listening, caddy? Guy’s in my way. Go up there and tell the guy, move his fuckin’ car.”
Holy Jesus, Homer thought. Muttering under his breath, considering walking off and leaving Tagg to carry his own clubs, Homer Knighton shouldered the bag and trudged off toward the parking lot. Thinking about it, Homer had to admit that it was kind of a funny place to park and go to sleep. Guy must have gotten drunk or something.
Felicia Tate withdrew a spotless white folded handkerchief from her handbag, shook the hanky out, and took off her glasses. She huffed fog onto one lens and began her cleaning job, squinting occasionally through the lens at the desk lamp as she did. “This case is taking on some interesting wrinkles,” she said. “Three dead men, telling no tales.” There were red marks where the nosepieces normally rested.
Agent Turner scooted his rump forward in the armchair, propping his elbows up and holding a computer printout by the corners, between a thumb and forefinger of each hand. “This Mr. Gershwin was a badass.”
The pair were in Tate’s office in the Earle Cabell Federal Building, fourth floor, All-Right Parking across the street, the old red Dallas County Courthouse and the Records Building, all visible through the window. Her desk and credenza were matching blond wood. On the wall were Tate’s bachelor’s and law degrees, both from Texas Tech, and a blown-up photo of Tate arguing a case before the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals in New Orleans, her figure svelte in a tailored, short-skirted business suit. Tate had lost her argument with the jurists, but had had quite a night down on Bourbon Street.
“Gershwin did time with our man Frank, didn’t he?” Tate said.
“Two years. We got evidence zero that either one has seen the other since they got out. A lot of pieces missing, Felicia.”
“There are always pieces missing. What does the deed record say, on the lake house?”
“Howard Molly owned it,” Turner said. “Also rented the car, his American Express. The guy rented two cars, in fact, one of which got turned in at DFW, at the Avis counter, just about an hour after the M.E.’s report lists as the time of death for our banker friend. Jesus, I’ll bet that caddy jumped through his asshole.”
“Could you temper that to, ‘Did a double take’ or something? Someone had to sign for the car.”
“Sure did,” Turner said. “Peter Smith, ain’t that cute? They might as well have signed, Donald fucking Duck.”
Tate spun around in her swivel chair, faced the window, put her glasses on. “I’m considering contact lenses. Our man Frank turned in the car?”
“Could be Frank. Could be Ronald Reagan. The counter girl sees a thousand people a day, you know? Typical shit, she looks at Frank’s picture and goes, ‘Gee, I don’t remember’”
“No sign of Frank at the Theater Center director’s apartment? Fingerprints…?”
Turner lowered the printout. “Come on, Felicia, Frank White’s only got two hands. He didn’t do all these people. Plus, Frank ain’t no queer.”
Tate frowned. “Isn’t any what?”
“All right then, gay. Happy as hell. This guy stripped down to his underwear, this is some sexual murder.”
“That’s easy. Darla Bern, Frank’s old jailhouse girlfriend.”
“Who had an alibi for that night, screwing the guy down the hall in the motel, and who caught her plane to California like a good little girl. We’ve been in contact with her. She’s home in L.A. and accounted for.”
“And identified by the victim as one of the pair that snatched her,” Tate said.
“Well,” Turner said, “not exactly.”
Tate turned her chair back around.
“It looked like a Darla Bern,” Turner said. “It acted like a Darla Bern. So it must be a Darla Bern, it looks and acts like one. Broad had on a ski mask.”
“So in the courtroom the woman was bare-faced,” Tate said.
“Not with this victim. Miss Margaret Ann Carpenter won’t testify black is gray, much less white. Fucking Girl Scout we’re dealing with here.”
“Creates a problem,” Tate said.
&nb
sp; “Whole thing is a problem, Peppermint Patty. We’ve got our own kidnap victim saying we’re full of shit, that our man Frank couldn’t have done this on account of they’re all so fucking much in love. Jesus, guy must have one”—Turner held up his hands, two feet apart—”yay long.”
Tate pursed her lips. “Having one yay long isn’t necessarily the answer, Dave. Sometimes it’s big bat, weak hitter. Can’t we have her father talk some sense…?”
Turner snorted. “Guy doesn’t wear the pants in that family. The girl and her mother have got him buffaloed.”
Tate’s chin moved slightly to one side. “Oh? Who wears the pants at your house, Dave? With three ex-wives, it looks like you might’ve been better off delegating some authority yourself.”
Turner propped his knee against the corner of her desk and slumped down even further, his gaze on the corner of the room, not saying anything.
Tate played with a Rubik’s Cube on her desk, twisting the multicolored squares around. “So what we’ve got is, the kidnap victim in love with who we think is the kidnapper. Rather touching, actually. It’s going to be tough making a case under the circumstances, Dave. Do we have surveillance on the girl’s phone?”
“That we do.”
“Any results?”
“Some. Frank called her this morning.”
Tate dropped the Rubik’s Cube. “Get a location on him?”
“So far as,” Turner said, “he’s in the L.A. area code. You want to hear?” He reached in the pocket of his FBI windbreaker and produced a tape cassette.
Tare’s nose twitched. She produced a hand-sized recorder from her middle drawer, took the cassette from Turner and opened the recorder’s tape carriage.
As Felicia Tate fitted the cassette onto the spools, Turner said thoughtfully, “We haven’t checked out the other guy Frank was talking about.”
Tate pressed the tape holder back down into the machine. “Who’s that?”
“The Randolph Money guy. The one Frank said was the caller.”