by Carl Schmidt
It wasn’t exactly “Says who?” like you’d hear during a middle school confrontation between bullies, but it was close enough that I almost laughed out loud. The situation, however, did not really call for laughter—some snide remarks, sure, but outright giggling would have been inappropriate. Besides, I would have lost my edge.
I responded with, “Like… I know who you are. I know where you live. I know how you make your money. I even know the car you drive.”
Granted, it was mostly smoke and mirrors, and I was definitely winging it, but that’s what bodyguards are supposed to do. More importantly, I wanted to confirm, if possible, who it was that was threatening Xavier’s life. Tony was my bully of choice.
“Really, wise guy?” he replied. “What kind of car do I drive?”
“A black Jaguar XKR convertible. I have the license plate number somewhere here. Let me see… Nope, I left it in my office. I could always call you back tomorrow and give it to you if you like. Just give me your phone number; it’s not listed.”
An uneasy stillness spread around the room. And the longer it remained quiet, the more sure I became that it was Tony on the other end of the line. I decided to add some frosting on the cake.
“Tony, while we’re at it, let’s clear up one other thing. Her name is—or was—Nicole Shepard, not Stephanie Goulet, not Nicole Levesque, not Jessica Easton, and not any of the other aliases you helped her create. She was Nicole Shepard. I strongly suspect that either you, or someone close to you, killed her for the seventy grand she had just extorted from Mr. LaGrange.”
In the middle of my tirade, I suddenly recalled a couple lines from Beverly Hills Cop, when Victor Maitland is threatening Axel Foley. I decided to go with what I remembered and ad-lib the rest.
“Now listen to me, my tough little friend. I don't know from under what stone you crawled, but I’m going to say it clearly so there’s no mistake. You haven't the slightest fucking idea who you're dealing with.”
Five seconds of silence was punctuated nicely when the phone went dead. Tony had hung up. In the peaceful tranquility that ensued, I wondered if Xavier could arrange an audition for me at one of the Hollywood studios.
Angele was the first to speak.
“Jesse, that was marvelous. I always knew you had it in you. But how did you know it was Tony?”
“He was the only person I could think of.”
“How about Tina’s boyfriend? You mentioned him on the plane. He could have been the guy,” she said.
“Angele, did you notice how this guy pronounced the word, car?” I asked.
“Well, let’s see. Other than the fact that he was bent out of shape, it sounded pretty normal to me.”
“Exactly. It sounded normal to both of us, which is why it couldn’t have been Tina’s boyfriend. He didn’t have the right accent.”
“Oh?” she replied. “How do you know that? Billy was the one who talked to him.”
“I just spoke to Billy five minutes ago. Xavier warned me that the guy on the phone had a Boston accent. Tina’s boyfriend doesn’t. He’s probably not from New England.”
Xavier looked as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He sighed deeply and asked, “So, do you think that’s it? Am I out of the woods?”
“I wouldn’t go that far just yet,” I replied cautiously. “But at least he is going to think twice about coming after you. He’s been identified. Right now, he’ll probably be wondering how to disappear, rather than compound his problems by going after a celebrity, either with blackmail or worse.
“But, I rather doubt he murdered Nicole,” I added. “It’s possible, of course, but he sounded more erratic than resourceful. If he murdered Nicole to get the seventy thousand dollars or to continue blackmailing you, I think he would have been more cautious when he contacted you. If I’m right about that, then someone else murdered Nicole, and he or she almost surely knows about you. We’ll have to wait and see. For the time being, I’m pretty sure Tony will not be contacting you again.”
I sounded more confident than I actually was. Sure, we got the better of Tony this evening—if that’s actually who it was on the phone. But he could still cause trouble. And besides, I might have had it all wrong. But what troubled me most was that somebody had murdered Nicole Shepard, and the first killing is the hardest. After that, it’s just one more.
“So what do we do now?” Xavier asked.
“Tomorrow we’ll pick up a recording device for your cell phone. If Tony or anyone else makes a threatening phone call, we want to be able to analyze it later. It can be very useful in a number of ways, especially to recognize callers by their voice patterns.”
“Is that legal, Jesse?” Xavier asked.
“In most states, yes. There are about ten states, including Massachusetts, where both parties must be informed before a phone conversation can legally be recorded, but not in New York or Maine. Here, only one party needs to know, and we are that party. It’s true that the recordings cannot be used in court, but that’s not what we’re aiming for, at least not yet. Right now, we just want to identify your enemy, or enemies. We’ll decide what to do with the information if, and when, the need arises.”
“OK,” Xavier replied.
“So, someone spray painted the security camera on the fourth floor at the Rutland Arms Hotel?” he added, returning to our earlier conversation. “It sounds like the murder was premeditated.”
“It certainly was,” I said. “There’s no doubt about that. If the camera on the fourth floor hadn’t been disabled, whoever walked in or out of room 401 would have ended up on the security tapes. Whoever killed Nicole knew she was staying there, almost certainly knew you were meeting her, and knew that the only way to get in and out without leaving a trace was to put the fourth-floor camera out of commission. He or she sprayed it with paint at 3:40 PM on Saturday afternoon. You arrived at 4:00.”
“For all you know, it could have been me, Jesse,” Xavier admitted.
“That thought occurred to me a number of times before today. But I don’t believe that now.”
“Why is that?” he asked.
“Either you are one hell of an actor, Xavier LaGrange, or you are innocent. No offense, but you haven’t been nominated for any Oscars. I listened carefully to what you said about India. You also said that the movie critics have treated you fairly. If you were acting when you said those things, then Brad Pitt, Leonardo DiCaprio and Matt Damon will all have to step aside and give you the floor.”
Xavier offered a wry smile, but acknowledged that I had him, “You’ve got me pegged, Jesse Thorpe.” Then he added, “One thing is certain.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“I definitely hired the right private detective.”
I couldn’t contain a smile, and Angele responded by putting a little more arch in her back, a sight I never grow tired of.
“Thank you for your confidence,” I replied. “Angele and I are both honored to work for you. I hope we are able to put your troubles to rest. We’ll stand by you to make sure that happens.
“But getting back to the use of spray paint, there could be something more sinister operating here that I should point out,” I said.
“What’s that?” Xavier asked.
“If the murderer wanted to kill Nicole just to steal the seventy thousand dollars, it would have been easier and safer to do that outside the hotel, after she left, where there are no security cameras to deal with and fewer possible witnesses. He, or she, went to a lot of trouble to murder her inside room 401. There’s only one reason I have been able to come up with so far, for doing it that way.”
“And what’s that?” Angele asked.
I looked at Xavier and hesitated. I hated sending more bad news his way at this point, but I felt it had to be done.
“To set up Xavier LaGrange as the prime suspect in the killing.”
If he hadn’t considered that before, he certainly was considering it now. He gradually turned pale, looked for a chair and s
at down.
After squirming for a minute or two, he said, “Yes. You’re right. It makes perfect sense when you look at the facts. I didn’t know about the spray paint until you mentioned it earlier. This was very well planned. I imagine I’ll be hearing from someone other than Tony, sooner or later.”
“Hopefully not, but we have to be prepared. If someone contacts you, it could be by email, phone, or even the mail, but most likely it will be by phone. It’s the safest route when their phone is a generic cell, and the caller’s number is blocked. First thing tomorrow morning, we’ll stop by Radio Shack and pick up a cell phone recorder.”
“It’s been an exhausting day,” Xavier sighed. “I think I’d like to rest. I don’t know if I can sleep, but I need to get horizontal.”
“By all means,” Angele said. “Come on, Jesse. That’s enough for one evening.”
That was an understatement. But all in all, things went well, I thought. As well as could be expected.
31
A New York Minute
“We have the latest spy equipment for cell phones on the market today. We’ve got voice recorders, text recorders, recon surveillance devices with GPS—anything you could possibly want.”
While he was making his pitch, he rummaged through some items under the glass, pulled out a black rectangular device and continued talking without missing a beat, “This little beauty works on the Symbian OS 8 and 9, Windows mobile, Android and Blackberry, but not on iPhones. If you have an iPhone, I can show you something equivalent. What kind of phone do you have?”
At that point, he came up for air.
I couldn’t help but notice that I talked a whole lot slower than the guy behind the counter. I wondered for just a moment if incoming sound actually traveled faster than outgoing sound in New York City. My background in physics suggested that it didn’t, but my auditory nervous system wasn’t buying that argument.
“It’s for an Android,” I replied at a leisurely pace.
“Perfect,” he said. “Then this is exactly the unit you want. You can track and trace your Android from anywhere. It also monitors GSM text messages, call logs, emails sent and received as well as the geographical location of the phone, and it comes with a 5-year warranty. It’s the most compact and simplest device money can buy. Usually it sells for $259.99, but since you look like such a nice fellow, and because it’s January—the Christmas and Hanukkah rushes are history—I can sell this to you today for just $199.99. Why don’t I just wrap it up for you?” he said, all in about fifteen seconds.
I was beginning to wish I had walked the extra two blocks to Radio Shack as I had first planned. But it was an impressive device in a very impressive store, a store much larger and boasting more gadgets than any I had ever seen in Maine. I decided to go ahead and let him “wrap it up” for me. It wasn’t going to require a whole lot of wrapping; that “little beauty” was just a shade over two inches long.
I handed him my credit card, and he completed the transaction in a New York minute, which turned out to be a mere thirty-five seconds according to the Timex on my wrist. I was pretty sure my watch functioned properly in New England. Maybe sound doesn’t travel faster in New York; perhaps it just takes less time to get where it’s going.
Angele and I spent the next twenty minutes checking out a seemingly endless display of the latest spy equipment. We had to fend off four more sales people before we slithered out the door.
It was a bitter cold morning, and the shadows of the tall city buildings made it even colder. A blast of air whipped across 57th Street and into our faces as we retraced our route to 5th Avenue. We got a respite from the wind when we turned north. In a couple of minutes, we crossed through the Grand Army Plaza and slipped back inside our hotel.
We had agreed to meet Xavier for breakfast in the Palm Court at nine o’clock. We arrived a little early and checked out the menu. The omelets were only twenty-six dollars. With coffee, that would come to thirty-five apiece, not including tax and tip. But I had to admit, it was a step or two up from Dunkin Donuts. It was as grand and opulent as it gets. The pillars, archways and the stained glass ceiling were extraordinary. When you dined at the Palm Court, you weren’t paying for eggs and orange juice; you were paying for ambiance. And it smelled almost as wonderful as it looked.
We had time to read some of the history of this beautiful restaurant. The most notable fact was that in 1926, F. Scott Fitzgerald used this setting for his film, The Great Gatsby. If it was good enough for Daisy, it was good enough for me.
By the time Xavier arrived, we had calculated that breakfast was going to cost him more than a hundred bucks. We’d have been just as happy to go outside and find something cheaper, but Xavier didn’t want to leave the building. As he approached the dining area, he resembled a caged tiger, except that he had no stripes and only two legs.
“Did you sleep well last night, Xavier?” Angele asked.
“No. I finally nodded off about four in the morning. I thought I had turned my phone on vibrate, but I was mistaken. It started ringing at seven AM. I let it go to voicemail. I haven’t heard the messages, but there are two from an unlisted number. I’m almost afraid to check them out.”
We were escorted to a table near the middle of the enormous room. I couldn’t help but look up at the ceiling like a gaping tourist. Under more favorable conditions, it would have been glorious, but the contrast between the sumptuous environment and our nervous companion was stark and unforgettable.
After we sat down, I handed Xavier our morning purchase and said, “Attach this to your phone. It will record incoming calls, texts and email. It also has a GPS tracking device. We’ll be able to determine exactly where the phone is at all times. So keep it with you wherever you go.”
Our waitress took our orders. Angele and I sat back in our chairs; Xavier remained hunched forward.
“I’m sorry I’m acting like a wuss,” he said. “All of this has happened so quickly. If this were a movie, I could just walk away when the shooting is over. Now I’m just praying that the shooting doesn’t start.”
A sideways grin accompanied his pun.
“Which reminds me,” he added, “are you armed?”
“Not at the moment, Xavier,” I replied. “New York City has the toughest gun laws in the entire country. Besides, there was no way to get my .38 Special through airport security. I will, however, have your back, and I’ll be well armed if ever you are forced to meet with the criminals involved in Nicole’s murder. In fact, we’ll do everything we can to prevent that kind of meeting from happening in the first place.”
“I’ll be flying back to LA late tomorrow afternoon. Will you stay with me until I leave?”
“Sure, if that’s what you want us to do,” I said.
“Yes. Please do,” he replied.
“We’ll arrange a flight back to Portland that coincides with your departure time,” I said. “We’ll be with you as much, or as little, as you want.”
“I should be safe in the hotel, but if I go out, I’d like you to be with me.”
“Absolutely,” I said. “By the way, who else knows that you are in New York? And do they know you’re staying at the Plaza?”
“Only my agent knows I’m staying here. The executives from two studios know that I’m in New York, but they don’t know my hotel. I met last week with an indie director about a part in a European film. I’ll be meeting with a casting agent tomorrow at noon concerning another picture. Those meetings aren’t publicized, so I can’t imagine that Tony, or anyone else, could find out about them. I guess the only way someone could figure out exactly where I am is to call my agent. He might pass on that information to a legitimate film person, but he wouldn’t give out my location to anyone else without contacting me first.”
“Where is your agent’s office?” I asked.
“In LA,” he replied.
“It’s just after six in the morning there,” I said. “So let’s not call him now. When does he start his day?�
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“About nine, but I can usually reach him in his home at seven-thirty.”
“OK,” I said. “Call him at ten-thirty, our time. Let’s be sure that your whereabouts is kept secret.”
“Right,” he said.
“Did Nicole Shepard know where you were staying in New York?” I asked.
“I don’t think I mentioned it to her, but it might have slipped out. I can’t say for sure.”
“Then we have to operate on the assumption that interested parties might know exactly where you are.”
After I said that, I realized I might have put him off his breakfast, so I quickly added, “But the Palm Court is far too public. There’s nothing to worry about here, other than autograph hounds.”
Xavier continued to look grim.
Our breakfasts arrived. I passed on the $9 coffee. I had been adequately invigorated by a $3.50 cappuccino during our morning walk in upper midtown. One cup was plenty. If I needed any more caffeine, all I had to do was inhale the local aroma. The issue, for me, was not how to speed things up, but rather how to slow them down. The odds were stacked against me. As Dizzy Dean used to say, “I had two chances: slim and none.”
I never actually heard Dizzy say that, of course; he died five years before I was born. But my dad used the phrase so often that one day I asked him where the heck it came from. He loved Dizzy, who provided him with homespun, comic relief from the rigorous atmosphere of the physics department at Colby College.
When we finished breakfast, Xavier wanted to return to his room. Clearly he wasn’t going to venture outside until it was necessary. I suggested that we go up to his room and listen to the two messages that had been left on his phone from unlisted numbers, but he shuddered at the idea.
“You can hear them first,” he said. “Then break it to me gently if it’s bad news.”
“Fine,” I replied.
When we entered his suite, he said that he wanted to lie down again, hoping to get some of the sleep he missed during the night. I waited for him to go upstairs and close his door before listening to the messages. I put on the speakerphone and turned the volume down so only Angele and I could hear them.