Eye Contact (36 page)

There’s a rap at the door. Zarnik turns in his chair at the desk and asks, “Yes, who is it?” Manning notices that the accent has resurfaced.

A woman’s voice says from the corridor, “It’s me, Professor. Miss Jenner. Your guest from the mayor’s office is here.” Manning’s brows arch with interest.

Rising, Zarnik tells her, “Coming, Miss Jenner. Thank you.” He skitters across the room, completely in character, then turns the lock and opens the door. Miss Jenner, who’s a perky little thing, stands outside with the visitor. As Manning has already deduced, it is Victor Uttley. His lanky frame stretches more than a foot above the woman’s. He wears dark sunglasses, a fifties vintage pair of classic Ray-Bans, conspicuously inappropriate inside the building—a lame attempt at disguise, no doubt.

Zarnik extends his hand. “Mr. Uttley, I presume?”

“It’s an honor, Professor,” Uttley responds dryly, shaking Zarnik’s hand.

Zarnik tells the woman, “Thank you, Miss Jenner. You may run along now. And please—do enjoy your holiday.”

She titters, excusing herself with a clumsy gesture that resembles a curtsy, and disappears down the hall.

Zarnik waves Uttley into the lab, closing the door behind them. Dropping the accent, he says, “Well, Victor, it’s been a while. It seems that both of our careers have finally taken off, though in divergent and unexpected directions.”

“Spare me the rhetoric, Arlen.” Uttley looks around the room. “Impressive. Do you have any idea how to work this stuff?”

“Not a clue.”

Uttley lights one of his imported cigarettes. “Next question, the more important one: Do you
have
it?”

The actor who has pretended to be Zarnik asks, “What?” With feigned naiveté, he adds, “The payoff money? The loot?”

“Now now, Arlen,” Uttley scolds him, “you know better than that. Let’s just call it the price of silence, or better yet, a token of past friendship.”

“Yeah, right. Ten thousand bucks is a heap of friendship.”

Manning rolls his eyes, stifling a laugh. Ten here, ten there—it adds up.

The actor named Arlen leads Uttley to the desk. He opens the top drawer, takes out a standard letter-size envelope, about an inch thick, and hands it to Uttley, who hefts it, looking disappointed. The actor asks him, “What’s the matter, Victor? Were you expecting an attaché case? It’s a hundred bills, a hundred each. Count them—ten thousand even.”

Uttley peeks inside, then closes the flap of the envelope, satisfied. The cigarette bobs in his mouth as he asks, “Where’d you get it? Who supplied it?”

“That, I’m afraid, is none of your business. You’ve gotten what you wanted—now go away and keep your mouth shut.”

“I’ll be quiet,” Uttley assures him, then he adds, “for now.”

“Victor, so help me …”

Manning’s got the idea. They’re going to bicker for a while. He wishes Uttley
would
leave so that he could question Zarnik—or Arlen or whoever he is—at length. The man is obviously ready to confide in Manning, but for some reason, he wants Uttley kept in the dark.

What time is it? Almost twenty-five past five. Then Manning remembers with a start that he instructed David Bosch to phone him when he arrives at the top of the MidAmerica Building. The cell phone in Manning’s breast pocket could ring at any moment. If Manning switches off the phone, he could miss David’s call and blow a promising story. If he leaves it switched on, he could blow his cover behind the cabinet. He wants Uttley to leave. Now.

David spots the garage ramp on the east side of the MidAmerica Building. Manning was right—it could easily be missed, marked only with a discreet plaque that says Central States Club. He pulls up to the gate and lowers his window, prepared to talk his way past the guard. But the guard has seen the car coming, checked his clipboard, and now leans to tell David, “Good evening, Mr. Manning. We’ve been expecting you. Please park at the top level of the ramp. The host at the elevator will direct you.”

That was easy. David thanks him, raises his window, and drives the big black car up four or five levels. When he can go no farther, he sees the private elevator lobby. Gold lettering on the glass door reads
Central States Club.
An attendant stands there at a podium. There’s a red carpet leading from the spartan concrete environs of the garage to the lavishly decorated interior.

David gets out of the car and puts on his blazer, checking pockets for press pass, phone, and notebook. He locks the car and walks the red carpet, removing the pass from his jacket, ready to do some explaining to the attendant. The man at the podium has watched his arrival, and when David steps up to talk to him, he says, “Welcome, Mr. Manning. They phoned up to say you were here. I understand the mayor’s office has arranged for you to visit the tower platform.”

“That’s right.” David is enjoying this—he’ll fill in for Manning anytime.

“Simply take this elevator to the top floor, eighty-nine. You’ll arrive in the lobby of the club, with the bar entrance straight ahead. Before you get to the bar, though, along the right-hand wall, you’ll find an unmarked door to a stairwell. Since it’s still too early for the club’s dinner crowd, there will be no one on duty in the lobby, so the door has been left unlocked for you. Take the stairs three flights up to the tower platform. If there are still workers up there, they will know to expect you, but they may have left already. I’m sure I needn’t caution you, but it’s open air up there, so do be careful.”

“Thank you,” David tells the man. “You’ve been very helpful.” Then he gets into the elevator, presses the top button, and begins his rapid nonstop ascent. During the course of the trip, which seems to take well over a minute, he swallows several times to clear his ears. When the doors slide open, he finds himself in the club lobby, just as it was described. The bar is ahead, backlit by a spectacular view. There is an inconspicuous door along the right wall, partially hidden by a potted plant. There is no one else around, so he crosses the deep carpeting to the door and tries it—sure enough, it’s not locked.

On the other side of the door, the walls are bare cement block, with metal stairs leading up. David climbs several turns of the stairway, and on the sixth landing, the stairs end at a door. He opens it, finding himself in a short hall, no more than six feet long, which leads to another door. Hearing the howl of wind beyond the second door, he concludes that the double-doored hall was designed as a buffer—it might otherwise be impossible to close the outside door against the wind.

Even with the inside door closed securely behind him, David has a struggle with the outer one, but he manages to step through and get it closed. Then, turning, he finds himself standing atop one of the city’s tallest buildings. Earth itself seems to spread out before him, radiant in the late-afternoon sun, teeming with anonymous millions who scurry to launch their weekend. He views the lower half of Lake Michigan as though on a map. Indiana, he knows, is below it, Michigan across it, Wisconsin just up the shore from where he stands. And nothing can be heard but the sound of the wind.

While Manning holds the cellular phone in his hand, deciding whether to switch it off, it rings.

“… trying to make ends meet …” Uttley lops his harangue midsentence, choking on the words. “What the hell?”

The phone rings again. Manning steps out from behind the cabinet, answering, “Yes?” Uttley removes his sunglasses to gape at Manning with bulging, unbelieving eyes. The tension of his stance suggests he’s ready to bolt from the room. But Manning is careful to keep his own body language relaxed and unthreatening. He says into the phone, “Hello, David. No hassles? Great.”

Uttley turns to face the other actor, seething. “Traitor!” He throws his cigarette on the floor and stamps it out as a child might, verging on a tantrum.

“For heaven’s sake, Victor. Can the melodrama.” The actor named Arlen plops himself into the chair at the desk. “You’re an extortionist. Do you really think you deserve the loyalty of friends—particularly friends you’ve
blackmailed
?”

Manning plugs a finger in his ear so he can hear the phone better. “You caught me at an awkward moment here, David. Listen, you try to locate the equipment, look it over, and I’ll call you back in a few minutes.” He folds the phone shut, slips it into his jacket, and tells the others, “Sorry for the interruption, gentlemen. Nice to see you again, Victor.” He extends his hand, but Uttley stands there ramrod stiff, fuming. Then Manning turns, extending his hand to the other man. “I don’t believe we’ve met, actually.”

Zarnik’s impostor rises from his chair, reluctantly steps toward Manning, and shakes his hand. “My name is Arlen Farber. I’m an actor, and I’ve been hired to play a role. It sounded like a fun gig, and the money’s really good. But something’s up, Mr. Manning—something sinister, I’m afraid. So I decided it was time to, uh … blow the proverbial whistle.” With a humorless expression, he gives his chrome police whistle a feeble toot.

Manning has his notebook ready. “Who’s paying you, Arlen?”

“As I told you before—truthfully, in fact—I get checks from the planetarium. But where does the money
really
come from? I have no idea.”

“And Victor’s hush money?”

Arlen Farber shrugs. “It’s a mystery. The envelope was couriered to my secretary, but I don’t know the source. I have a contact, of course. It’s a man. But I know him only by his phone number.”

“That’s a start,” says Manning. “Phones are easily traced. May I have it?”

Uttley steps between them, interrupting, “You two are too much.” His tone is pissed. “Arlen Farber, two-bit actor, running to the press with some half-baked conspiracy theory, hoping to grab more headlines. What’sa matter, Arlen? Haven’t you gotten enough ink in the past two weeks?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, but spins his attention to Manning. “And you, Mr. Hotshot Reporter—is this any way to treat a contact from the mayor’s office? Don’t forget, I pulled some strings to arrange for your access to the MidAmerica laser site.” Uttley remembers something, checks his watch. “Why aren’t you
there,
instead of
here,
entrapping
me
?”

“David, my assistant, went in my place—that’s who called.” Arlen Farber looks confused by this exchange, so Manning explains to him, “I’m working on another story, unrelated to all this, about a sky show promoting gay rights to be staged as part of tomorrow’s ceremonies at the new stadium. It involves some laser equipment that’s been installed on top of three tall buildings, including the
Journal’s
tower. I saw something while visiting my publisher’s office earlier this week that made me want to examine the equipment at one of the other buildings.”

Uttley butts into the conversation again. “I
still
don’t understand why you just don’t examine the projector at the
Journal
.”

“Simple,” says Manning. “It might irk the man who signs my check. If this story pans out, Nathan Cain will be pleased, naturally. But it might turn out to be a non-story altogether, and if that’s the case, he won’t appreciate any attention I draw to the sky show, let alone the company’s time I’d spend pursuing it.”

“Why not?” asks Uttley. “The whole thing was his idea.”

“Hardly,” Manning tells him. “Cain’s support of the project is grudging at best. He’s a traditional-values sort of guy, certainly no advocate of gay rights. The only reason he agreed to allow one of the projectors to be installed at the
Journal
is that the paper might be perceived as ‘unenlightened’ if he didn’t play along. But he resents it—he told me so.”

“Ha!” Uttley laughs, limping to the door, envelope of cash in one hand, sunglasses in the other. He turns to tell Manning, “Nathan Cain himself came to the mayor
months
ago to propose the sky show. He volunteered technical assistance with the hardware as well as use of the
Journal’s
tower platform. He felt strongly that the whole spectacle should be kept as a surprise finale for the opening ceremony, and the mayor agreed. I sat in on the meeting and heard every word.”

Manning has taken a few notes, but stopped, truly confused by Uttley’s claim.

Satisfied that his words have produced the intended effect, Uttley puts on his Ray-Bans again, opens the door, and steps into the hallway. Before closing the door behind him, he tells Manning, “You really ought to get your facts straight, Mark. And hey, we’re friends—no charge.”

As soon as Uttley is gone, Manning retrieves his carryall from the hiding space behind the cabinets and moves it to the desk, where he unpacks his laptop and modem, as well as several manila folders containing handwritten notes, morgue photos, and clippings. Adding to the clutter, he unloads his pockets—steno pad, phone, datebook, fountain pen, and wallet. There’s no longer room on the desk for Arlen Farber’s things, so Manning hands him a brown paper bag that holds an extra peanut butter sandwich. As if ravenous, Farber unwraps the sandwich and begins to gobble it, pacing the room.

Manning thinks of something. Riffling through the wallet, he finds the business card that Gordon Smith gave him in Nathan Cain’s office on Monday. He flips it over and finds Cain’s pager number, written there by Smith as instructed. Manning really ought to beep Cain and discuss Victor Uttley’s claims about the laser show. And he owes David a call, too. What’s more, he now knows the identity of Zarnik’s impostor, which deserves page-one treatment in the next edition—as does the extortionist he’s discovered in the mayor’s office. But where to begin with all this?

He opens a computer file and scrolls through his notes while Arlen Farber wolfs his sandwich. Manning tells him, “Let’s start with the big question: Why have you pretended to be Pavo Zarnik?”

Through a mouthful of mush, Farber answers, “They
told
me to.”

“Who did? And why?”

Farber swallows. “I don’t know.”

“Do you know where the real Pavo Zarnik is?”

“You’re asking the wrong guy—that’s what I wanted to know. They told me he was away somewhere, ‘on vacation,’ they said.”

Manning scrolls through more notes. “You were insistent that I alone would report Zarnik’s story. You said that you chose me because I had a reputation for being scrupulous, insightful, and fair—and I was flattered enough,
dumb
enough, to buy it. Okay, Arlen, what was the
real
reason for my exclusive?”