Public Secrets (Artificial Intelligence Book 1) (4 page)

Morning came much too soon and everyone was marched down to a buffet breakfast. Carla was thinking about how to escape the group when the firm hand of Dr. Wilson landed on her shoulder. “I want to see you in the music room in five minutes.”

Carla nearly choked on her toast. Swallowing some water, she nodded her agreement. As soon as he’d left, she looked at the door, longing to break and run.

“You have to go,” whispered Claire. “You can’t bail on us. You’ll get us all expelled.”

“But I can’t stay with you guys forever. We might as well come clean about it now.”

“Please don’t. My parents saved all year so I could take this trip. Don’t tell him yet.”

Carla placed her hand on the girl’s. “I’ll try to figure out a way to extract myself without your involvement.”

***

When Carla entered the music room, it was empty. She sat down at the piano and tried to play away her tension. How the hell had she gotten herself into this situation?

“Very pretty,” Dr. Wilson said as he approached. “I don’t recognize it. Sounds a bit like Beethoven but not quite.”

“It’s mine. I wrote it when I was eight or nine.”

“A prodigy, then?”

Carla grimaced. “Hardly.”

He leaned on the piano and stared at her. “So you’re a piano major. May I ask why you aren’t a double major in piano and voice?”

“I’m not a music major.”

“What are you?”

“Nervous, wondering why I’ve been called in to see you.”

Dr. Wilson almost smiled, something she suspected was difficult for him to do. “No need to be nervous. I wanted to get you up to speed so I can allow you to sing with the choir.” He opened the music and placed it on the piano stand. “You need to learn the words instead of mimicking Claire.” Motioning for her to move over so he could share the piano bench, he sat down and began to play.

Dr. Wilson’s eyes rounded when she entered on key. The introduction gave no hint of the alto’s first chord. Claire had mentioned he had spent almost a month of torture getting everyone consistently accurate on their first note. When she finished the piece, he stared at her as if she were an alien from another planet. “Good. Let’s try it without the visual aids. Stand there where I can see you.”

Carla rose, stood at the side of the piano facing the director and sang the song.

They moved on to the second song, which she also sang without a stumble.

He stared at his hands for several moments and then looked up at Carla. “Are you playing with me, young lady?”

Carla gulped. “What do you mean?”

“Last night you didn’t know this music at all, and today you sing it perfectly.”

“I was a little nervous last night.”

“Last night you didn’t know the music,” he restated.

Carla sighed. She saw no way out but the truth. “You’re right. I didn’t. I convinced Claire and Betsy that I was a last-minute substitute, but I wasn’t. I lied to them, and I lied to you.”

“How did you get on the plane?”

“I bought a ticket.”

Dr. Wilson removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You came on your own?”

“Yes.”

“You’re older than twenty-one?”

She chuckled. “Yes.”

“So I’m not responsible for your actions.”

“No.” Carla was unable to repress a smile. God forbid the poor humorless man should be responsible for her.

“To be eligible for the competition you have to be enrolled at Columbia University. Are you?”

“Does a correspondence class count?”

“Yes.”

Carla smiled. “Then I’m enrolled.”

Dr. Wilson stared at her. “I’m afraid to ask, but I will anyway. What class are you taking?”

“Java programming.”

“What?”

“It’s a computer programming class.”

“You’re a computer programmer?” Dr. Wilson stared at her in horror. “What studies have you taken in music?”

“In high school I—”

“In college!” he snapped.

“None.”

“Why not?”

Carla shrugged. “I never thought I was good enough.”

Dr. Wilson shook his head. “I don’t buy that for a moment.” He struck a note on the piano. “Don’t look at the keys. What note did I just play?”

“F.”

He struck another note, and another, each time Carla calling out the correct answer. “Sing me F, G, A, D.”

Carla did as he instructed.

“You have perfect pitch, both in recognition and recall.”

Carla shrugged. “Parlor tricks.”

“It’s far more than parlor tricks. It’s a foundation for everything. I can teach breath control, vocal support, and projection, but I cannot teach perfect pitch. You either have it or you learn to work with a weaker foundation.” He stared at her for a few moments. “Here’s the deal. You can remain with the group and sing in tomorrow’s competition. However, I want your word that when we return, you will submit your application as a music major at Columbia.”

“I’ve really let this get out of hand. Perhaps it would be better if I just left now.”

“You can do that, of course, but if you do, then I will send Claire, Betsy, and Jodie home for their part in this little game.”

“No! I told you they didn’t know. I lied to them, just as I lied to you.”

He shrugged.

“Why would you punish them for my actions?”

Still he didn’t reply.

“You really think you could teach me to sing?”

“You already can sing.”

“To sing well enough to do it professionally.”

“I’ve taught people with far less talent,” he murmured.

She sat down beside him on the bench. “It’s a timely offer. I came to New Zealand to rebalance my life and figure out my future. I’ve always loved music, but I never thought I was good enough. But if you think it’s a possibility, I’m willing to try.”

Dr. Wilson nodded. “Let me hear your range.” His fingers quickly ran through warm-up scales.

Chad was dressed in time for the eight-thirty limo taking him to breakfast with the New Zealand All Sports executives. From there he would attend the ribbon-cutting ceremony for a new sports shop opening, which, of course, carried his logo products. This afternoon he had box seats with some muckety-muck in the New Zealand government to watch a cricket match. Davis had given him a book of rules on cricket, but he had given up by Chapter Two, which seemed to contradict everything stated in Chapter One.

This evening he would attend an opera with the Prime Minister and his family. He only hoped they didn’t have any daughters to moon over him. As it was he was having trouble keeping Carla from his mind. The last thing he wanted was pretty socialites simpering about him, so he might compare their every action against his country girl.

“Davis. Get me the number of the Lake Taupo YHA.”

“Why?”

“Because I asked you to.”

The TV news channel showed a picture of a woman who made him think of Carla. He pushed the remote until the sound was audible.

“Ms. Simon wrote fictional stories that contained disturbing resemblances to real events. Several of her novels laid serious claims of misconduct against the Temple.” The screen cut from her lovely face to a craggy-looking professor. “This is a great loss, not only to the literary world, but to historians as well. Ms. Simon’s research efforts for her novels outshone some of the best historians of this century. The detail she discovered about the Temple was truly amazing. It is only after several years of independent research that we are determining just how accurate her assertions were. How she discovered these truths, buried so deep for so long, is inconceivable. With her death, we will probably never know.”

The screen returned to a news reporter standing before the crumpled remains of a red Toyota. The camera followed the reporter’s hand as he pointed up the mountain. “Carla Simon lost control of her car on the top of this mountain when taking a sharp curve. The car rolled three hundred feet, twisted into a metal ball, finally bursting into flames on this valley road. The charred remains will be shipped back to the United States for official identification.”

Chad felt ill as he studied the lovely face that once again filled the screen.

“Carla Simon, age thirty-six, was one of the most popular fiction writers of our time. She wrote twenty-three bestselling novels. However, rumors suggested this record was coming to an end. According to friends, she was struggling with her current work. In fact, she had come to New Zealand to get away from the pressure. She planned to raft down the twenty-three-foot waterfall of the Kaituna River. Instead, she took a longer, deadlier fall. Fate, accident or intentional? We may never know.”

Chad stared at the picture. It couldn’t be her! It couldn’t. Yet even as he denied the possibility, he knew it was true. It was Carla with makeup and her hair fixed. It was his country girl.

Davis reentered the room. “That damn woman. I knew she was going to be a problem.”

“What woman?” Chad asked, his mind still in a haze of disbelief.

He slammed down the
Star
with a front-page picture of Chad and Carla on the plane. The title declared “Chad Likes Them Big and Ugly.” The article went on to quote passengers claiming the two had become quite affectionate during the twelve-hour trip, at first pretending they were strangers but soon giving way to their passion.

“Were you seen talking to her?”

“Yes.”

“You see what happens? You say hello, and the next thing you know, the magazines are ringing wedding bells. The girl will probably sue for palimony.”

“I wish she could,” he whispered.

“Why would you want to be sued for palimony?”

“Because it would mean she was alive.” He picked up the picture and gently touched the grainy shot of her face. “That’s Carla Simon.”

“Are you sure?” Davis asked, staring again at the picture. “It doesn’t look like the picture on TV.”

“She wore no makeup and dressed like a college student so she could leave the plane incognito. She was driving to Lake Taupo. I was thinking about joining her on the river raft. She would have been so surprised.”

“My God, she looks so fat and ugly here.”

“I thought her beautiful,” he replied. “So clean and fresh. No wonder she understood the problems of being famous.”

***

Due to Davis’ persistence, Chad made it through his day’s events. That evening he shared every detail of his time with Carla.

“So she never said she was Carla Simon?”

“No, but it’s her. Same age, going rafting down a twenty-three-foot waterfall. It’s her.”

“Tomorrow you’re scheduled to be a judge for the International Choral Competition at the Chateau Tongariro Hotel in Whakapapa.”

“I can’t,” he said, remembering Carla’s sweet voice as she fell in line with the college students.

“...and after the singing contest is over, you can drive up to Lake Taupo—it’s only an hour away—and see if the girl from the plane is at the YHA.”

Chad nodded. He was certain she wouldn’t be, but going along with Davis was easier than resisting him.

Luke Gallagher studied the wreckage and site photos as he walked the sharp turn in the road that Carla Simon’s car hadn’t made. Pointing to the tire marks on the road, he said to the police chief beside him, “Could you ask your photographer to get clear shots of these tracks and those about a hundred yards ahead?”

The police chief gave the order and turned back to the FBI agent. “You think she might have been run off the road?”

Luke chewed his lower lip. It was always a hazy line when cooperating with law-enforcement officials outside his jurisdiction, and this time, he was way out of his jurisdiction. How much to tell and how much to withhold? “It’s a possibility. Ms. Simon’s books were controversial.” He thought about the death threats Simon’s editor had showed him. They were probably cranks, but he’d still have to check them out. He’d also need to investigate the people who had sued her, claiming she had damaged their lives by revealing their private secrets. And he’d have to talk with people at the Temple. Still his most likely suspect was here in New Zealand.

When going through Ms. Simon’s house for leads to those who might have wanted her dead, he’d discovered her latest novel on her computer. He had read it on his way over here. He’d found it a fascinating exposé on the materialistic nature of sports heroes and their corrupt managers. The focus of her research had obviously been Chad Tyler, renamed in her book as Jeremiah Taylor. While she might have altered his name, she had described him and the Cowboys to a tee. There would be no doubt to any reader who the subject of her book was. If this novel was as accurate as her prior ones, then his favorite quarterback was wandering into some very shady deals.

When Luke had received the manifest and discovered Chad Tyler and Carla Simon had sat next to each other on the plane to New Zealand, he moved the fellow up to the top of his suspect list. Had she let slip that he was the focus of her next book, or had he been alerted as her research was collected and joined her on the plane intentionally? Perhaps he’d come planning a last attempt to persuade her not to publish his book? An attempt that failed and led to murder?

Then there was the absence of her research. Luke had gone through her computer files and every nook and cranny of her office, but he’d found no notes or background information for any of her books. Had someone cleaned out her files before his arrival? He’d asked her editor, but the man seemed evasive on the point, claiming he’d never been privy to Ms. Simon’s research techniques.

“But don’t you have to verify the veracity of her claims?”

“God, no! I spend most of my time trying to prove it’s fiction, that any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.”

Luke smiled, realizing his mistake. Fiction. She called her works fiction, despite their accuracy and factual nature. He remembered the Temple’s outrage when her first book on Joseph J. Smith had come out. They’d decried the book as fanciful lies. Yet, over time, historians had proven her claims were true. Once pointed in the right direction, scholars found the warrants for his arrest buried within the archives of the New York City government that proved Joseph Smith had a very shady past. But the question no one could answer was how had Ms. Simon known where to point?

“I’ll get those photos to you this evening. Need anything else?” the police chief asked.

“No, thanks,” Luke replied. He should have a positive ID on the remains by tomorrow evening, which left him time on his hands. Time to rattle Chad Tyler’s cage a bit.

***

It was a beautiful day in Miami, but Gary Eder didn’t notice. He stared at the front cover of the Star tabloid and a most disturbing conclusion entered his mind. Beside the tabloid laid the manifest for Carla Simon’s flight. She’d been in seat 2A. Chad Tyler had been in 2B. Therefore, one must assume the woman in the grainy shot on the front page of the tabloid was her. But she wasn’t the woman he’d driven off the cliff.

He hadn’t notified the Temple of his error, nor did he intend to do so. He would return and set it right. He studied the grainy picture of the woman. She looked nothing like the photo on her dust jacket. She looked like one of the college students who had been on the plane. He couldn’t fault himself for having missed her—they should have sent him better photos—but that changed nothing. He had a perfect record, and he certainly wasn’t going to see it ruined by the likes of her.

He reached for the phone and booked a seat on the next flight to New Zealand.