The Bubble Gum Thief (37 page)

She looked into the rearview mirror and saw the saddest eyes she’d ever seen. Maybe it was time to go home. The whole endeavor was absurd—crisscross the country, track down Draker, avenge Mike’s death. How did this ever seem remotely possible? It was lunacy, aided and abetted by the Professor’s massive ego, Victor’s naïveté, and the confluence of circumstance. If the Professor
hadn’t saved the life of the president’s father thirty years ago, she would have attended Mike’s funeral. She would have visited his grave. She would have gathered photographs and mementos and placed them in a box. She would have received flowers and condolences. She would have grieved the way normal people grieve after they lose a loved one. And maybe she would have even shed some of the sadness from her eyes.

She was lost in thought when a dark sedan pulled up next to her. Brent Davis climbed out of the car and headed toward Reynolds’s door.

“Hey!” Dagny called, rolling down her window.

Brent turned around and smiled. “You stalking me?”

She stepped out of the car. “I was actually here first. Get the cheesecake, by the way.”

His smile grew, and when she extended her hand, he embraced her instead. It was awkward, but not unpleasant, even comforting.

“I guess you came out here for the same reason I did,” Dagny said. “Maybe you’ll have better luck. He gave me nothing.”

“Really?”

“Everything was privileged,” Dagny said. “Doesn’t matter that people have died, or that more will.”

“Typical lawyer,” he said, and then added, “Not that all lawyers are—”

“They are. Believe me. How’s life with the Fabulous? Fabee got any leads?”

“There are so many people involved now, you wouldn’t believe it. They’re tracking down everything. Talking to Draker’s grade-school teachers. Looking at his college transcripts. They think they have a make on his shoe from a print in Salt Lake, so they’re trying to figure out where he might have bought it. Stuff like that, only thousands of things like that. Fabee’s got two hundred people going through Draker’s financial records, hoping to trace them to
a base of operations. It’s crazy. There’s so much going on that no one can put it all together. Too much information and not enough processing. Maybe the Professor was right.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “If a thousand people working a case are too many, I think it’s pretty clear that three people aren’t enough.”

“Where are Victor and the Professor anyway?” Brent asked.

“Victor’s back in Arlington, going through Draker’s finances—trying to do the same thing Fabee has two hundred people doing.”

“And the Professor?”

“Talking to people in Cincinnati.”

“Like who?”

“He talked to Frank Ryder last night.”

“Does Ryder know what happened to his daughter?”

“No. His daughter hasn’t told him, and we’re not going to.”

“Did Ryder say anything interesting?”

“Not really. Said he discovered Draker’s fraud while comparing an old printout of sales figures to the computer database. Noticed a discrepancy and realized that someone had changed the numbers to cheat Systematic out of its share of the profits. Ryder claims he was outraged, so he went to some of the company’s biggest shareholders with what he found.”

“Before he went to his bosses?”

“Before he went to his bosses, and without notifying Systematic.” Dagny saw Brent raise his eyebrows at this. “Yeah, you’d think he’d go to Systematic first to tell them they were being cheated.”

“What was up with that?”

“My guess is that he didn’t go to the shareholders at all, but that he went to a lawyer, either to protect himself or to see how he could profit from the mess. And then the lawyer set him up with some shareholders, promising him a kickback from the proceeds of the lawsuit.”

“Any evidence of this or just speculation?”

Dagny shrugged. “The Professor said he had a nice house.”

“Are you guys going through Ryder’s books?”

“Why bother? If anything illegal happened with the lawsuit, the statute of limitations has long run out; and anyway, there’s a more important criminal to deal with.”

“So where are you going now?” Brent asked.

“I haven’t got a clue.”

“I’m going to Nashville in a couple of days. Want to meet up there?” he suggested.

“Try to figure out why he went after the kids?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe. Let me check with the Professor.”

“Just let me know,” Brent said, starting toward Reynolds’s house.

“It’s a waste of time, Brent. He’s not going to give you anything.”

“I know. But I’ve got to put a check mark on a form.”

She nodded. “It might be worth looking at his phone records, talking to his neighbors. Just in case Draker tried to talk to Reynolds.”

“We’ve done that already. Nothing.”

Reynolds was telling the truth—he just wouldn’t tell all of it.

The sky was blue and almost clear, save for the thin wisp of a cloud that seemed to follow Dagny up I-25, dropping a light rain too soft for her to keep the wipers on, but enough to require an occasional swipe. Every few minutes, a car would pass the other way and the driver would wave hello. Nobody waved in DC. New Mexico felt like a different planet.

The cloud wasn’t the only thing following Dagny. A black Navigator appeared behind her on the horizon, then gained on her. When it pulled within a car length, Dagny tapped her brake. The suggestion was not taken, and the driver drew even closer,
tailing just a couple of feet from her rear bumper. Dagny grabbed her Glock and pulled to the side of the road. The Navigator parked behind her. Dagny marched toward the driver’s side of the Navigator, leading with her gun. A young man with curly brown hair jumped out of the car, hands in the air. He was tall and gangly, wore a dark suit, and couldn’t have been older than twenty-five.

“Jesus Mother of Mary, don’t shoot!” he yelled, trembling so much that he fell back against the side of the SUV.

“Who are you?” Dagny demanded. The man started to reach his hand toward his back pocket. “Hands up!” she shouted, grabbing him by his arm and spinning him around so his chest was against the car. She cuffed his wrists and removed his wallet from his back pocket. He slumped to his knees. “Travis Bickelford?” she asked, reading his driver’s license.

“I’m not here to hurt you!” He was crying, not just a few tears, but hysterical sobs. “I’m not. I’m not. I swear to you. Please, please.”

“Then what are you doing?”

Bickelford spun around to face Dagny. He tried to wipe his tears away with his shoulders, but with his hands cuffed, they wouldn’t reach his face. “I’m hoping to make you very, very rich,” he stammered.

“Explain,” she demanded with her gun still pointed at his chest.

“Can you lower the gun?”

“I could,” she said. But she didn’t.

“I work for Harvey Lettleman. Do you know who Harvey Lettleman is?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“He produces movies. Big movies. Did you see
Catbird’s Fall
with Angelina Jolie? That was his film.
A Moon to Rise
?
Three Strikes and Out
? Help me out here.”

“I’ve heard of those movies.”

“Well, he produced them. He’s big. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of him. Lettleman Films? He’s got four Oscars. Two for sound, but still...Look in my wallet. I’ve got business cards.”

Dagny fumbled through Bickelford’s wallet, past two condoms, several hundred dollars in bills, and a picture of Bickelford with Christina Aguilera. His business card seemed legitimate. Raised letters and no perforations.

“Why are you following me?”

“Harvey wants the rights to your story.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I swear I’m not. Your story is killer.”

“You’re wasting my time because of this?”

“Wasting your time? I don’t think you understand how much money he’s talking about. I’m supposed to start with two point five, and then negotiate points after that.”

“I don’t even know what that means, but I’m not interested.”

“You don’t understand. This thing is happening no matter what. Kate Beckinsale is already attached. They’re looking at Matthew McConaughey for Mike. Look, there’s going to be a movie, so you might as well make some money off of it.”

If he hadn’t mentioned Mike, she probably wouldn’t have done it, but he did, so Dagny swung hard and hit him in the face. Bickelford fell to the ground.

“Two point five is just the starting point! I said we could negotiate!”

“I’m working a case, Mr. Bickelford, and you’re wasting my time.” She turned to walk to her car.

“Your boss is totally cool with you working with us. He doesn’t need you anymore.”

Dagny spun back around. “What are you talking about?”

“Fabee. He said he doesn’t need you.”

“You’ve talked to Fabee?”

“Not me. Harvey did. How do you think we knew where to find you?”

Fabee was a snake. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bickelford, but I’m working this case. You can make your movie and I can sue you later, but for now, I’ve got a plane to catch.” Dagny tossed the young man his wallet and walked back to her car.

“What about the cuffs?” Bickelford yelled, his arms still bound behind him. “You can’t leave me here in cuffs!”

“It’ll be better for the movie,” Dagny replied. “Makes my character more complex!”

Speeding away, Dagny felt good about roughing up Bickelford and leaving him cuffed. A few minutes later, she felt bad and turned the car around.

Bickelford was still sitting on the ground, leaning against his car. Dagny walked over to him and unlocked his cuffs.

“I knew you’d come back,” he said, smiling. “I knew it. You’re one of the good guys, and the good guys always come back. That’s why we’re going to make the movie, you know. Because people like to see good guys on the screen.”

“Bickelford, you don’t even know how this thing ends. How can you make a movie about it?”

“That’s the great thing about Hollywood, Ms. Gray. We can end it any way we want. You sure you don’t want in on this? We don’t have to go with Beckinsale—we can go younger. Maybe Evangeline Lilly—you know, the girl from
Lost
?”

“Good-bye, Mr. Bickelford,” she said, hopping into her car.

Two hours later, Dagny was standing in line at the ticket counter at Albuquerque International, studying the list of outgoing flights, trying to figure out where to go next. She was thinking about Kate Beckinsale and Matthew McConaughey when Officer Eduardo Perez called. After talking to him, she bought a ticket to San Diego.

April 27—Chula Vista, California

On a normal day, she’d be running on pavement at a quarter past five, but the last month had worn her down and she needed that extra sleep. So she ignored the knock the first time, and the second, and the third. But the fourth knock was loud enough to get her out of bed.

Dagny grabbed her gun from the nightstand, tossed on a bathrobe, and walked slowly to the door. The peephole showed an empty hallway, but she could hear the soft murmur of hushed voices.
I know she’s in there
, said one.
Oh, we’re going to get her
, said another.

She flung open the door and pushed into the hallway. They were hugging the walls, a dozen of them, maybe more, and they pounced quickly, circling around her and firing a dozen shots from the front, and more from behind.

“Drop them!” she yelled, swinging her gun back and forth like a lawn sprinkler. No one obeyed. They knew she wouldn’t fire inside the airport Hilton. It was too late anyway. They had gotten their photographs of the gun-wielding, bed headed abductee/special agent, and now they were headed for the elevator.

The only man without a camera stayed behind. He wore a grey herringbone suit and carried a brown leather briefcase that matched his shoes. The light from the wall sconces reflected off his hair. He smiled and shook his head. “Vultures, I know,” he said.

“What’s happening?” Dagny asked. Despite the adrenaline from the encounter, she was not yet fully removed from the haze of sleep.

“There’s a price on your head. People are paying top dollar for pictures of you. It’s only going to get worse. The video cameras will be next.”

“Who wants this stuff?”

“These guys were from
People
, the
National Enquirer, OK!
, a bunch of freelancers, and the
Los Angeles Times
. Only one legitimate news outlet in the whole bunch. I’m talking about
People
, of course.”

“Who are you?” she asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Harold Booker,” he said. “I’m not here for a hard sell. I book Anderson Cooper, and I’m just here to say we’d love to have you on.”

“Your name is Booker and you’re a booker?”

“Yeah. It happens. A guy named Bill Headline used to work at Headline News.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Harold, but I’m not going to do Anderson Cooper, or anything else.”

“I understand. You’ve got your investigation to worry about. That’s cool. But being on our show could help the investigation. If you educate the public about what you’re looking for, you get tips.”

“I’m not interested.”