The Morning Show Murders (1) (27 page)

Bettina, on the other hand, looked fresh as a daisy, a disdainful, determined daisy, as she drove at upward of seventy mph through the slowly filling Manhattan streets. What usually took Joe twenty minutes on the best of mornings, she accomplished in twelve, roaring up to the underground parking gate, clicking it open with a wireless device, zooming in, and braking in an empty slot within ten yards of the elevator bank.

"Before we go up, I should convey a message from ... Ms. Franchette," Bettina told me. "She advises you to say nothing about your involvement in the events leading to the kidnap. If it should come out, do not deny it. But don't mention it otherwise."

"Did she happen to say why?"

"I believe it is because you are still under the shadow of Mr. Gallagher's murder and she would prefer to minimize your participation in an incident involving his apartment," she replied. "I am surprised you and she did not already discuss this last night. Presumably you were otherwise occupied."

I was thinking of how to politely phrase the suggestion that whatever had or had not transpired the previous night was none of her goddamned business when she said, "I apologize. I have not the right to subject you and Ms. Franchette to my standards. Please forgive me."

I wasn't sure I forgave her for that backhanded apology, but I took the easy way out and nodded my forgiveness. "I guess we'd better get upstairs," I said.

"My instructions are to wait here for you," she told me.

"Okay," I said. "Just don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Four people were in the conference room. The commander was seated at the far end of the table, his white hair sticking up in cockatoo fashion. The collar of a yellow pajama top with powder-blue piping showed behind the open neck of his starched white dress shirt. I guessed he was still wearing the matching pajama bottoms under his gray woolen trousers. Lee sat at his right, looking lovely and relaxed in an ivory silk shirt and black slacks. Trina Lomax, on the commander's left, was in jogging gear, her skunk hair tucked under a Yankees baseball cap. Gretchen, in slacks and a tight T-shirt that read
I'D RATHER BE WATCHING WBC
, stood by the coffee urn, pouring what I guessed was not her first cup of the morning.

"Billy, finally," she said. "Billionaire Blend?"

"Oh, thank you, yes," I said, not ignoring the display of bagels and pastries.

I selected a Danish and took it and my coffee to an empty chair beside Lee. She gave me a smile that made the day seem a little more tolerable. I took a sip of coffee and saw that Gretchen was staring at me, then at Lee, and frowning.

I like to think of myself as a man of the world, but, in fact, I'm
probably too much of a romantic to qualify. A player I am not. So being in the same room with two beautiful women I'd known intimately left me with mixed emotions. Male pride, of course. But also regret, as if, by spending the night with Lee, I'd closed the door on whatever Gretchen and I had shared. A foolish notion, I told myself, since that door should have been slammed shut, with a padlock or two slapped on for good measure, when she threw me over for the arrogant horndog Rudy. And as for any kind of relationship with Lee--she'd made it abundantly clear that that door was never going to open.

Gretchen carried her coffee to the table and placed it beside her laptop computer. She plugged a cord into one of the computer's USB ports, and almost immediately the large monitor at the far end of the room was filled with her inbox page. It contained a single piece of e-mail.

"Move it along, daughter," the commander said.

"I'm doing that, Daddy," Gretchen said in exasperation.

"The phone woke me at a little after seven this morning," she continued. "An electronically disguised voice told me to look in my e-mailbox for 'an interesting message' from Felix. As you can see, it was sent at six-forty-five a.m."

Nearly seven and a half hours after the kidnap.

At a mouse click, the e-mail sprouted into a message from "Felix" to "Gretchen Di Voss."

In the space for a subject title was the instruction: "Left-click on the insert."

Gretchen positioned the cursor to do that.

"Just a minute," Lee said. "Click on 'Felix' and see the e-address he's using."

Gretchen obeyed and, to my dismay, I saw [email protected] flash on the screen.

They were all staring at me.

"That's my address," I said. "But I can assure you, at six-forty-five this morning I was not sitting at any computer."

"I imagine our agent can testify to that fact," Lee said. "Do you lock your computer here at the building?"

"I don't know," I answered truthfully. "I rarely use it."

"We'll check it out," Lee said. "Please continue, Gretchen."

Gretch moved the cursor to the insert icon and left-clicked. Her computer's media player took over, displaying a small, dark screen with a gray play arrow at its center.

"Make it bigger," the old man ordered.

Mumbling to herself, Gretchen popped the screen to a size that filled the monitor. Then she clicked on the play arrow.

The scene went from black to a blurry, too-bright medium shot of a groggy Gin, posed against a mottled ivory wall, wincing at the lights or her damaged head or both. Clearly it was cold where she was. She was shivering in her light jacket and her breath was visible. At the moment, outside our building it was a gray sixtysomething degrees.

"Hold up the paper, please." The speaker sounded like one of those infuriating, affectless, automated answering devices you get when you phone a customer-service line. The request finally penetrated Gin's mental fog, and she raised her right hand, which was holding the front page of the Sunday
New York Times
, proof of her being alive and well, at least when the paper had hit the streets that morning.

"Read this." A gloved hand thrust a sheet of paper toward Gin. She dropped the
Times
and took the sheet.

Ever the pro, even under those conditions, she scanned the sheet to make sure she understood what she was about to read. "'Do not speak to the police,'" she began. "'We have not been harmed. Our captor wants fifteen million dollars, the same amount as my well-publicized annual salary, or he will kill us. As the world knows, he has killed before.

"'Later, I will provide you with details on where to wire the money. Notify my good friend, Billy Blessing, to be standing by. The arrangement for our release will involve him.'"

The screen went to blue and then, as Gretchen closed down the file, to black.

"Christ," the commander said. "Fifteen mil, and they treat it as if it were carfare. That's what all this blather about saving the economy has done. When you hear of trillions being thrown at failing banks and corporations, millions seem like loose change."

"I do not see that you have a choice," Lee said. "You know what Felix is capable of."

"I have to agree with Lee," Trina Lomax said. "Felix wouldn't think twice about killing Gin and Ted."

"Perhaps Mr. Parkhurst's publisher would contribute part of the ransom," Lee suggested.

"No way," Trina said. "He's closed down three of his twelve magazines and fired half of his staff. He'd think paying ransom would be self-defeating, because Ted's death would let him avoid the possibility of severance pay. And it would sell magazines."

"A man like that would probably not agree to keep the kidnapping a secret," Lee said.

"Fifteen mil," the commander repeated, running his long, pale fingers through his white hair. "Well, I suppose I must. Gretchen, get the new bank guy. ..."

"Grey Wilfred," she said.

"Whatever the hell his name is, get him and Ralph (that would be Ralph Whitman, the company's chief financial officer) and, of course, Marv, and have them in my office in an hour."

"It's early Sunday morning, Daddy," she said.

"Oh. Right. Well, get 'em here in two hours. But first I want you to come with me to fix up my couch so I can take a little nap before they get here."

Lee, Trina, and I watched the father and daughter leave the room.

"It ain't easy being the princess in this castle," Trina said.

"Easy or difficult, we make our own lives," Lee said. She turned to me. "Well, chef, will you participate in the recovery of your friends, as requested?"

"You tell me," I said. "Speaking as an expert charged with my safety."

"Excuse me for interrupting," Trina said, "but I have a more immediate concern: How exactly do we handle the news report of this kidnapping?"

"You don't," Lee said. "We say nothing until the participants are safe."

"That may work for a Sunday," Trina objected. "But tomorrow morning I'm responsible for two hours of live television. If Gin hasn't been released by then, how exactly do we handle her absence?"

"How would you handle it if she came down with pneumonia?" Lee asked.

"I'd have her coanchor say precisely that at the top of the show."

"Then do that. Say she's come down with pneumonia. Or migraines or whatever malady is currently in fashion."

"Lying to our audience," Trina said. "A lovely way to maintain
their trust." She picked up the notepad in front of her, stood, and started to leave.

"A minute, please, Trina," Lee said. "Assuming Ms. McCauley will be unavailable on Tuesday to interview my client, Goyal Aharon, who will take her place?"

"I will," Trina said without hesitation. "Why?"

"Just curious," Lee said, as if she wasn't curious at all.

Trina continued to stare at her for a beat, then turned on her heel and left.

"What was that all about?" I asked.

Lee smiled. "Just a wager I had with myself."

"Did you win or lose?" I asked.

"To reply to a more serious question of yours," she said, "as someone responsible for your safety, ordinarily I would advise you to avoid any involvement in the kidnapping."

"But?"

"If we fail to meet any of Felix's demands, it is probable he will kill your friends."

"There's no guarantee he'll let them live even if he gets his way. He may be luring me to a location where he can either kill all of us or kill my friends and leave me in a position to pay for their murders. Kind of a lose-lose situation, wouldn't you say?"

She reached out a hand and patted my cheek. "Such negative thoughts."

"How about some positive ones?"

She moved her hand to my ear, tracing it with her index finger. It was very distracting. Not that I was complaining.

"The best scenario would be for Felix to honor his contract with the commander and not harm any of you," she said. "After all, fifteen million dollars for a few days' work should trump whatever his employers are paying."

"That brings up another question," I said. "Why did Kelstoe hire him to give me trouble? I don't even know the guy."

"Ah, but is Carl Kelstoe Felix's client?" she asked, almost playfully, as if she knew the answer to the question. She moved her chair closer so that her knees nudged mine.

"You don't think he is?" I imagined I could feel a current running from her knees to mine.

"Let me explain something, my dear, sweet chef." She moved even
closer. Her finger continued to play with my ear. Her voice was soft and almost lyrical. But she was not singing love songs. "A decade ago, the company I work for, InterTec, was the largest and most respected security agency in the free world. It had achieved that position by hard work and fair play. At the time, Touchstone was a little one-room automobile repossession and home-guardian business in a shopping mall in Bismarck, North Dakota.

"When Carl Kelstoe retired from the U.S. Marines, he purchased Touchstone. Almost immediately, he took advantage of political cronyism, the bungled war effort, and the failure of conscience among America's leadership to transform his company into Touchstone International, currently this country's leading supplier of mercenary thugs, provocateurs, and torturers.

"I loathe the man and everything he stands for, Billy. But I have no reason to think that he has ever condoned premeditated murder."

I reached up and took her hand away from my ear. "Then you don't believe he had the commander's son killed?"

"No." She leaned back away from me, pulling her hand free of my fingers. "It's possible that young Di Voss was assassinated and that one of Kelstoe's hired thugs was involved. But I don't believe he himself was."

"Well, you're the expert on crime. I'm just a guy who chats up celebrities and makes souffles."

"That's not exactly true, is it?" she said.

"No?" I knew where this was headed.

"InterTec wrote the book on background checks. Which means, chef dear, I am aware of a time when your skills were more criminal than culinary."

"You had me investigated?"

"No offense meant. Tell me you've never Googled anyone of interest?"

"I'm 'of interest'?"

"All InterTec clients are of interest," she answered. "I know of your ... association with the late Paul Lamont, a confidence man and thief."

"Paul was like my father, and, as thieves go, he was a fairly moral one. None of his marks were straight or his scams wouldn't have worked. And he'd still be alive. Hell, if I'd been with him when ... But I wasn't."

"I'm sorry," she said. "It was not my intent to stir up unpleasant memories."

"Really?" I said. "My guess is you thought that reminding me of my failure to save Paul's life would soften me up when it came to saving Gin's. I'd say you're something of a con man yourself, Lee."

"Perhaps," she agreed.

"I'd already made up my mind to do whatever Felix wants."

"So you were testing me." She brightened. "That's why we get along so well, chef. We are both con artists of a sort."

"I'd rather put it that we think alike."

"Then you must know that right now I am thinking that A.W. will have another night to himself."

"You mean I'll probably be dead by nighttime?" I said.

"No, you fool. I mean we--"

I kissed her to indicate I knew exactly what she meant.