The Morning Show Murders (1) (28 page)

Bettina Noor drove me back to the Bistro, staying within the speed limit.

After a period of silence, she asked, "Am I not flexible?"

"Beats me. Maybe a yoga demonstration--"

"I just had a telephone discussion with A.W., and he accused me of being too inflexible. I have heard this before. Ken Foster, whom Ms. Franchette replaced, told me that I needed to be more flexible, that, in this business, it is something to be cherished. If, as I fear, I have been guilty of this criticism, I should adapt, don't you think?"

"It couldn't hurt," I said. Events would prove me wrong, of course. They always do.

At the Bistro, Bettina took a deliberate circuit through the building, making sure all was secure. By the time she arrived at the kitchen, I had prepared eggs and sausages for our breakfast.

"I don't eat flesh or feathers," she informed me. "Anyway, I had my breakfast at five o'clock this morning."

"Then it's time for brunch," I said.

"I do not eat brunch."

"Just out of curiosity, what did you have for breakfast?"

"Vegetarian lentils and a gluten-free potato-flour biscuit. And one cup of tea, unsweetened."

"Damn, girl. You know how to party!!" I said, using my fork to spear a section of egg and a chunk of sausage. "You bake that biscuit from scratch?"

Ignoring the question, she sat down on a high stool beside me at the kitchen counter and stared at the plate I'd prepared for her. "It seems absurd for us to keep people from trying to kill you," she said, "while you're killing yourself with cholesterol and fats."

She pushed the plate away. "Anyway, I thank you for the breakfast, but I wish you had asked first. With so many starving, I hate to see any food, even this, go to waste."

"I assure you it will not." I drew her plate closer to me. "Tell me a little bit about Lee. What's her story?"

"Her 'story'? I should think you'd know more of that than I."

"Humor me."

"She's a strong, dedicated woman of Asian and African ancestry who has achieved great success in a business not known for sexual or racial equality. I consider this a great opportunity to observe and learn from her firsthand."

"You've never worked with her before?"

"I'm assigned domestic cases. Until quite recently, she's been global. She was reassigned when our previous supervisor died. She seems considerably more adept at leadership than her unfortunate predecessor, judging by the security arrangements she has made for the Goyal Aharon book tour."

"What's so special about them?" I asked.

"Aharon's book is fiction, and is therefore frivolous," she replied. "However, because of his candor in discussing the many Mossad operations in which he participated, his life has been threatened by both pro- and anti-Israeli groups."

"Sounds like nobody loves Goyal, except maybe his publisher. How many InterTeckies are assigned to him besides Lee?"

"Lee
does
the assigning," she said, as if I'd insulted her boss. "She has designated the coverage as a four-and-four."

"As opposed to my one-and-one?"

She nodded. "His security will be much more difficult, since the dangers are limitless and unknown. For example, bookstore signings
would require from ten to twenty agents, depending on the size of the store and the number of exits. Therefore, his promotional appearances will be limited to only key stores and on-air interviews that can be carefully controlled."

"Beginning on Tuesday with
Wake Up, America!
"

"Yes." As if to stem further conversation, she hopped from the stool and said, "Excuse me, but I have reports to prepare and submit. And we may be summoned back to the WBC building at any moment."

I finished my breakfast and most of hers, and left the dishes in one of the sinks for the dinner crew to deal with. Then I climbed the stairs to find her seated at the desk in my office, working at her laptop. Rather than disturb her, I backed away and went to my living quarters.

The bedroom looked sad and empty, as they do on those mornings. I felt tired but didn't think I could sleep. Especially since I was on call. I replaced the linen and gave the blanket what Paul Lamont used to refer to as a "Navy tuck." Then I shaved, showered, and dressed in gray slacks and a charcoal wool pullover.

I picked up my cellular, checking to make sure I hadn't missed THE call while in the shower, as if Bettina would have allowed that. There were no messages.

I sat down on the newly made bed and stared at the phone in my hands. With nothing better to do, I brought up the photo I'd taken of the blackboard in Rudy's kitchen. The reminders he'd left for himself seemed no less enigmatic then than they had last night. "Jewel for Berry9." "Check: 1 or 2, F or OC?"

Could the F have been Felix? Then what was I to make of OC? There'd been a television show called
The OC
. About Orange County in Southern California, I thought. Hadn't one or more of the actors dropped by our show? As everyone kept telling me, Rudy had not only lived TV, he'd loved it. Had he been planning to check for some connection between Felix and that show? Or maybe he thought Felix was born in the real Orange County. Or maybe the F didn't stand for Felix at all.

"Ahem."

Cassandra was standing in the doorway. "I just got the third degree from Little Miss Bollywood in your office," she said. "What happened to Andrew?"

Andrew. A.W. to the world, but Andrew to Cassandra.

"He's off-duty. You're here a little early for a no-lunch day, aren't you?"

"I was up. I figured I might as well ..."

"... have breakfast with Andrew?"

"I was just ... never mind."

"You blushing?" I asked.

"Abso-fucking-lutely not!" she said, storming off down the hall.

How juvenile. To prove I was above that kind of childish behavior, I called out after her. "Cassandra and Andrew sittin' in a tree ... K-I-S-S-I-N-G ..."

In response, one of Cassandra's shoes came sailing back in my direction, just missing my head. She could've gone after our last President with an arm like that.

"Gonna be hard, walking around on one shoe!!"

It was nearing eleven a.m. on what was starting out to be the longest day of my life. I've never been very good at waiting, especially for a phone to ring. When it finally does, it's never the person you want.

I went to the office to do busywork. Since Bettina was still using my desk, that consisted of straightening picture frames, gathering newspapers and tossing them, collecting scattered magazines into piles, and putting books back on their shelves.

"Did you want to sit here?" Bettina finally asked, after I'd opened the desk drawer on her left to put away a bunch of business cards I'd collected from the various shelves.

"Not really," I said.

That's when I noticed the stack of Rudy's DVDs still in the drawer. I wondered how late Melody and her roommate slept in on a Sunday morning.

"Who is this Melody Moon?" Bettina asked as she parked her hybrid in front of Melody's apartment building.

"A friend. I'll just run in, drop these off, and come right out."

"These" were the Rudy DVDs.

"I'm coming in, too," Bettina said.

"It'll go quicker if you don't, and you might get a ticket," I said, leaving the car before she could argue about it.

Melody answered the buzzer wearing tan slacks, a bright-red sweater with silvery dots circling the neck and wrists, and a puzzled expression.

"Sorry to bother you on a Sunday morning," I said, holding the DVDs behind my back.

"That's okay," she said. "Rita and I were just getting ready for a drive to Sag Harbor."

"I won't keep you, then," I said, bringing the disks around and handing them to her. "I just dropped by to give you these."

"Ohmigod," she said, "Rudy's shows. Come in, please, chef. Have a cup of coffee."

She opened the door wide and I saw Rita Margolis perched on the maroon pressed cardboard sofa, glaring at me, a cup of something in
one hand. She was dressed in white slacks and a matching white jacket over an orange T-shirt with a comic character I didn't recognize at its center. A little winged man smoking a cigar and wearing a brown porkpie hat and a brown suit.

"Hi, chef," she said. "Get those paint stains off your car yet?"

"Paint stains?" I repeated stupidly.

"I've seen the picture on the Internet," she said. "I never would have guessed you for a run-and-gunner."

"I'm not," I said.

"Well, the Cheetah sure is. I was wondering what she was up to, sitting parked in that Hummer at the museum. I mean, the superheroes were supposed to be inside."

"You got a good look at the Cheetah?" I said.

"I ..." Rita paused, distracted by something behind me.

Bettina. "Hi," she said. "I'm Billy's ... friend."

"Please come in," Melody said, ever the perfect hostess. "I was getting Billy a cup of coffee. Can I get you one?"

"We won't have time," Bettina said. "I got the call, Billy."

"Just a minute," I said, turning back to Rita.

"This the Cheetah?" Rita asked. "I thought she was taller."

"You think the Cheetah was a woman?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah. Don't you know who it was?"

"Billy," Bettina said, "we're wanted."

"Right," I said, keeping my eyes on Rita. "No. I don't know who was wearing that costume."

"Weird. Fact is, there was something weird about the costume, too. I'm not sure what. I'm not the world's greatest Cheetah fan, like the boys at the museum. But there was definitely something off."

"Like what?"

"I'd have to check the original art."

"Would you?"

"We have to go, Billy," Bettina said.

"It's very important," I said to Rita.

I must have gotten the point across, because she said, "They have some art at the museum. I'll check it out when I'm there. Call me tomorrow afternoon."

"Thanks," I said. "We've got to run."

"It was sweet of you to bring the DVDs," Melody said. "How much do I--"

"No, they're gifts," I said. "My pleasure."

"Come on, Billy." Bettina grabbed my arm and almost dragged me from the room.

"You were rude up there," I said to Bettina once we were back in her Camry.

"Really," she said, zipping through the Sunday-morning traffic. "Tattooed people make me uncomfortable. And besides, she's much too young for you. Both of them are."

"Rita saw Felix," I said.

"Oh," Bettina said. "The figure in costume you were talking about?"

"If she and my driver are correct, and I suspect they are, Felix is a woman."

"That might explain why she has been so successful," Bettina said.

"And as for the ladies being too young for me," I said, "I believe you're only as young as the woman you feel."

"All you old men believe that," she replied.

The assembly in the conference room included those who'd been there earlier--Gretchen, the commander, Trina, and Lee--and the commander's guru Marvin in his familiar warm-up suit and cap. A wardrobe that simplified must make getting dressed in the morning a breeze.

We walked in on the heels of another newcomer, a short, male fireplug in a conservative three-piece suit named Ralph Whitman, the Di Voss Company's CFO. Judging by his sour expression, he'd already been apprised of the kidnapper's demands. "Let's get on with this," Whitman said, taking a seat next to Lee, the one I'd been heading for.

I settled for an empty chair beside Trina. Bettina remained standing near the door, as if guarding us from intruders.

The new video had been sent at eleven-nineteen a.m., not from my office computer--which had been under the scrutiny of InterTec--but from a display laptop at a local electronics store. Another agent had been dispatched to that location to see if any of the floor salespeople had noticed anyone using their machines. If my experience with electronics-store employees was any indication, they wouldn't even have noticed if the building had been on fire.

The video began to play on the big screen.

Again Gin was featured, blinking into a harsh light while standing in front of the mottled wall, looking even colder than before. The difference this time was that the city had awakened. There were background noises--the low rumble of traffic, a church bell gonging, and a couple of other distinctive sounds, including circus music.

Gin seemed oblivious to the city sounds as she read from a sheet of paper, informing us that "'the fifteen million dollars should be wi-ayd to account number S325469554 at Bank Austria Cayman Islands at any time between the present and precisely noon on Tuesday.

"'At noontime, assumin' the transfer has been made without incident, Bill Blessin' will be notified, via his cellular phone, of the address where he can find Ted Parkhurst and mahself. He is to travel alone. We will be alive and well, merely bound and gagged.'"

She looked directly into the camera. "An', Billy, if you're watching this, please hurry, 'cause it's cold enough heah to freeze champagne."

The back of a large figure suddenly entered the frame, its gloved hand lashing out to slap Gin across the face. "Say only what is written," the odd mechanical voice ordered.

Alone on camera again, mouth red with blood trickling from one corner, Gin glanced at the paper in her hand with moist, frightened eyes. She read in a halting voice, "'S-should you involve police awh FBI, awh should you fail to follah these instructions in any way, ouah captors will be forced to k-k-kill Ted and mahself.'"

The screen went to blue, then black.

"Will there be any problem wiring them the money?" the commander asked Whitman.

"Wiring the money is not the problem," Whitman answered. "Getting the money back from Gibraltar is the problem. Insurance companies tend to balk when they find out you refused to notify the FBI or even local law enforcement. According to the security people you hired"--he pointed to Lee--"I can't even call Gibraltar's CEO to get a reading on it."

"We can worry about the insurance claim after the fact," the commander said. "Right, Marv?"