The Morning Show Murders (1) (33 page)

"Mr. Parkhurst died. Dead. Taking a dirt nap," Detective Hawkline said over her shoulder as she followed Seestrunk out the door. "Good night, Chef Blessing."

"You sure you're up to this, chef dear?" Lee asked as she stopped her gleaming black Lexus in a passenger loading zone in front of Gin McCauley's building.

"It's better she find out from me than see it on the news."

But we were too late.

Gin opened her apartment door, red-eyed, sniffling, and in her nightgown. The sweet-stale odor of whiskey floated on the air. A large TV monitor had taken over the living room since my dinner there just weeks ago. Filling its screen was footage of Ted Parkhurst in the Middle East chatting with soldiers, accompanied by voice-over biography.

Gin staggered back to the couch where she'd been watching her late fiance's life being picked to pieces by whatever gleeful talking heads the news channels had been able to round up during the dinner hours.

She muted the narration but continued to stare glassy-eyed at the roughly edited film clips. "What the hell, Billy?" she said. "They're callin' it a heart attack. Ted didn't have any kind of heart trouble. And as for the other stuff, this talk about him tryin' to kill somebody, where the hell is that comin' from, anyway? It's gotta be some kinda horrible mistake, right?"

"You have anything here to help you relax besides the booze?" I asked her.

"You mean drugs?" she said. "No. Ted got rid of mah stash. Called it mah pharmaco ... pharma ..."

"Pharmacopoeia," I said.

"That," she said, her eyes tearing. "Ted's very anti-drug.
Was
very anti-drug. It's all a mistake, Billy. The cops made a mistake. They arrested him by mistake and they did somethin', you know, like, they overreacted and ... did something that ... caused him to ..."

She shook her head. Then she grabbed a glass half-full of a very dark brown liquid and tried to down it in a gulp. I sat beside her and stopped her from inhaling the whole thing by twisting the glass from her grasp. Globs of whiskey hopped from the glass and spilled down her face and neck, staining her gown.

She didn't seem to notice. "Why would he try to kill a friend?" she asked me.

"A friend?"

"He said the phone call was from a friend," Gin said.

"What phone call? You didn't mention a phone call when we talked earlier."

"When we talked earl--Oh, yeah, we did talk. You asked about his middle name. That was a weird question, Billy." The whiskey was slowing her down, sending those neurons on to the big sleep.

"About the phone call Ted got?" I prompted.

"Uh-huh. We'd just gone to bed when his phone rang. Ah was kinda groggy, only caught a little of what Ted was sayin'. Somethin' like, 'Why can't you handle it by yourself?' And then he was out of bed and gettin' dressed.

"Ah asked him where he was goin', and he said a friend needed help an' he'd be back in an hour if not soonah."

"You have any idea who the caller was?" Lee asked.

"A friend was what he said." She started crying again. "Ah don't even know who his friends are. Maybe ah didn't even know him."

Gin was in a bad place and was going to be there for a while. Once Bettina awoke, Hawkline or some other investigator would probably put together the full story of the kidnapping and Gin would become the main course in a media feeding frenzy, until the next hot story broke.

"Is there some place you can go to ... rest for a while?" I asked.

"Go? Ah can't go anywhere, long as Ted needs me ..."

With that, she slumped against the couch. The whiskey had done its job.

"Well, what now, chef?" Lee asked.

"We put her to bed," I said. "And I look for her cellular."

The latter required no effort. It was on her bedside table. I pressed the number she'd designated as "Hildy."

Gin's manager, Hildegard Fonsica, arrived at the apartment within twenty minutes. She seemed curious about Lee and how she fit into the picture, but she didn't let that get in the way of her concern for her client.

She leaned over Gin's now-snoring body, sniffed the air, then wrinkled her nose. "This was just booze?" she asked. "No pills?"

"She said no. She'd thrown them all away."

"Good. Booze is bad enough. Thank God you called, Billy. I've had the goddamned TV off, plowing through some crappy scripts. Missed the whole mishegoss about Ted. Caught some of it on the cab over. Tell me all."

I told her if not all then at least most, including the kidnapping and the part Ted played in it.

"That friggin' buttlick," she growled. "I never liked that smart-mouth prick."

Note to self: Hildy not standing by to give Ted's eulogy
.

I told her why I thought Gin should drop out of sight for a while. Hildy took only a few moments to ponder the problem. "I got a client with a fully staffed getaway home in Bermuda," she said. "She's stuck in L.A. filming the world's unfunniest sitcom. A hit, naturally. Which means the place is just sitting there. Leave it to me. I'll get Ginger on her feet and out of here."

"The police will want to talk to her," Lee said.

"They'll have to find us first." Hildy looked down at Gin. "Just leave everything to Mama."

Gin was lucky to have someone like Hildy in her corner. I sighed and decided the next time I saw Mr. Wally "pay me to watch you on TV" Wing, I'd kick him in his karmic ass.

The Bistro was dark and had been for at least an hour when Lee and I arrived at the rear door. Since I'd received no call or message from Cassandra, I assumed that the evening had progressed much less eventfully at the restaurant than it had out in the real world.

Inside, I tapped in the alarm-canceling code, but the warning beeper continued. Then I remembered--new code. My second try did the trick.

The cooking aroma was chased away from the main rooms and the kitchen by the cleanup crew, but it tended to linger in the alcove where Lee and I stood. My stomach growled. "You get anything to eat at the hospital?" I asked.

"Some kind of pudding," she said. "White. Very sweet."

"Tapioca," I said. "A hospital favorite. I could whip up something a little more substantial."

"It's late," she said, and headed up the stairs.

I cast a lingering look in the direction of the kitchen, then followed. That's when I noticed she was carrying a slim briefcase. "What's with the luggage?" I asked. "Planning on a work night?"

"It's something you asked for," she said. "Trina Lomax's background check. I put an agent to work on it right after we talked."

At the top of the stairs, to my dismay, she didn't even hesitate in selecting the office over the living quarters. She clicked on the light and placed the briefcase on my desk. From it she removed several sheets of paper.

"This is just a quick first hit, but it includes some significant information."

The biographical high points began with Trina's birth on October 12, thirty-six years ago, in Tokyo, where her father, a designer in the automotive industry, had relocated. She'd attended the American School in Japan briefly before being sent back to the United States to board at Miss Porter's in Farmington. There she did well academically, edited the school newspaper, played varsity tennis, yada, yada, yada.

I glanced at my watch. A little past midnight. The day had been a wearying one. I'd hoped that if I arrived on the set in a few hours yawning, it would be for reasons more romantic than reading up on Trina's bio.

"What's this note, 'Farid Qedir at Avon'?"

"Qedir was a student at Avon Old Farms, a boys' school near Miss Porter's. He and Trina seem to have ... bonded at joint socials," Lee said. "They both spent their junior year abroad in Paris, cohabitating. They also attended Brown University."

"And this is important because?"

Her face registered a mixture of sadness and regret. "It's on the sheet, if you read further. Trina went on to join the news staff at CBS in Paris, and Farid Qedir returned to his homeland, Saudi Arabia. Am I boring you, chef? Would you prefer to discuss this in bed?"

"I would prefer to be in bed
not
discussing it."

"This is important," she insisted. "But I can summarize. While Trina's star rose in the television news firmament, Farid was placed in a key position in Islamic World Health, a charity funded by a number of oil-wealthy Saudi sheikhs, chief among them his father.

"In 2002, customs agents in this country raided a web of so-called charities based in Herndon, Virginia, that were suspected of helping to finance Islamic extremists here and in the Middle East. Many of these 'charities' had strong ties to similar Saudi organizations, including Islamic World Health. The following year, documents surfaced, including correspondence between Yasser Arafat and IWH, that linked the Saudi charity with several in the West Bank identified with Hamas. IWH was summarily closed down."

I felt the yawn coming but was helpless to block it.

"Am I keeping you up?" Lee asked.

I was so tired I almost used the old punchline, "That's what she said at the picnic." But instead I managed, "No, please go on."

"Well, here is the crux. The reason the documents surfaced is because a Mossad team captured an official of IWH and 'convinced' him to surrender them. That official was Farid Qedir. He died two days after he was released. A year later, to the date, the leader of that Mossad operation, Reuhen Fromm, a six-foot-two-inch muscular brute, was found in his home near Tel Aviv. His eyes, testes, tongue, and hands had been roughly removed. While he was still alive."

Suddenly I was wide awake. "He just sat there?" I asked.

"He'd been injected with a drug. Vecuronium, of the curare family. Administered as it was there, without the proper sedation, it left its subject paralyzed but wide awake and in constant pain even before the 'operation.'

"According to our sources, which are impressive, this marked the first appearance of the childish cat scribble, left in Fromm's blood on his bed linen. The debut of our friend Felix."

"I thought assassins were supposed to be dispassionate," I said.

"I will spare you the description of what had been done to Farid Qedir," Lee said. "Not that it justifies what Felix did."

"I'm guessing that Trina was on assignment near Tel Aviv when Fromm was murdered?"

"She was preparing the special report on the West Bank for CBS that established her reputation," Lee said. "It ultimately resulted in her being hired by INN as a sort of international roving reporter, given carte blanche to create her own documentaries. And to travel wherever she chose."

Lee suggested I look at the final two pages she'd given me.

"On the left are the cities Trina Lomax visited for her INN special reports. On the right are cities where key political figures, most of them InterTec clients, by the way, were murdered during that same period."

I scanned the lists. "It's not a one hundred percent matchup," I said.

"No. But remember, she was not working alone. I bet we will find that Ted Parkhurst's schedule put him near the other assassinations, like the Touchstone guard in Kabul. I'm convinced she is our Felix. And there's one more thing you should know."

"What more could there be?"

"A month ago, when Goyal started his European tour, he was asked which of his Mossad assignments had made him the most proud. Among those he mentioned was the capture of a little 'mouse of a man' who was easily 'convinced' to provide his team with proof that a Saudi charity was funding Hamas."

"Like the song goes, it's a small world after all," I said.

"And unless we act, Felix will most certainly find a way to avenge the torture and death of her little mouse."

"We should take all this to the police," I said, placing the papers on the desk next to her briefcase.

"As you know, the police will do nothing without evidence. All we have is conjecture."

She stopped talking, a reaction to the sight of me nearly falling asleep on my feet. "Forgive me," she said. "You are exhausted and you must be alert for your broadcast. We should go to bed. In the morning, we can both think more clearly."

I discovered something that night: Sleep was not at the top of my physical necessity list. Later, mentally, physically, and sexually exhausted, with her warm, naked body pressed against mine, I was just drifting off when Lee whispered in my ear, "I have thought of a plan to trap her."

Pillow talk.

I don't know if Lee slept at all that night.

I woke at four-thirty a.m., alone in bed. I tested my various damaged areas, expecting the usual day-two increase in pain. But they actually felt improved. Could sex be the ultimate painkiller? It certainly beat Celebrex.

At a little after five, showered, shaved, suited, and lured by the smell of fried bacon, I found Lee in the restaurant kitchen. She'd prepared breakfast for us. Scrambled eggs and coffee to go with the bacon. It looked lovely. But as they say, there are no free meals.

I'd barely nibbled a forkful of egg when Lee said, "It is not just a question of saving Goyal's life. I do not want that bitch to slip away where she can kill more of my clients. I want her nailed tight to the prison floor. I think we can do that."

"'We'?" I said.

"My plan requires your participation."

"Why? You've got a whole army of agents, Lee."

"You are part of this, chef," she said. "You have a more personal reason than I."

"Yeah?"

"Self-preservation. Felix gave you a warning that you foolishly
ignored. Besides, I'm not asking you to do anything you aren't capable of handling."

"Whoa. Flip that over and serve it up again."

"I need you to do the interview with Goyal Aharon."

I ate a piece of crisp, dry bacon, took a sip of coffee, and mulled that over.

"Assuming you could somehow derail Trina Lomax's plan to interview him, there are quite a few people next in line, including Lance Tuttle and our news anchor, Tori Dillard. I'd be in that line somewhere after the entertainment guy."