A Hopeless Case

by K. K. Beck

  “Listen,” he said thickly, one hand on either shoulder. Her hair was disheveled, her face flushed. “I gotta get out of here now. Prying myself off of you is going to be a real bitch. But I have to do it. You know why?”

  “Why?” she asked, dazed.

  “Because I’m trying to clear up a homicide and when I do, you just might be an important witness. It comes out you and I— Well, any halfway decent defense lawyer can get the case thrown out.”

  He got up and she backed away, into a corner of the sofa. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  “You’re sorry? Jesus. I’m real sorry.” He looked her up and down longingly.

  He smoothed down his sweater and she retied her bathrobe, painfully aware of her own lust.

  “Besides,” he said, sounding more like his old, calm self, “you might regret this. You’re just feeling helpless and vulnerable right now. After this is over, you might feel differently. Not that I’d let that stop me, if it wouldn’t screw up a case.”

  Jane gave him a level gaze. “Maybe that’s why I want you,” she said. “But right now it doesn’t seem that way.”

  “I’ll be around to find out, anyway,” he said. Then he smiled quirkily. “You’ve given me a terrific incentive to wrap up this case. Don’t see me out. I might not make it.” He went into the hall and called out over his shoulder, “I’ll give those guys in the van outside orders to shoot anyone who tries to get in. Including me.”

  Chapter 26

  The One-Ten Institute was located on the top three floors of a black glass building a little north of the heart of downtown. The elevated monorail, left over from the Seattle World’s Fair of 1962, sped by, reflected in the dark glass of the third story. Only the row of leafy green trees lining the street prevented the scene from looking like some old-fashioned vision of a high-tech future.

  Jane assumed that the gung-ho staff would be in early. All that cheeriness she’d received over the phone smacked of early-morning industriousness, but she hoped they’d be less on their guard at eight-thirty. Anyway, she’d been eager to get started, and she’d figured she’d get a parking meter if it was early in the day.

  The black glass doors were heavy. Inside was a dark marble lobby with a bank of brushed chrome elevator doors.

  The tenth floor was a reception area. Jane was determined to get past it, and hunt down a simple answer to a simple question. She was glad to see that the young girl behind the mammoth reception desk looked young and impressionable. She had a cute little pudding face that was made up with cherry red lips and too much mascara, in an unsuccessful bid at a sophisticated appearance. She also had rather outdated big hair bristling with gel.

  “Good morning,” Jane said, unsmiling. That ought to throw her for a loop here in happyville.

  “Good morning,” said the receptionist, smiling through a yawn. “How may I help you?”

  “Jane da Silva. I’m here to see Mr. Wayne. If he hasn’t arrived yet, my instructions are to wait for him.”

  “He’s here,” she said, reaching with a plump hand over to a bank of phone buttons.

  “Oh no,” said Jane. “Don’t call his secretary. I’m expected to come straight through.”

  The girl frowned, and Jane frowned back. “Weren’t you briefed?” she said. “I’m very surprised. I was led to believe you people were very efficient.”

  “I don’t understand,” said the girl plaintively. “Let me call the secretary.”

  “She won’t know about it,” said Jane decisively. “She hasn’t been cleared.”

  “She has a list,” began the girl, looking genuinely confused.

  “Well you won’t find me on the A list,” said Jane. “I’m on the double-A list.”

  Jane removed her wallet from her purse and flipped it open, momentarily flashing her international driver’s license, and sailed past the desk. She managed a wintry little smile. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t mention you weren’t briefed. This is a very high-level meeting, and I know I can count on you not to mention it.”

  She left the receptionist, hand poised in midair over the phone buttons, with a quizzical expression, and made her way down a carpeted hall.

  A young man in horn-rimmed glasses, wearing red suspenders and gray flannel trousers, walked by, carrying a cup of coffee. “I’m lost,” said Jane, flashing a smile. “I was on my way to Mr. Wayne’s office.”

  He pointed her in the right direction and gave her directions, which led her to a cavernous reception area presided over by an older, sharper-looking woman in a poodle sweater with gray bouffant hair.

  “Jane da Silva, here for our special meeting. You must be Dorothy, so you’ll know Mr. Wayne expects me. I’m sorry I’m late.” Jane managed to keep any trace of remorse from this last phrase.

  “Does he expect you?” said Dorothy, looking flustered.

  “Oh yes. I’ll just go on in. I hate to keep him waiting.”

  “But you can’t,” said Dorothy, straining to look cheerful and firm at the same time.

  “I know,” said Jane, waggishly. “You’re going to ask me ‘How may I help you?’ Terrific training, great attitude, a hundred and ten percent. I just love it. Well Dorothy, you can help me by letting me take care of myself. Oh, and perhaps you could bring me some coffee. Black. And no decaf.”

  “But Mr. Wayne’s just about to leave for Vashon Island.”

  “I know,” said Jane, trying to look as if she were masking exasperation. “That’s why it’s so important we meet immediately.” She debated flashing the international driver’s license, but this woman didn’t look as stupid as the receptionist.

  The phone on the woman’s desk chirped. Looking warily at it and back at Jane, Dorothy held up her hand. “One moment, please,” she said, reaching for the phone.

  Jane smiled and waved and kept walking. She heard Dorothy say, “I know. She’s here now.” The pudding-faced receptionist had apparently finally decided to sound the alarm. Jane pushed open a pair of double doors in some Oriental wood.

  A plump middle-aged man, bald with a fringe of gray hair, sat at a large desk. He looked up, startled. “Mr. Wayne,” Jane said, in a voice brimming with enthusiasm and confidence, “I’m so happy to meet you.” She came toward him, extending a hand. It was just then that she noticed another man lounging on a sofa reading a paperback book. It was a spy novel, and the book was so battered, Jane had the impression he’d been slogging through it for weeks. He stood up and looked alarmed.

  “So glad I caught you,” she continued, holding the hand Mr. Wayne had extended in a bemused reflex action. “Jane da Silva.” Mr. Wayne’s eyes flickered and he withdrew his hand. She was surprised. That flicker seemed to say he knew who she was—that his moment of surprise was over.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have an appointment,” she said. “But it will take just a moment.”

  Mr. Wayne’s features rearranged themselves into blandness. “I’m glad to meet you. Please sit down,” he said courteously. He made a quick gesture of dismissal to the man on the sofa without taking his eyes off of Jane or changing his pleasant expression.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  She was startled by his voice. It was absolutely gorgeous, rich and deep with texture and shading. The man with the book left, rattling the door.

  A moment later, Dorothy came in. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne,” the secretary said, almost trembling. “I didn’t have a chance to—”

  “It’s all right, Dorothy,” Mr. Wayne said benevolently. Dorothy looked pathetically grateful.

  “Never mind the coffee, Dorothy,” Jane said kindly.

  “And what brings you here?” said Mr. Wayne.

  “Your Vashon land,” said Jane. “You bought it from the Flame Foundation, didn’t you?”

  “I’m not really sure. Some sort of a religious group. It was all handled by realtors. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m looking for them,” she said.

  “I see. Well, I certainly can’t help yo
u. It was strictly a cash transaction. The deal was cut in a day or two. I don’t remember much about it, to tell you the truth. The Institute needed a retreat close to town, and when the property came up I grabbed it.”

  “I see. But there must be some record somewhere—”

  “I suppose. Frankly, I don’t really care. One of the important rules we teach here at the Institute is to see what you want, grab it, then forget about the details. We only concentrate on the really useful information. Information that leads us to our goals. Focus. Learning focus. Focus leads to proper goal identification; then we capture that goal, seize it, make it ours. Once I had the property I needed, I didn’t think about anything else. And”—he leaned back, eyeing her benevolently, as if speaking to a charming child—“that’s why I remember little or nothing of the transaction.”

  “Very interesting,” said Jane. “But you must have records.”

  “Property transactions are all filed somewhere,” said Wayne. “With the county or someone. Why come to me?”

  “The original owners just had a post office box. I haven’t been able to trace them.”

  “Well, I wish you luck, but as your search doesn’t mesh with my own goals, I can’t take the time to help you. Even if I could.” He leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk. Jane noticed he wore gold cufflinks in the shape of percent symbols. “Why are you looking for these people?”

  “They owe someone some money. I’m trying to collect it.”

  “How much money?”

  “About two hundred fifty grand,” said Jane, wondering if her suspicion was ridiculous. But why else would he ask? “And interest, of course.”

  “I see.” He checked his watch. “I’m going to miss a ferry if I spend any more time with you. I’m sorry I can’t help you, but if anything comes up, where can I reach you?”

  “You can’t,” said Jane. “That is, I’m just in town temporarily.”

  “Good,” said Mr. Wayne. Jane’s eyes widened. What did that mean, exactly? He rose. “I’m sorry to be ungracious,” he said, “but you’ll have to leave now. I’ll have someone from security escort you out.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Jane, marveling at the odd turn the conversation was taking. Mr. Wayne was very smooth and relaxed, but clearly wary and, she thought, angry, too.

  “Oh, I insist,” he said.

  Outside, in the reception area, the man with the spy novel stood up. “This is Mrs. da Silva,” said Mr. Wayne pleasantly. “Call one of the security people and have her seen out, won’t you?”

  He turned on his heel and left.

  The man with the book—in his late twenties, beefy-looking with oily dark hair and shiny skin—stared at her curiously. Dorothy said, “I’ll call them,” and hit the phone.

  Jane smiled at both of them, and decided that if they bought Mr. Wayne’s gobbledygook, they were probably impressionable, unsophisticated people. Not to say downright stupid. She figured they’d believe anything.

  “Mr. Wayne is so security minded. Just what we appreciate. Our subcontractors don’t always understand the importance of security, but that’s our business and we take it seriously.”

  She leaned over to Dorothy. “You won’t mention my visit here, even within the Institute, will you? We haven’t finished the clearances on key employees. I expect them from Washington any day now.”

  Dorothy looked bemused but impressed.

  “And there’s one more thing,” said Jane, as a uniformed security guard came into the room. “I’ll need Mr. Wayne’s full legal name. For the contract. The CIA has to go through some of the same cumbersome procurement procedures as the IRS or anyone else in government,” she added with a weary air. She was enjoying herself immensely. This was a better rush than lying to the Vashon realtor.

  The man with the spy novel gasped appreciatively.

  “Oh, we never give that out,” said Dorothy, after a pause. “He doesn’t like—”

  “I must have his full legal name,” said Jane severely.

  “It’s D. Clark Wayne,” said Dorothy.

  “What’s the D stand for?” Jane asked, taking out a little notebook and standing with pencil poised.

  “Dwayne,” said Dorothy. “D-W-A-Y-N-E.”

  “Dwayne Wayne. An unusual name, all right. Thank you.”

  She didn’t wait to get home. She called Claire from a pay phone a few blocks away as the monorail rumbled past, shaking the acid green leaves of the maples. “Claire,” she said, “let me just go over some of the things you told me about the Flamemaster. Thinning hair. Undistinguished appearance. Great set of pipes. And a dopey name.”

  “That’s right.” Claire giggled.

  “Maybe a name that rhymes.”

  “You mean like Kevin Devon or Harry Carey?”

  “No. Like Dwayne Wayne.”

  Claire giggled again. “I never said a word,” she said.

  Jane said a hasty good-bye and hung up. She glanced around and decided she hadn’t been followed. Dwayne Wayne was pretty stupid. Selling his own land back to himself. Running his new improved scam in Seattle, where he’d presided over the Fellowship of the Flame. The sheer arrogance of it was mind-boggling.

  But then, wasn’t that just the sort of thing a guy like Wayne would do? Surrounded by loyal followers, eventually believing the stuff he was dishing out himself, the man probably thought he could get away with anything. Even murder.

  Jane knew she should call John Cameron. She knew she should tell him everything she knew. But where would that leave her with the trustees? Would she have solved a hopeless case? She could say she’d brought Richard English’s murderer to justice. But couldn’t they say that she’d provoked his death, by going after the truth about Linda?

  And what proof did she have that Dwayne Wayne was involved with either of them? None. One thing was certain: If she called the police and they crawled all over Wayne and the Institute, she would have nothing to bargain with. He’d be exposed and she could forget about getting Leonora’s money out of the bastard.

  Which would leave her back at square one. Maxed out on her Visa card and cast adrift in a country that didn’t even have socialized medicine. They’d pitch her out of Uncle Harold’s house, too. While she was looking for a job, she’d probably have to throw herself on Bucky’s mercy, but deprived of her fortune, her appeal for him would probably fade fast.

  She fished in her purse and found the business card of the American-Samoan Collection Agency. The police would just have to wait.

  Chapter 27

  There was a pay phone on the ferry dock. While she waited for Bob, she called Calvin Mason. He wasn’t home again, so she left another message on his machine. “This is Jane da Silva again. It’s Friday morning, and I’m on my way to the One-Ten Institute compound on Vashon Island. I have an appointment with a Mr. D. Clark Wayne. That’s Dwayne Wayne. Actually, I don’t have an appointment, I’m just dropping in. If you don’t hear from me tonight, please call Detective John Cameron of the Seattle Police Department and tell him where I was going and whom I was going to see. Thanks.”

  When she got off the phone she saw a carload of Samoans pull up in an old Toyota. There seemed to be two of them in the front seat and two in the back, wedged in like balloons from the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. Bob Manalatu struggled out of the backseat, slammed the door, and waved good-bye to the car. He was wearing a nubby gray silk sport jacket, probably a size fifty-six, over a hot pink polo shirt and black polyester slacks with razor-sharp creases. His black slip-ons had heavy gold chains across the insteps. Fully clothed, Bob was an even more awesome sight than he’d been in his workout gear.

  “I’m glad you could make it,” she said, shaking his hand.

  “I really like a ferry ride,” he said. “The air’s so clean, you know?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So what’s the story here? Someone been messing with you?”

  “No. But they might try to. I just want you to go al
ong and stand next to me while I talk to someone who owes a friend of mine some money.”

  “Okay,” said Bob. “And what do I do if he says no?”

  “We’ll play it by ear,” said Jane.

  “No marks on him, though,” said Bob. “That’s never a good idea.”

  “No marks,” Jane agreed solemnly. Bob looked pleased that their business style was congruent on this point.

  Jane had checked the schedule and figured that Wayne had sailed on the previous boat. That was fine with her. It might be better to let him relax a little before she faced him again.

  She tried to figure out what he’d do. That phone call from the Fellowship of the Flame last night must have been from one of his people, alerted by her request that day through the PR office. She’d left her name and number. But the caller hadn’t been the greasy kid with the spy novel who had the lunky look of a bodyguard, though. He’d bought right into her ridiculous CIA story, which by now, she thought with some satisfaction, had probably made its way throughout the organization. She’d made sure the security guard who’d escorted her respectfully out of the building had overheard it.

  And, it wasn’t Wayne’s own rich voice either. She would have remembered that.

  From what she’d seen, she doubted that the cult still existed. It had been updated, repackaged, repositioned, and marketed to a much broader base. A much more lucrative base.

  But Wayne still scared people. He scared Calvin Mason’s anonymous phone informant, and he scared Robin. She’d carried on as if the Fellowship still existed in its older, cruder, less profitable form. Maybe this was a story Wayne put out to keep his former followers silent.

  From what Claire had told her, the Flamemaster’s original scam had basically provided him with a harem of nubile young girls. That made sense. He’d been in his twenties when he started. Now, in his forties, he’d decided to go for the bucks, probably in addition to, rather than instead of, hassle-free sex from impressionable young women.