The Anything Goes Girl (A Brenda Contay Novel Of Suspense Book 1)

by Barry Knister

  Still watching him, Brenda saw it hadn’t worked. He knew she wasn’t coming back. She kissed him on the head. “Whatever happens, they won’t touch you,” she said. “I led you on, dragged you off shopping for Rio. You have it all on tape. Let me change, and I’ll buy you a margarita.”

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 4

  One by one, the Soubliks stepped out onto their front porch. Mr. Soublik was last and slammed the door as his wife and daughter took the stairs and crossed to the family Buick. They were all on their way to a funeral home in Birmingham.

  At eight the night before, Bennett Fox’s mother had called Mrs. Soublik to say that her son had also died, sometime Thursday night or Friday morning. Monitoring the Soubliks’ phone traffic from the van, Song had listened as the mother described how smoke from the faulty wiring that killed her son had led a janitor to use his passkey. A terrible, pointless tragedy, she said. Your son, now mine. The mothers had wept in a bond of grief.

  Beth had phoned her best friend. “Who’s doing it!” she yelled. “Who’s killing them!”

  It was understandable. For the first time, Song had felt unsure about the surveillance. Seeing the girl as she waited to get in the family car, her eyes somber and swollen, he felt sympathy.

  When she calmed down a little, Beth Soublik had told her friend about someone named Caprice Thibodeau. She was Vince’s girlfriend at Michigan, Beth said. After he graduated. No one knew about her except me. She’s from Baton Rouge, in Louisiana. Her family has money, from cars. Her father made her break it off with Vince because he was white. Someone should tell her what happened, but I can’t.

  Song watched as the Buick backed into the street, wondering if Caprice was important.

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  Free, Brenda thought as she stuffed underwear along the sides of her carry-on bag.

  It lay open on the bed. Still in her robe, wet hair wrapped in a towel, she wedged in sandals, bars of soap, sunscreen, then her black one-piece Speedo. After her father’s death, she had not done much swimming. The summers on Cape Cod had been marred by fights with her mother. They had stopped going when she was sixteen.

  She stepped back to the bureau, got her coffee and surveyed the sparse, gray-painted bedroom. An unfinished chest of drawers from Naked Furniture, a brass double bed. On the nightstand rested a small chromed Harley Davidson, a gift from the company.

  Brenda finished her coffee and went down the hall. Hanging up wet towels, she thought again of her mother. After Bernard Contay’s death at forty-seven, his wife and daughter had both needed someone to blame.

  And she mustn’t forget Morris. He was clerking for the summer at a law firm in Manhattan, apartment-sitting.

  She went into the front room, checked the Post-it note on her refrigerator, and tapped out his number. She tended to think of her brother as George Costanza, Jerry Seinfeld’s second banana. She tapped out his extension, and he answered.

  “Hi, Morris. So, you’re actually on the case.”

  For several seconds he didn’t answer. She imagined him in suspenders and bow tie, playing the part of a Wall Street lawyer.

  “How’d you get this number?”

  “Mother saw an Oprah show on sibling rivalry. She thinks we need to bond more. Listen, I’m taking a trip. She’s not home, so please tell her. Mother, not Oprah.”

  “Overseas?”

  “Hawaii first, then I’m—”

  “That’s duty-free. I need some perfume.”

  Yes, she thought. George Costanza. “What for?”

  “What do you think? A girl. Anything expensive that’s the best deal. You know the brands.”

  “Whatta guy, Morris. I’m flying nine thousand miles, and all you care about is giving me a shopping list.”

  “Then don’t. Simple little favor.”

  “Go to Bloomingdale’s.”

  “Easy for you to say, all that money you make.”

  He hung up on her. She cradled the handset feeling angry, then disappointed. The Soubliks shared something long missing in her own family. It had died when she was thirteen.

  To take the heat off Ned, Brenda had promised to shoot some local color and send it to the station. She opened the front closet, got out three blank cassettes, her binoculars, and the camcorder. She stuffed them into her oversized shoulder bag and grabbed the phone again. On the fourth ring, her old roommate’s answering machine clicked on. If Morris couldn’t be bothered to remember, Renee would know where she was when Reva Contay called.

  “Hi, Ren, it’s me again. Listen, I’m headed for the Pacific, a couple thousand miles north of the equator. I’ll be gone three weeks. I’ll try to e-mail. If you need to reach me, it’s complicated. Call Ned Chambers, he’ll know how to go about it. Sure wish you were going with me. ’Bye for now.”

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  Back in his suite at the Southfield Marriott, Freddy Song went online and got Caprice Thibodeau’s home number in Baton Rouge. Playing solitaire on his laptop, he called the number every fifteen minutes. If Soublik had written her from the island, it was something Song’s contact in Phoenix would want to know.

  Still no luck. He hung up again, wanting to leave a message, but that was out. Avoid all records, the female voice said each time he reported in. Never mention Neff or GENE 2. If you have to speak to someone, be consistent. Have a name ready. Pay cash, and don’t act before you report. No personal initiatives, Freddy. Is that clear? You don’t have all the pieces to this. Let us call the shots.

  Clear enough. But facing the laptop, he still felt a sense of urgency about the girl in Baton Rouge. Caprice Thibodeau. Black, pressured to leave school. Something about the father and cars. A dealership? Song ran an Internet search on “Thibodeau dealership.”

  Buck Thibodeau Chrysler/Jeep. He took up the receiver and tapped the number.

  “Thibodeau Chrysler Jeep.”

  “I’d like—”

  “I’m sorry,” the operator said. “The dealership is closed all this week. The family is grateful, but they’re asking callers to not tie up the home phone. If you’re planning to attend the funeral, that’s Friday at Calgary Baptist, eleven a.m. The family is asking that contributions go either to the United Negro College Fund or the NAACP.”

  Someone had died. “I’m calling from Michigan,” he said. “Actually, I’m trying to reach Caprice Thibodeau, I thought—”

  “Oh my.” The operator clucked her tongue. “I’m so sorry. We’re getting so many calls, I just assume everybody knows. You say Michigan? That’s right, she went up there to school. I hate to be the one, but Caprice died on Saturday. Hello?”

  “I’m here. What happened?”

  “So awful. She got this little keyboard? For Raymond, her nephew? They say, when she plugged it in, a bulb or something broke, then this heavy—”

  Song pushed the button and cradled the receiver. He stared at the phone. It could be coincidence, but his first thought was of Beth Soublik. Who’s doing this?

  He stood and paced the room. False claims, bogus lawsuits, corporate spies. Why not murder? What if others were nearing completion of their own drug trials? If they found out about the island…

  He stopped, picturing Beth Soublik as she got in the car. Arrange the deaths of a roommate and girlfriend, he thought. Then call the media.

  Song walked quickly through the suite to the front door and fastened the safety chain. Seated again at the desk, he tapped the Phoenix number.

  “Hello, Freddy, you’re early. Anything new?”

  “Nothing good. It’s Soublik’s sister.”

  “Go on.”

  “She called a friend. She talked about some girl her brother knew at Michigan. The girl’s father made her break it off and come home. Her name’s Caprice Thibodeau, from Baton Rouge. The sister thinks maybe that’s why he went out there, because of the girl. Listen, this girl died on Monday. I called down there, they say she was electrocuted. Like Bennett Fox.”

  He waited for a reaction, but the voice s
aid nothing. “It’s no coincidence,” he said. “I mean it’s possible, but that’s a stretch, don’t you think? The roommate, then his girlfriend. Both in the same week. In the same way. I think—”

  “Yes, Freddy, tell me what you think.”

  It surprised him, the calmness in her voice. She was a real pro, unlike him. A crisis manager. “I think Blue Sky Six has been compromised,” he said. “Someone knows how close we are to approval.”

  “You’re watching too much television.”

  “I’m just telling you what I learned,” he said. “Say it’s coincidence, so what? How will it play? Feature that on the evening news, Peter Jennings doing the honors. It just seems to me we need to act here.”

  “Go on.”

  “I think we should approach the Soubliks,” he said. “Offer a settlement, explain what happened. Tell them it’s all documented, all legal. There’s no criminal intent or malfeasance. Explain we have full cooperation from the people out there. I mean, it’s true, he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. We can say GENE 2 will do everything—”

  “You haven’t talked to them.”

  “Of course not. But think about it. Neff Industries owns GENE 2. If these deaths are investigated, it won’t stop at the subsidiary. They’ll subpoena records, they’ll go after Mr. Minot. He knows nothing about the Blue Sky projects, then he gets a call from the FDA.”

  The woman said nothing. She was writing, he could hear the pen. Song unstuck himself from the chair, freezing and sweating. He saw himself at the huge dining table eating garlic beef, a Vietnamese dish served in his honor. Russ Minot was talking about Black Diamonds and tank traps.

  The writing stopped. “You may be right,” she said. “It’s an option.”

  “And Brenda Contay’s missing.”

  “She’s going to the islands. She charged an open-return ticket Monday.”

  “Can’t we do something? Can’t we give her our side first?”

  “Someone will see her in Honolulu. Listen, Freddy. As you say, this is not good.”

  “That’s why I called the girlfriend.”

  “Understood, I might have done the same. But you’re out of it now. Don’t leave the hotel. We’ll contact you in the next several hours. Have you made hard copies of anything?”

  “Contay’s file.”

  “Destroy it—no, don’t. Keep the file, we may need it. Sit tight and don’t leave the hotel.”

  10:10 P.M. PACIFIC TIME

  CONTINENTAL 1210 NON-STOP LA/HON

  Brenda had felt a little sick on the afternoon flight from Detroit Metro, probably due to the shots her doctor had given her that morning. “Wherever this Micronesia is, drink bottled water,” he instructed before loading her up with office samples for diarrhea and skin rashes. She sometimes used Valium to sleep, and he had renewed the prescription.

  After the short layover in L.A., her flight to Hawaii had left promptly at nine. With many hours in cramped quarters ahead, she’d taken a five-milligram Valium and dozed off and on in the bee drone of the huge plane. Voices came and went, champagne corks popped. She snuggled under a thin blanket, secure and satisfied. The PA woke her just before they touched down.

  Brenda dragged her carry-on off the plane and toward the airport entrance, watching two flashing squad cars that were pulled up alongside an Air Hawaii commuter plane. A cop stood under the cockpit, talking into a radio. An ambulance was parked behind him.

  He motioned to her with the radio. “That’s okay, miss, just go on about your business.”

  Inside the airport, patio torches flickered alongside potted palm trees and dramatically vivid tropical flowers. Still groggy in the late-hour emptiness, she crossed to a bank of monitors. Her flight number was flashing under ARRIVALS. Next to it, only one number appeared on the Air Hawaii monitor. It, too, was flashing, a plane just in from Molokai.

  Between darkened stores, a cocktail lounge stood open. A lone, white-haired Hawaiian sat at the end of the bar.

  Brenda crossed the concourse, set down her bag inside the lounge and took a stool. She ordered a club soda.

  The barkeep scooped ice and used the gun server. “Just arrived?” He set the glass before her on a cocktail napkin.

  “From Michigan.”

  “It’s nice there,” he said. “I have a cousin in Michigan.”

  “You from the media?”

  She looked down the bar to the customer. “Tourist.”

  He picked up his drink and moved down the bar, then slid onto the barstool next to her. His striking features, white hair and aloha shirt glowed brightly under a cone of recessed ceiling light.

  “Don’t pay him any attention,” the barkeep said. “He asks everyone that.”

  “What if I do?” The man sipped his drink. “You watch. Pretty soon, this place will be crawling with news people.” He turned to Brenda. “Tell me you’re not here about the quarantine on Molokai.”

  “No, but why don’t you tell me all about it?” She had promised Ned some color, why not this? “Wait, don’t answer—” She pulled open her shoulder bag and got out the camcorder, loaded it quickly and handed it to the barkeep. “What’s your name?”

  “Dusty.”

  “Okay, Dusty. Just point and shoot. Press this button, and make sure we’re both in the viewfinder frame.”

  “See?” The customer looked proud of himself. “What did I tell you? Wait, now—” He made a little show of smoothing his hair and fixing his shirt collar.

  “You look terrific,” she told him. “Who am I talking to?”

  “Albert,” he said. “Al for short.”

  “All right, Al, I’m Brenda. Tell me what’s happening on Molokai.”

  “Some strange shit, if you ask me.”

  “Watch the mouth.” The barkeep was bent at the knees, squinting into the eyepiece.

  “The cops closed everything off at this research outfit,” Al said. “GENE 2 runs it. Very hush hush, like the movies.”

  “Go on. What’s the problem at GENE 2?”

  Al took another sip and set down his drink before looking back at the camera. “I don’t know Michigan, but half the people here have seen UFOs,” he said. “Figure it out for yourself. They got bodies frozen in Roswell, New Mexico. Tell her, Dusty.”

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  On the far side of the vacant concourse, a man studied the darkened displays inside a gated bookstore. Like Freddy Song, he had been reassigned from regular duties.

  He was glad to see Russ Minot’s book up front in the store—GETTING IT RIGHT, My Plan for America. He had read it twice and believed every word. No one at Neff told you to read Russ’s book, but it was understood you would. For Marines, the book served as a source of shorthand code all through Neff Industries. It was full of easy-to-grasp advice and formulas the public responded to. Throughout the company, Russ Minot was considered a great leader. A visionary.

  The man turned away and moved back down the concourse. Brenda Contay was taping inside, interviewing a customer about the research site on Molokai. Developing presentations for the Human Resources department didn’t prepare you for this sort of thing, but it was important work. HR didn’t equip you to deal with Pacific islanders, either, but you adapted. Made do. That’s how he had managed for twenty-two months. Negotiated the contract on Pirim, kept Moser supplied, leased the trawler.

  And he had made sure the Pohnpei authorities intercepted the new piston for the district’s only ship. Twenty sacks of California rice and a new hundred-horsepower Evinrude given to the customs director had secured Pirim against outsiders.

  Taking that action would mean points for him, especially now. The woman reporter was going to reach the big island, but go no further. Not without a ship. Once the site was sanitized, she could do anything she wanted. It might even make sense to arrange a visit for her, but that was for someone else to decide.

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  “See how it all fits?” Al glared into the camera. He finished his third do
uble vodka and banged down the glass. “Th’ climate, th’ remoteness. This is where the aliens send members of th’ scientific community.”

  Brenda kept him framed in the viewfinder. The space aliens’ scientific community was perfect. She checked her watch, and looked again through the viewfinder.

  “What I see is a nice guy several bricks short of a load,” she said.

  “You don’t believe me b’cause you’re ’fraid to,” Al said.

  “People are what scare me,” she told him, still taping. “What I believe is, the quarantine should be expanded to include the cocktail lounge at the Honolulu Airport.” She lowered the camera and gave both men her best smile.

  They laughed, not quite sure how to take it. Brenda slipped off the stool and stuffed the camcorder into her shoulder bag, then moved toward the entrance.

  “Just like that?” Dusty called.

  “Just like that. Tell your cousin in Michigan to keep an eye out for you on W-DIG.”

  She picked up her carry-on and stepped out into the concourse. The plane to Guam would board in thirty minutes. Spotting a mailbox, Brenda approached and dug through her shoulder bag for a padded mailer.

  A regular guy, she thought as she stuffed in the tape. Convinced space aliens are causing health problem on Molokai. She dug out a cocktail napkin, got her ballpoint and used the back of the mailer to write. Jerry—Here’s the latest from Paradise. Make sure to wear a hat on the golf course. Too much sun is shorting out people’s wiring. Leave Ned Chambers alone. He didn’t know a thing. She put the note in the mailer, sealed it and dropped it in the box.

  Brenda followed the other passengers moving toward the boarding lounge. Just ahead of her was the man in the suit. She had noticed him earlier, pacing back and forth out in the empty concourse. He had made too much of not glancing her way. Please don’t let him be a Detroiter, she thought as she followed him. Please, not a fan.

  Standing behind him at the check-in desk, she smelled Polo cologne. She got her boarding pass, convinced from his body language that he was working up the courage to introduce himself. Get it out of the way, she thought, following him to the seats. Be a bitch, give him a story to take home. He moved to a row before the window. She waited for him to take off his suit coat before sitting next to him.