The Wrong Man

by Jason Dean

  As they ate, Bishop thought about Mandrake. If he was a fed, then it indicated they were getting somewhere. Which meant that Jenna’s hunch was right and Timothy Ebert was the key, somehow. But how he linked to the man who set Bishop up wasn’t clear yet. Tennison had never been one for old FBI cases. None of them had.

  Grabbing some fries, Bishop said, ‘You know, there can’t be that many Mandrakes around.’

  Jenna nodded. ‘There was the magician, but other than that . . .’ She wiped her hands on a napkin and pulled out her Motorola. After pressing a couple of buttons, she brought it to her ear.

  ‘Hey, Crys, it’s Jenna . . . Yeah, I’m okay. You know, headachy, feeling a bit sluggish. I should be back in by the end of . . . Ha. That’ll be the day. Listen, can you do me a favour, no questions asked? . . . Well, you’re still working on that new package for the Feebies, aren’t you? . . . Who’s your contact over there? Rafferty? . . . And how heavy you been flirting with him? . . . Don’t give me that, Crys. You’re the same any time you talk to a guy with a badge. Look, if asked where a retired agent of theirs named Mandrake might be, you think he’d tell you?’

  She turned to Bishop and rolled her eyes. ‘Didn’t I say no questions asked? . . . Okay, okay. Well, just tell him I’m seeing a guy who says he had an uncle who worked for the FBI in the sixties and wants to get in touch with him again . . . No, not really . . . No, Mandrake’s all I got . . . Well, it’s not exactly a common name . . . Right . . . Right

  . . . Cool. I owe you one, Crys.’

  ‘She sounds a handful,’ Bishop said when she hung up.

  ‘Yeah, but she’s a good programmer and the best at getting information out of people. Especially men. Hopefully, she’ll get back to me within the hour.’

  Bishop nodded. She paused, took a bite of chicken, wiped her hands again. ‘So, you any closer to figuring out why you were set up?’

  In his mind, he saw the faces of Chaney, Thorpe and Tennison lined up like fruit in a slot machine. He shrugged and said, ‘Not really, but I figure it’s got to be personal.’

  ‘So, what, you pissed one of them off and ended up on the guy’s hate list?’

  ‘I had to reprimand Tennison, Thorpe and Chaney for various reasons over the years. So, yeah, any one of them could have decided to take it personally.’

  ‘But then why would Thorpe have helped you with Cortiss?’

  Bishop shrugged. ‘He owed me. Doesn’t cross him off the list, though.’ He sipped some iced tea and looked at her. ‘You were real good back there, Jenna. In another life, you could have been an actress.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m not nearly neurotic enough, but thanks. I aim to impress.’ She fiddled with her straw and after a few moments said, ‘You don’t think we’re wasting our time on this, do you?’

  He shook his head. ‘I think whatever lead this Agent Mandrake was following up at Cavendish is too good to ignore. Especially as Cortiss says this was about more than the money. I’ve never believed in coincidence and Brennan kept that Willow Reeves letter in his vault for a reason.’ He shrugged. ‘It could all lead to nothing, but it’s all I got right now.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess so.’ She collected together their wrappers and went to put everything in a nearby trashcan. When she got back to the car, Bishop had the engine going.

  She said, ‘Can we stop off at Ali’s first? I left something there I’d like to pick up.’

  FIFTY-ONE

  Bishop was in Aleron’s living room taking off his tie and jacket when Jenna’s cell went off in the hallway. He heard her say, ‘Hey, Crys,’ and then she came in and sat down on the sofa. The cat hovered around her legs as she placed the phone on the coffee table and pressed the loudspeaker button.

  A young, female voice said, ‘. . . of applause, please, as Crystal Rogers hits pay dirt once again. Not only does she succeed in her mission, but she also gets a date out of it.’

  Jenna rolled her eyes again and said, ‘I’m currently on my knees, bowing before your magnificence. So gimme.’

  ‘Okay, there was a William Mendrick who worked out of the Washington office and retired in 1967. He finished up—’

  ‘That’s not him,’ Jenna said.

  ‘Didn’t think so. And he died fifteen years ago. Our next and final contestant is Arthur Mandrake, who retired from government work in 1986 to go into the tourist business.’

  Bishop raised his eyebrows. Jenna said, ‘Tourist business?’

  ‘Right. Metroblade Helicopter Charter and Tour Services, it’s called. Out in Hoboken, not far from the river. Brad says he’s the kind of ex-agent they all want to be when they retire.’

  Bishop heard pages being turned at the other end.

  ‘Brad?’ Jenna asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Crys said. ‘Brad. Shut up. Let’s see, hard to read my own writing sometimes. Okay. Apparently, he got together with a guy who flew with him in Korea and they resurrected an abandoned private heliport to use as a base to fly executives to and from the city as well as show tourists the sights. They got a loan and bought a couple of helicopters, while Mandrake used his federal contacts to grease the wheels and breeze through the city zoning laws and get the necessary planning permissions. Good enough?’

  ‘Better than good.’

  ‘And get this. Brad’s got tickets for that new play on Broadway, The White Door, starring Eloise Anderson for the first four weeks of its run. Opening night. Guess who he’s taking.’

  ‘Truly, your light shines brightly,’ Jenna said.

  ‘Well, duh. Just get well so you can tell me what this is all about, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ she said and ended the call.

  Bishop said, ‘Jersey isn’t too far.’

  Jenna nodded. ‘That’s what I was thinking.’

  ‘You mind going solo on this one, Jenna? I don’t want to push my luck with a fed, retired or not.’

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I was gonna suggest it myself, anyway.’

  When Jenna got up and disappeared into Ali’s basement, Bishop sat back and stared at the ceiling. He tried to count all the reasons an FBI agent might have for travelling the width of a continent to research some patient in a private hospital. He’d reached four when Jenna reappeared holding a white laptop and another baseball cap. It was so new the metallic, circular logo on the front still had a shiny gleam. It looked expensive, too. She placed the laptop on the coffee table and threw the cap at him. He caught it and pulled it on. He knew nothing about fashion, but he guessed Aleron might have something to say about someone wearing his new headgear.

  He watched her type for a minute and a half. Then she looked up and said, ‘I guess he runs his business on word of mouth. There’s no actual website, but there are plenty of directories listing the address and phone number.’ She reached into the shoulder bag and pulled out the familiar notebook and a pen. Having scribbled down the information she picked up the cell again, keyed in the number and activated the loudspeaker. She sat back and tucked her legs under her. An otherwise innocent move that still had him thinking impure thoughts.

  They listened to the ringing tone a couple of times before a ragged female voice said, ‘Metroblade Charter and Tours.’ She sounded fiftyish. Maybe older.

  ‘Hi,’ Jenna said. ‘Could I speak with Mr Mandrake, please?’

  ‘Which one you want, honey?’

  ‘Um, Arthur?’

  ‘Art? Does he know you?’

  ‘No. My name’s Jen—’

  There was no ‘hold, please’. The phone just went silent. Jenna shrugged. ‘I guess I’m being put through.’

  She was. ‘Can I help you, ma’am?’ The voice sounded young, even though Bishop guessed Mandrake must have been in his sixties or seventies by now. But the use of the pronoun was pure old school.

  ‘Hello, Mr Mandrake. You don’t know me; my name’s Jenna Falstaff and I was hoping I could come speak with you, if that’s possible.’

  ‘All things are possible, Jenna. I’d be grateful for a little more info
rmation, however. Are you a journalist?’

  ‘No, sir. The only stuff I write is computer code.’

  ‘My name’s Art, not sir. And if you’re calling with an offer to design a website for us, I’m afraid you’re wasting your time.’

  ‘No, I’m not selling anything. This is about something else.’

  ‘I see. Something to do with me, personally?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Hmm, curiouser and curiouser. Well, fortunately for you, my daily duties here, or lack thereof, afford me ample time to indulge in extraneous pursuits such as enigmatic interviews with pretty women. You are pretty, I take it?’

  Bishop nodded. She smiled and said, ‘As a picture. I like the way you speak, Art.’

  ‘High praise indeed, coming from a woman with the family name of Falstaff. And if you’re under fifty you’re already pretty, in my opinion. When would you like to see me?’

  Bishop looked at his watch. 16.34. He mouthed now and she said, ‘How about today?’

  ‘No time to waste, eh? If you’re in the area, I don’t see why not. One of us usually closes up around seven, so any time between now and then is fine with me, although six or just before would be best. Ask Alex at the front desk and she’ll point you in my direction. In the meantime, I’ll try to imagine what you look like.’

  ‘I’ll see you then,’ she said. ‘I hope I shape up.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt you will, Jenna. Goodbye.’

  She pressed the disconnect button and said, ‘Well, that part was easy. It’s already rush hour, so I better make a move. What are you going to do?’

  Bishop reached across for her notebook and turned back a few pages. ‘If you want to lend me your apartment keys, I’ll get a cab back to your place. Do a little research of my own.’

  ‘A cab? What if the driver recognizes you?’

  He pulled the nose bandage from his pocket and tapped the visor of his cap. ‘He won’t.’

  Jenna smiled and said, ‘I gave Ali a spare set of all my important keys for emergencies. I’ll go get them for you.’ She looked down at her suit. ‘I might change out of this while I’m at it; I should still have a few clothes lying around upstairs.’

  ‘Can’t do any harm,’ Bishop said, smiling. ‘Mandrake doesn’t sound like the kind of guy who stands on ceremony where women are concerned.’

  FIFTY-TWO

  Peering out the driver’s side window, Danny Costa sat waiting for Jenna Falstaff to emerge from her brother’s house and silently gave thanks for the wonders of modern surveillance technology.

  Being freed from having to keep your quarry constantly in sight made shadowing so much less stressful. Especially when all you had to do was attach a miniature GPS tracking device to the target’s vehicle and let the ultra-powerful signal it sent out do the job for you. Right now, that little box was busy transmitting its location in the form of regular SMS transmission bursts, which were then converted into a form that could be superimposed over a detailed map stored on a particular website. As long as you knew the specific address, any web-enabled phone could access it.

  So Costa didn’t have to physically scan the area to know that Jenna’s Honda was parked on the kerb about thirty feet away. Not when a simple glance at the screen of the cell phone affixed to the dash gave the same information.

  Earlier, after following the Lexus from the post office to an apartment building in the Woodside district, Costa, deciding further instructions were called for, had sent Hedison a text message giving the address and explaining the situation. Hedison had called back quickly and said, ‘Sounds like our boy might have found Mr Cortiss. Stick with him for a while and keep me updated.’

  Of course, that was easier said than done in New York. When the same Lexus eventually emerged from the underground car park with Bishop at the wheel, the journey back to Jenna’s place had been more than a little nerve-racking, with Costa in danger of losing him at every traffic light. So when Bishop finally parked it on the street and walked to the girl’s apartment a few blocks away, Hedison had recommended the placement of another tracking device to the undercarriage in case Bishop decided to use it again. Problem solved.

  Now, here they were, back at the brother’s again. Where to next? Costa wondered. And at what point was Hedison planning to gatecrash the party and liven things up? Costa could think of far more enjoyable pursuits than spending the day sitting in a car – many of them involving the Falstaff woman – and could only hope it was sooner rather than later.

  And speak of the devil; here she came. Dressed in a leather jacket, blue T-shirt and black jeans. She was clutching a shoulder bag as she locked the front door and ran down the short path to her car parked four spaces ahead. Once she got in, it took less than a minute for her to ease the vehicle into the street and move off.

  Costa glanced at the moving red dot on the little screen, smiled at it as one would an old friend, and followed.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Bishop paid the cab driver and entered Jenna’s building. The bandage and cap had done their job. Often the simplest things worked best.

  Inside the apartment, he dropped the cap onto the kitchen counter and ripped off the bandage. He then changed out of Owen’s suit and put on his own clothes. Sitting in Jenna’s chair at the dining table, he turned on the computer and router and wondered if he’d made a mistake letting Jenna go. But really, what choice did he have? Mandrake was old-school FBI. He’d have seen through Bishop’s disguise in a second. Besides, Jenna would be fine. She had a talent for getting people to talk and an interview with an elderly tourist operator was unlikely to cause her problems.

  Right now, though, he wanted to find out the significance of the dates Jenna had jotted down at the warehouse. Everybody seemed to be interested in this Ebert, and Bishop had a strong feeling the dates he went missing from hospital could prove to be key in finding out why. There had to be something there.

  Opening up Google, he typed in December 1968 February May July September October 1969. He thought of the hospital’s location and added San Francisco, then hit Return.

  The first page of results contained links for sites listing old concert dates for Janis Joplin, Cream, Jimi Hendrix and Deep Purple, as well as some Vietnam memorial sites, an Andy Warhol chronology, and, of all things, a Charles Manson fan site. The next few pages had more of the same but with even wider frames of reference. Not exactly what he’d been hoping for, but then he hadn’t really expected to hit a home run in his first inning.

  He kept at it, typing in various combinations of search words. Sometimes he inserted some of the full dates Jenna had written down. Sometimes he left off a month entirely. But the links became even more wide-ranging, many of them containing only the barest connection to San Francisco. He shook his head, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling.

  The logical answer was to refine the search parameters, and to do that he’d need to add more information. He worked through everything they’d gotten so far and a smile began to form at the realization that there was a word missing. And a pretty obvious one when you took into account Mandrake’s presence at the old hospital.

  Bishop sat forward, added the word to his original grouping and pressed Return.

  He stopped smiling when he saw the hit halfway down the first page. It was so unexpected that it stood out amongst everything else.

  ‘Ho-ly shit,’ he whispered as he read the two-line description of the site. This can’t be for real.

  He clicked on the link and was taken to the home page of a site devoted entirely to its subject. The design was basic, no frills. The occasional photo here and there to break it up. There was a list of options running down the left-hand side. One in particular caught Bishop’s eye and he clicked on it. The screen then filled with paragraphs of tightly spaced copy and no images. Just white text on a black background. What Bishop read made him forget everything else. His set-up. His escape. Jenna. He was totally absorbed in the words onscreen.

  By th
e time he reached the author’s list of sources at the bottom, he finally understood the FBI’s interest in the patient.

  Of the six times Ebert had been missing from the hospital, four of them matched up with the recorded dates listed on the site. It was more than a coincidence. Although what it meant was so messed up it was hard to believe. He checked Cook’s diving watch and figured Jenna would have reached Metroblade already. And she needed to know about this, especially if Mandrake needed a little prod to open up about his past.

  He pulled the cell phone from his pocket and sent her a text with the web address. He added a line telling her to check it ASAP and sent it off.

  As he sat back in the chair he realized all he could do now was wait until Jenna contacted him. Not a very satisfactory situation. Perhaps now was the time to move on to Tennison. He’d be finishing work soon and making his way across the river to his home in Guttenberg. Might be a good idea to see if he also had his own police escort, like Chaney. Couldn’t hurt to check. Bishop glanced over at Aleron’s cap, wondering if it would be disguise enough, and found himself studying the large, circular emblem on the front properly for the first time. And then it all clicked into place.

  The Lexus was still where he’d left it under the trees. He kept his head down as he approached the driver’s door and relaxed a little once he was inside. Jenna might have been right about residents here minding their own business, but he couldn’t afford to take unnecessary chances. He started the engine, and as he sat back his palm accidentally pressed against one of the buttons on the steering wheel. The radio came on in the middle of an old Beach Boys song. A nostalgic back-to-roots thing about doing it again. But he was more interested in the high-pitched whine just noticeable in the background. Exactly the same as when they’d been in Jenna’s car. He tried another station and there it was again. Bishop drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, then opened the driver’s door and got out.