Trouble in Mind: The Collected Stories - 3

by Jeffery Deaver

  Dance continued, "I remembered when we got to CBI Keplar started lecturing Dan Simmons about his cause."

  "Oh, that obnoxious reporter and blogger?"

  "Right. I called him and said that if he asked Keplar why he picked those particular victims, I'd give him an exclusive interview. And I called you to set up the search teams. Then I went back into the interrogation. I had to make sure Keplar didn't notice the clock was running fast so I started debating philosophy with him."

  "Philosophy?"

  "Well, Wikipedia philosophy. Not the real stuff."

  "Probably real enough nowadays."

  She continued, "You and the Crime Scene people found out that it was probably a bomb and that it was planted in a large room with a stage. When the clock hit four in the interrogation room, I had Albert call me and pretend a bomb had gone off and killed people but the stage had absorbed a lot of the blast. That was just enough information so that Keplar believed it had really happened. Then all I had to do was perp walk him past Simmons, who asked why those particular victims. Keplar couldn't keep himself from lecturing.

  "Sure was close."

  True. Ten minutes meant the difference between life and death for two hundred people, though fate sometimes allowed for even more narrow margins.

  One of the FBI's black SUVs now eased to a stop beside Dance and O'Neil.

  Steve Nichols and another agent climbed out and helped their shackled prisoner out. A large bandage covered much of his head and the side of his face. O'Neil stared at him silently.

  The FBI agent said, "Kathryn, good luck with this fellow. Wish you the best but he's the toughest I've ever seen--and I've been up against al-Qaeda and some of the Mexican cartel drug lords. They're Chatty Cathy compared with him. Not a single word. Just sits and stares at you. He's all yours."

  "I'll do what I can, Steve. But I think there's enough forensics to put everybody away for twenty years."

  The law enforcers said good-bye and the feds climbed into the Suburban, then sped out of the CBI lot.

  Dance began to laugh.

  So did the prisoner.

  O'Neil asked, "So what's going on?"

  Dance stepped forward and undid the cuffs securing the wrists of her associate, TJ Scanlon. He removed the swaddling, revealing no injuries.

  "Thanks, Boss. And by the way, those're the first words I've said in three hours."

  Dance explained to O'Neil, "Gabe Paulson's in a lot more serious condition than I let on. He was shot in the head during the takedown and'll probably be in a vegetative state for the rest of his life. Which might not be that long. I knew Nichols'd wanted to have a part of the case--and for all we knew at that point he had primary jurisdiction. I wanted to interrogate the only suspect we had--Keplar--so I needed to give Nichols someone. TJ volunteered to play Paulson."

  "So you just deceived the FBI."

  "Technically. I know Steve. He's a brilliant agent. I'd trust him with anything except an interrogation with a deadline like this."

  "Three hours, Boss," TJ said, rubbing his wrists. "Did I mention not speaking for three hours? That's very hard for me."

  O'Neil asked, "Won't he find out, see the pictures of the real Paulson in the press?"

  "He was pretty bandaged up. And like I said, it may come back to haunt me. I'll deal with it then."

  "I thought I was going to be waterboarded."

  "I told him not to do that."

  "Well, he didn't share your directive with me. I think he would have liked to use cattle prods, too. Oh, and I would've given you up in five seconds, Boss. Just for the record."

  Dance laughed.

  O'Neil left to return to his office in Salinas and Dance and TJ entered the CBI lobby, just as the head of the office, Charles Overby, joined them. "Here you are."

  The agents greeted the paunchy man who was in his typical workaday outfit: slacks and white shirt with sleeves rolled up, revealing tennis-and golf-tanned arms.

  "Thanks, Kathryn. Appreciate what you did."

  "Sure."

  "You were in the operation, too?" Overby asked TJ.

  "That's right. FBI liaison."

  Overby lowered his voice and said approvingly, "They don't seem to want a cut of the action. Good for us."

  "I did what I could," TJ said. Then the young man returned to his office, leaving Dance and her boss alone.

  Overby turned to Dance. "I'll need a briefing," he said, nodding toward the reporters out front. A grimace. "Something to feed to them."

  Despite the apparent disdain, though, Overby was in fact looking forward to the press conference. He always did. He loved the limelight and would want to catch the 6 p.m. local news. He'd also hope to gin up interest in some national coverage.

  Dance put her watch back on her wrist and looked at the time. "I can give you the bare bones, Charles, but I've got to see a subject in another matter. It's got to be tonight. He leaves town tomorrow."

  There was a pause. "Well, if it's critical..."

  "It is."

  "All right. Get me a briefing sheet now and a full report in the morning."

  "Sure, Charles."

  He started back to his office and asked, "This guy you're meeting? You need any backup?"

  "No thanks, Charles. It's all taken care of."

  "Sure. 'Night."

  "Good night."

  Heading to her own office, Kathryn Dance reflected on her impending mission tonight. If Overby had wanted a report on the attempted bombing for CBI headquarters in Sacramento or follow-up interrogations, she would have gladly done that, but since he was interested only in press releases, she decided to stick to her plans.

  Which involved a call to her father, a retired marine biologist who worked part-time at the aquarium. She was going to have him pull some strings to arrange special admission after hours for herself and the children tonight.

  And the "subject" she'd told Overby she had to meet tonight before he left town? Not a drug lord or a terrorist or a confidential informant...but what was apparently the most imposing cephalopod ever to tour the Central Coast of California.

  GAME

  ONE YEAR AGO

  THE WORST FEAR IS THE FEAR that follows you into your own home.

  Fear you lock in with you when you latch the door at night.

  Fear that cozies up to you twenty-four hours a day, relentless and arrogant, like cancer.

  The diminutive woman, eighty-three years old, white hair tied back in a jaunty ponytail, sat at the window of her Upper East Side townhouse, looking out over the trim street, which was placid as always. But she herself was not. She was agitated and took no pleasure in the view she'd enjoyed for thirty years. The woman had fallen asleep last night thinking about the She-Beast and the He-Beast and she'd awakened thinking about them. She'd thought about them all morning and she thought about them still.

  She sipped her tea and took some small pleasure in the sliver of autumn sunlight resting on her hands and arms. The flicker of gingko leaves outside, silver green, silver green. Was that all she had left? Minuscule comforts like this? And not very comforting at that.

  Fear...

  Sarah Lieberman hadn't quite figured out their game. But one thing was clear: Taking over her life was the goal--like a flag to be captured.

  Three months ago Sarah had met the Westerfields at a fund-raiser held at the Ninety-second Street Y. It was for a Jewish youth organization, though neither the name nor appearance of the two suggested that was their religious or ethnic background. Still, they had seemed right at home and referred to many of the board members of the youth group as if they'd been friends for years. They'd spent a solid hour talking to Sarah alone, seemingly fascinated with her life in the "Big Apple" (John's phrase) and explaining how they'd come here from Kansas City to "consummate" (Miriam's) several business ventures John had set up. "Real estate. That's my game. Ask me again and I'll tell you the same."

  They'd had dinner at Marcel's the next night, on Madison, with John domina
ting the five-foot-tall woman physically and Miriam doing the same conversationally, flanking Sarah in a booth in the back. She'd wanted her favorite table, which had room for three (yet was usually occupied by one) at the window. But the Westerfields had insisted and why not? They'd made clear this was their treat.

  The two were charming, informed in a Midwest, CNN kind of way, and enthusiastically curious about life in the city--and about her life in particular. Their eyes widened when they learned that Sarah had an apartment on the ground floor of the townhouse she owned on Seventy-fifth Street. Miriam asked if it was available. They'd been looking for a place to stay. The Mandarin Oriental was, Miriam offered, too expensive.

  The garden apartment was on the market but was priced high--to keep out the riffraff, she'd said, laughing. But she'd drop it to fair market value for the Westerfields.

  Deal.

  Still, Sarah had learned about the world from her husband, a businessman who had successfully gone up against Leona Helmsley at one point. There were formalities to be adhered to and the real estate management company did their due diligence. They reported the references in the Midwest attested to the Westerfields' finances and prior history.

  There was, of course, that one bit of concern: It seemed a bit odd that a fifty-something-year-old mother and a son in his late twenties would be taking an apartment together, when neither one seemed disabled. But life circumstances are fluid. Sarah could imagine situations in which she might find herself living with a family member not a husband. Maybe Miriam's husband had just died and this was temporary--until the emotional turbulence settled.

  And Sarah certainly didn't know what to make of the fact that while the garden apartment featured three bedrooms, when she and Carmel had brought tea down as the two tenants moved in, only one bedroom seemed to be put to that purpose. The other two were used for storage.

  Odd indeed.

  But Sarah thought the best of people, always had. The two had been nice to her and, most important, treated her like an adult. It was astonishing to Sarah how many people thought that once you reached seventy or eighty you were really an infant.

  That you couldn't order for yourself.

  That you didn't know who Lady Gaga was.

  "Oh, my," she'd nearly said to one patronizing waitress. "I've forgotten how this knife works. Could you cut up my food for me?"

  For the first weeks the Westerfields seemed the model tenants. Respectful of landlady and premises, polite and quiet. That was important to Sarah, who'd always been a light sleeper. She didn't see much of them.

  Not at first.

  But soon their paths began to cross with more and more frequency. Sarah would return from a shopping trip with Carmel or from a board meeting or luncheon at one of the nonprofits she was involved with and there would be Miriam and John on the front steps or, if the day was cool or wet, in the tiny lobby, sitting on the couch beside the mailboxes.

  They brightened when they saw her and insisted she sit with them. They pelted her with stories and observations and jokes. And they could be counted on to ask questions relentlessly: What charities was she involved in, any family members still alive, close friends? New to the area, they asked her to recommend banks, lawyers, accountants, investment advisors, hinting at large reserves of cash they had to put to work soon.

  A one-trick puppy, John pronounced solemnly: "Real estate is the way to go."

  It's also a good way to get your balls handed to you, son, unless you're very, very sharp. Sarah had not always been a demure, retiring widow.

  She began to wonder if a Nigerian scam was looming, but they never pitched to her. Maybe they were what they seemed: oddballs from the Midwest, of some means, hoping for financial success here and an entree into a New York society that had never really been available to people like them--and that people like them wouldn't enjoy even if they were admitted.

  Ultimately, Sarah decided, it was their style that turned her off. The charm of the first month faded.

  Miriam, also a short woman though inches taller than Sarah, wore loud, glittery clothes that clashed with her dark-complexioned, leathery skin. If she didn't focus, she tended to speak over and around the conversation, ricocheting against topics that had little to do with what you believed you were speaking about. She wouldn't look you in the eye and she hovered close. Saying, "No, thanks," to her was apparently synonymous with, "You betcha."

  "This big old town, Sarah," Miriam would say, shaking her head gravely. "Don't...you get tuckered out, 'causa it?"

  And the hesitation in that sentence hinted that the woman was really going to say "Don't it tucker you out?"

  John often wore a shabby sardonic grin, as if he'd caught somebody trying to cheat him. He was fleshy big, but strong, too. You could imagine his grainy picture in a newspaper above a story in which the word "snapped" appeared in a quote from a local sheriff.

  If he wasn't grumbling or snide, he'd be snorting as he told jokes, which were never very funny and usually bordered on being off-color.

  But avoiding them was gasoline on a flame. When they sensed she was avoiding them they redoubled their efforts to graze their way into her life, coming to her front door at any hour, offering presents and advice...and always the questions about her. John would show up to take care of small handyman tasks around Sarah's apartment. Carmel's husband, Daniel, was the building's part-time maintenance man, but John had befriended him and took over on some projects to give Daniel a few hours off here and there.

  Sarah believed the Westerfields actually waited, hiding behind their own door, listening for the sound of footsteps padding down the stairs--and ninety-four-pound Sarah Lieberman was a very quiet padder. Still, when she reached the ground-floor lobby, the Westerfields would spring out, tall son and short mother, joining her as if this were a rendezvous planned for weeks.

  If they steamed up to her on the street outside the townhouse, they attached themselves like leeches and no amount of "Better be going" or "Have a good day now" could dislodge them. She stopped inviting them into her own two-story apartment--the top two floors of the townhouse--but when they tracked her down outside they would simply walk in with her when she returned.

  Miriam would take her groceries and put them away and John would sit forward on the couch with a glass of water his mother brought him and grin in that got-you way of his. Miriam sat down with tea or coffee for the ladies and inquired how Sarah was feeling, did she ever go out of town, did you read about that man a few years ago, Bernie Madoff? Are you careful about things like that, Sarah? I certainly am.

  Oh, Lord, leave me alone...

  Sarah spoke to the lawyer and real estate management agent and learned there was nothing she could do to evict them.

  And the matter got worse. They'd accidentally let slip facts about Sarah's life that they shouldn't have known. Bank accounts she had, meetings she'd been to, boards she was on, meetings with wealthy bankers. They'd been spying. She wondered if they'd been going through her mail--perhaps in her townhouse when John was sitting on the couch, babysitting her, and his mother was in Sarah's kitchen making them all a snack.

  Or perhaps they'd finagled a key to her mailbox.

  Now, that would be a crime.

  But she wondered if the police would be very interested. Of course not.

  And then a month ago, irritation became fear.

  Typically they'd poured inside after her as she returned from shopping alone, Carmel Rodriguez having the day off. Miriam had scooped the Food Emporium bags from her hand and John had, out of "courtesy," taken her key and opened the door.

  Sarah had been too flustered to protest--which would have done little good anyway, she now knew.

  They'd sat for fifteen minutes, water and tea at hand, talking about who knew what, best of friends, and then Miriam had picked up her large purse and gone to use the toilet and headed for Sarah's bedroom.

  Sarah had stood, saying she'd prefer the woman use the guest bathroom, but John had turned his
knit brows her way and barked, "Sit down. Mother can pick whichever she wants."

  And Sarah had, half thinking she was about to be beaten to death.

  But the son slipped back to conversation mode and rambled on about yet another real estate deal he was thinking of doing.

  Sarah, shaken, merely nodded and tried to sip her tea. She knew the woman was riffling through her personal things. Or planting a camera or listening device.

  Or worse.

  When Miriam returned, fifteen minutes later, she glanced at her son and he rose. In eerie unison, they lockstepped out of the apartment.

  Sarah searched but she couldn't find any eavesdropping devices and couldn't tell if anything was disturbed or missing--and that might have been disastrous; she had close to three-quarters of a million dollars in cash and jewelry tucked away in her bedroom.

  But they'd been up to no good--and had been rude and frightening. It was then that she began to think of them as the He-Beast and She-Beast.

  Sycophants had given way to tyrants.

  They'd become Rasputins.

  The Beasts, like viruses, had infected what time Sarah had left on this earth and were destroying it--time she wanted to spend simply and harmlessly: visiting with those she cared for, directing her money where it would do the most good, volunteering at charities, working on the needlepoints she loved so much, a passion that was a legacy from her mother.

  And yet those pleasures were being denied her.

  Sarah Lieberman was a woman of mettle, serene though she seemed and diminutive though she was. She'd left home in Connecticut at eighteen, put herself through college in horse country in northern Virginia working in stables, raced sailboats in New Zealand, lived in New Orleans at a time when the town was still honky-tonk, then she'd plunged into Manhattan and embraced virtually every role that the city could offer--from Radio City Music Hall dancer to Greenwich Village Bohemian to Upper East Side philanthropist. At her eightieth birthday party, she'd sung a pretty good version of what had become her theme song over the years: "I'll Take Manhattan."

  That steely spirit remained but the physical package to give it play was gone. She was an octogenarian, as tiny and frail as that gingko leaf outside the parlor window. And her mind, too. She wasn't as quick; nor was the memory what it had been.