Inside Moves

by Walter Danley

  “This guy, Fabio, used to tease her something fierce in grade school. I could never figure out why she agreed to date him. He was a jerk and didn’t care enough about his grades to stay in college. In fact, he dropped out the beginning of his second year. I kind of harped on her to break up with him, and after a time, she did. After that, I heard he went to work for his dad. I guess Daddy was going to train him in the family business. I didn’t know what had happened to him until he got murdered.”

  Wainwright raised an eyebrow. “Murdered? Do you know why he was targeted?”

  Stacy nodded. “Sure I do. Misplaced ambition.”

  Thoughts flooded Wainwright’s brain as she spoke. Not memories but disassociated pieces of them. He felt as though he were working a jigsaw puzzle, but he couldn’t fit a piece without another related piece. He just didn’t have enough pieces.

  Out of this flood of thoughts, a new piece of the Lacey puzzle made itself known. Rather, it was a different point of view from the one he’d had on the plane. He pictured Lacey with him viewing slides in a hotel. This detail popped out of his amnesia fog as if it had just happened. Lacey identified BJ in a nun’s habit. She recognized BJ, a person she didn’t know and had never met. But she knew BJ well enough to ID her from a photo taken with a telephoto lens. How could she do that?

  “Stacy, in Salzburg, Lacey identified a nun in a habit as someone named BJ. But as far as I know, she never met this BJ, so how did that happen?”

  “Yes, after the two of you discovered the photo of the two fugitives, Lacey called me and asked me to notify Greg. Are you sure she never met BJ?”

  “I can’t be sure of most things with this damn amnesia, but during the time I dated BJ, I’m positive—one hundred percent sure—that Lacey never met her.”

  “Well, then, it was either a lucky guess or...no, forget it. I’m not thinking like a prosecutor. I’m defending my friend. Okay, starting over. The single thing that comes to mind is she must have met BJ before. They must have been close enough that she could identify BJ through the disguise.”

  Wainwright slapped his palm on the coffee table. “Exactly. That’s the single explanation that makes sense. She knew BJ before Salzburg.”

  WAINWRIGHT DIDN’T SLEEP well in the Mulhollands’ guest room that night. Tossing and turning, he slept in spurts. He had become accustomed to a good night’s sleep at the hospital. In fact, practically all he did there was sleep. The guest room was cozy, the bed firm and inviting. Stacy had even placed a carafe of water and a glass on the nightstand. He glanced at his watch: 2:00 a.m. No, he was comfortable enough—that wasn’t what was keeping him awake. Wainwright’s problem was that he kept mulling over the information about Lacey that Stacy had shared. Lacey clearly had a tough time growing up. Despite that, she had excelled in school and became a successful ADA. If she’d wanted to, she could have run for district attorney and probably won. There was no question about Lacey’s intelligence and abilities. Was that why someone had kidnapped her? He doubted it—you don’t get quality legal work out of a hostage. No, it had to be something else, but what?

  It was now May twenty-forth, six weeks since his Karmann Ghia had been run off the road and his wife had gone missing. That was troubling enough, but then there was this Trinity Stormm business.

  Wainwright hadn’t mentioned the photos or the advertising handouts for the escort service. He’d broach the issue with Greg and Stacy in the morning. If he brought it up, Stacy probably would jump in and tell him everything she knew about Trinity Stormm.

  At 7:00 a.m., after taking a shower and making the bed, Wainwright went downstairs, taking the empty carafe with him. Stacy would change the bedding, but a guest should leave a room as he or she had found it.

  “HOW ARE MY TWO FAVORITE hosts this bright, beautiful May morn?” Wainwright said.

  Stacy was at the kitchen counter, mixing pancake batter, while Greg was reading the newspaper at the table. They both wore business clothes, since they had to go to their respective offices that morning.

  Greg looked up. “We’re good. Did you sleep well; I hope?”

  Wainwright nodded, even though it was a lie.

  “Honey,” Greg said, “our houseguest looks like he’s ready for your world-class pancakes.”

  “That sounds great,” Wainwright said. “The chiles rellenos are now just a pleasant memory. Pancakes are what this cowboy needs.”

  “Hey, how do cowboys like their eggs cooked? Sunny-side up, over easy, scrambled, or poached?”

  “Up is the way we do ’em in SoCal, ma’am, if that’s fine with y’all.”

  Greg laughed. “Where’s all the cowboy dialogue coming from?”

  “I’ve got a hankerin’ for cowboy talk for my newest WIP.”

  “Let me guess: ‘what is pertinent’?”

  Stacy turned toward them. “Good try, Greg, but WIP stands for ‘work in process,’ right, Garth?”

  “Yeah, some o’ them writer types might call it that thar name, but...” Wainwright paused for dramatic effect then continued in his best nasal British tone. “...but in my current considered circumstance, oh, courteous cozy couple, the designation most appropriate for my poorly placed prose is ‘which is puke.’”

  “Wow,” Greg said. “That bad, is it?”

  “No writer ever likes their first draft. In fact, there’s a famous Hemingway quote: ‘The first draft of anything is shit.’ I was trying for a more urbane description of the fecal material I found on my desktop yesterday. The guy who wrote it should consider a career in copy editing children’s picture books.”

  Stacy set the plates of steaming pancakes on the table and sat down. “Oh, come on, Garth,” she said. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I’ve read your books. They’re terrific. You’ve been through so much this past month. Like your earlier novels, this WIP will be a best seller.”

  “Thanks, Stacy. From your lips to God’s ears. One must continue to hope for fortuitous favors from his flocks. But returning to our conversation about Lacey, does the name Trinity Stormm sound familiar?”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “No, I don’t think so. Who’s that?”

  Wainwright sighed. “Well, I found publicity headshots and some pictures that appeal to more prurient interests. They were in a box of Lacey’s stuff. Apparently, our Lacey was once Trinity, a porn queen.”

  “No way! Maybe she was in a school play or community theater, that sort of thing. You shouldn’t jump to conclusions regarding a few theatrical photos, Garth.”

  “Okay,” Wainwright said. “I wasn’t sure if you knew about this Trinity Stormm thing. So, since you don’t, I’ll take your advice and not jump anywhere with that. Now let’s devour these delicious pancakes.”

  After breakfast, Greg drove Wainwright to the airport then doubled back to his office. Stacy was going in a little later. She said she’d never heard of Trinity Stormm, which was both a relief and disappointment, since that lead had gone nowhere.

  WAINWRIGHT HIT THE gym. He had time for a workout after flying home and before his three o’clock appointment with Carson Starr. His doctor had said his mental health would improve if his physical stamina returned to its previous level. So here he was at Gold’s Gym in Venice, making a third try at the treadmill. Breathe! Come on, push it.

  He mused on Stacy’s intriguing information about Lacey’s past. Those were the things that distressed him. Like the time gap from when she was fourteen until law school in 1968. What happened to Lacey during those years? Maybe part of that was the reason for the kidnapping? And why did she adopt the alias Trinity Stormm? Was she hiding from someone? Will I ever find the answers? A better question is, “Do I want to find the answers?”

  Eight more minutes. Man, the fronts of my thighs burn! Push, you wimp. Come on, push it.

  The alter-ego questions remained unanswered. Was he aware of this Trinity stuff before and just couldn’t remember any of it now? He wouldn’t be getting answers as long as this amnesia persisted. The emotions he’d expr
essed in his letters to Lacey indicated he probably didn’t know. Or if he did know, he didn’t care. Somehow, he doubted he would have fallen in love with a former porn actress. Everyone who knew them as a couple had reminded him that he’d fallen hard for Lacey. And apparently so had she for him.

  And therein lies the rub, as the Bard would say. The logical reason Wainwright didn’t know about Trinity Stormm was that Lacey had never told him. She had lied to him—by omission, but nevertheless she had lied. She had deceived her husband, her partner, her true love. No! Not in my ballpark you don’t. I won’t live with a liar. I could never trust her again. That’s an offense to our marriage vows. This lady did a number on me. If it weren’t for the amnesia, I wouldn’t know any of this stuff.

  Wainwright now clearly saw the direction of his life—one that wouldn’t include Lacey Ann Kinkaid Wainwright. Somehow that decision relieved the pressures he’d felt since finding the box of Trinity’s stuff. But on the other hand, he couldn’t turn his back on her, abandon her to a kidnapper. He had to find and rescue her no matter what. She was still his wife, even if she was a liar.

  Greg had given him two great suggestions. Lacey had been a Suffolk County prosecutor and had put away a lot of bad guys before she had gone into private practice, so why not look at her old cases? Maybe that’s where he’d find her abductor. He’d need a warrant for access, but Stacy could help with the red tape.

  In the Trinity Stormm box, Wainwright had found a newspaper clipping that said Carson Starr had run Zack Grandy’s reelection campaign. The article implied Starr was a buddy of the Suffolk County DA. The two men had done business together and hung out socially because they had married twin sisters.

  That’s a strange thing for her to have kept, Wainwright thought. Had Lacey already met one or the other of her future employers back then? The dates on the clippings would have made her fifteen years old at the time. Even as intelligent as Lacey was, she’d have little interest in politics at that age.

  The more Wainwright thought about Greg’s first suggestion, the more he liked it. Greg had reasoned Carson Starr was the perfect person to ask Grandy to review those files. There shouldn’t be any reason he wouldn’t cooperate with his brother-in-law. And Starr had gone on record as wanting to help bring Lacey back, as he was the one who had filed the missing person’s report.

  He recalled Greg’s second suggestion. Lacey had identified BJ Dreaver in the nun’s habit, so they had to have crossed paths someplace. Greg suggested running background checks on both Lacey and BJ. With all the government jobs she’d had and a personnel application for each one, a background check on Lacey would be easy. BJ’s, however, might be more problematic. A connection between the two might help them track down Lacey.

  Carson Starr had filed the missing person’s report because Lacey had a Monday meeting with him. Of course, she didn’t show. He had seen Wainwright’s name in the LA Times report of the accident and called UCLA Medical. After he learned Wainwright was in a coma, he had reported Lacey missing. During his meeting with Starr this afternoon, Wainwright would ask him to intervene with the DA in Boston.

  When he returned home from his workout, he called the sheriff’s office to ask if there had been any developments in locating his wife. There hadn’t been.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Wainwright,” Deputy Robinson told him. “We’re doing all we can.”

  With that unpleasant news, he drove downtown to the offices of Jamison, Langley & Starr for his meeting with its managing partner.

  STACY WAS STILL AT her desk late Monday. She knew Wainwright was meeting with Starr that afternoon. She was hoping for information that might lead to finding her friend. Wainwright said he’d call her after the meeting.

  She had a desk full of case files her department was investigating and needed to decide which candidates would feel the SEC’s wrath. She was reaching for a file from the pile when her phone rang.

  “Stacy Mulholland.”

  “Hello, this is Mr. Wainwright. May I speak with the scourge of the SEC, please?”

  “Why, yes, Mr. Wainwright. You’re speaking to the aforemention scourge, aka the Wicked Witch of the Wild West Office of the SEC. How may I be of service?”

  Laughing, Wainwright said, “Oh, Stacy. There aren’t any one-uppers you can’t counter. Hey, got a minute for some Lacey stuff?”

  “What’s up? Did Starr bring something new to the party?”

  “No, nothing new, but he did agree to set up the search of old case files with DA Grandy. I hate to sound judgmental, but Carson Starr is a first-class jerk. He almost carried me to the lobby after a twenty-minute meeting. His consideration of others hovers just below the zero line. But he did partially redeem himself in a surge of generosity. He’s sending the DA four of his best associates from the JLS Boston office to help sort through the files. That might give us something new.”

  “When?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “When is he sending the associates?”

  “He said tomorrow.”

  “Terrific,” Stacy said. “I’ve got an SEC meeting in Boston on Wednesday. Why don’t I drop by the DA’s office and see how the associates are faring? It might give me an opportunity to meet the famous Zack Grandy. He’s kinda, sorta on our team, ex officio. If those guys uncover anything we can use, I’ll get it before it’s pumped through the command channels: associate to DA staff to district attorney, then to the JLS staff, then to Starr—then, if the stars are aligned, to you. ‘Cut out the middlemen’ is what I always say.”

  “Well, done, integrity keeper of the securities industry. That’s kind of an oxymoron, like military intelligence, don’t you think? Anyway, sounds like a great idea. Thanks. Please tell me what you find in Beantown.” Wainwright said good-bye to his friend and cohort and hung up.

  ON WEDNESDAY, STACY finished up her business meeting in Boston and walked to city hall. Leg exercise was a daily routine for her. She thought she had to be the last living person diagnosed with poliomyelitis, also known as polio. The deadly virus had attacked Stacy Simpson of Southie when she was only two years old. The brace on her left leg allowed her movements to appear almost normal, just not with any grace. The walk required some exertion on her part. She knew she’d pay the price for it later, sitting in pain on the flight back to Sacramento.

  She introduced herself to the receptionist in the DA’s den and asked to see Mr. Grandy. She handed the young man her business card.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. Mr. Grandy is out of the office until next Tuesday, but I’ll give him your card and say you stopped by for a courtesy call.”

  “Yes, please do. I understand his friend, Carson Starr, sent some associates to work on some of your old case files. I’d like to know how they’re getting along. Could you direct me to the room they’re using?”

  “Wait a moment, please.” He pressed an intercom button and spoke to another gatekeeper.

  Stacy took a seat in the lobby and picked up the newspaper on the tabletop. She read that Braniff International Airlines had ceased operations that morning. Oh, that’s just fantastic. Her return flight to Sacramento had been booked on Braniff.

  After a short wait, a man appeared in the lobby and introduced himself as DA Investigator Renato Wilson. His suit was rumpled, his necktie pulled down to an open shirt collar. His hair was graying at the temples, indicating his age was in the middle years, but the rest was black and curly. He had an olive complexion that made him appear to be of Hispanic or Italian descent.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Wilson. As the receptionist told you on the phone, I’d like to visit with the JLS associates. I’m very familiar with the case they’re researching. Ms. Kinkaid and I were roommates at Harvard Law.”

  Beyond giving her his name, Wilson talked little. He nodded, a sign that he understood what she wanted and that he would help, if possible. Then, with a sideways nod, he motioned for her to follow him, which she gladly did. Wilson stopped at a door labeled conference ro
om 6 and opened the door. Stacy followed him into the room.

  One long table, with a seating space for sixteen, dominated the cluttered room. Piles of files were stacked at one end, with loose papers in several mounds at the other. Between them sat two women and, on the opposite side, another female and one male. Everyone looked to be under twenty-five. Dressed casually, they took little notice when Stacy and Wilson entered the room. On one of the long walls was a corkboard with a plethora of notes tacked with no apparent organization. Adjacent was a whiteboard, new to the commercial office-supply business in 1982. Notations appeared in several marker colors.

  “Everyone, excuse me for a sec,” Wilson said. “This is Stacy Mulholland. She’s from LA. Mr. Starr asked her to review things and give you some help.”

  Stacy was dumbstruck. None of Wilson’s statements were true—except for her name. She scowled at him for a moment before addressing the four associates. “Hi, guys. How goes the battle?”

  The lone male looked up from his pile of papers and offered her a small smile. “Hey, I sure like the gender distribution here. Can’t beat three on one.”

  “Yeah, ...well! I realize you’re outnumbered,” Stacy said, “but don’t let that bother you. I’m sure one of these ladies will be glad to explain things to you. Won’t you, gals?”

  Brian, the alpha male, clearly didn’t appreciate the humor his colleagues were enjoying at his expense.

  One of the women said, “Wow. How cool is that? A woman who doesn’t kowtow to a male.”

  With some of her audience warmed up, Stacy asked, “Do you have the lists of cases you’ve gone through and those yet to be reviewed?”