Armed and Glamorous

by Ellen Byerrum

  “Oh yes, I can pass quite well. Few outward signs of the inner—” He suddenly shook his head and tapped the side of it smartly with the heel of his hand.

  “Headache?” Lacey reached into her purse. “I have some Advil.”

  “Not exactly. More like static. And it’s just hard not to answer back sometimes when they taunt you.”

  “I thought you said they couldn’t hear you.”

  “They can’t read my thoughts. But there may be an implant of some kind in my brain. They seem to hear what I say, though it could just be the surveillance microphones they have all over this town too, which means they hear every word you say too.” He lifted his eyebrows at her quizzically.

  “Really.” She leaned in close to his ear. “Well, navy and white will be big this spring! You heard it here first. It’s a secret. Boy, I’d hate to see that get around too soon. Of course,” she confided, “navy and white are always big for spring.”

  Hadley looked at her and then laughed, unexpectedly. “That’s good, it’ll drive them nuts. I know how it looks, talking to nobody. Sometimes I can’t help talking back, but I put my cell phone up to my ear, so people just think I’m talking on the phone. Everyone looks crazy these days.”

  “Do you ever think you are crazy?” she asked him. “Not my opinion. Just a question.”

  “I used to. That’s what they want me to think. That’s what they want you to think.” He balled his fist and his breathing became labored for a moment. “Sorry. They want the world to think a lunatic killed Cecily Ashton. That way they can shut both of us up. But I’m not crazy.”

  “What do they think about the voices at your job?” Lacey asked, sipping her latte.

  “Didn’t exactly put it on my job application,” Hadley said. “They might consider that worse than being arrested for murder. I’ve been questioned by the police, and as you know from Ms. Barton, Esquire, I rather expect to be arrested at any moment.”

  “Yeah, Brooke mentioned that,” she said. “But a lot of people were questioned. I was questioned. That hardly means you’re going to be arrested. Unless you actually killed Cecily Ashton.”

  “Let’s just say I’ve got inside information.”

  “The voices?”

  “Yes, the voices.”

  Hadley looked distracted for a moment. His attention seemed to focus inward and he shut his eyes. He rubbed his head hard and then opened his eyes again.

  “Is something wrong?” Lacey glanced around the room to see if anybody was staring at them. People were concentrating on their newspapers and their coffee.

  “Not really.” He gave a brief shake of his head, as if to brush away an errant thought. “Those goofballs. It’s Raj today,” he sighed. “They subcontract some of the work out. To some call center in India. Outsourcing. Can you believe it!” Hadley laughed. Lacey didn’t quite believe any of it.

  “I can’t understand a word Raj says sometimes, he has this thick singsong Indian accent,” Hadley went on. “Or I’ll catch every third word, just enough to drive you crazy, like a bad tech support call. Or a loud buzz, like electroshock therapy, to get my attention. But often it’s just a babel of Indian voices. Sometimes it becomes background noise, like elevator Muzak. Could be worse. And Raj is really the least offensive of them. But why send those jobs to India? Senseless. False economy. No way to run a mind control project, if you ask me.” He laughed again, but it sounded forced.

  Lacey blew out the breath she’d been holding. She made a mental note to check out DeadFed dot com when she got back to the office. She actually loathed reading Damon Newhouse’s paranoid conspiracy geek Web site, but she did try to monitor it sometimes when he was following her around. The site contained a bottomless well of bizarre information, misinformation, and paranoid fantasy. Searching on Raj, the outsourced mind-control voice from India, might prove entertaining.

  “This may seem like an odd question,” Lacey said. “But why are you telling me this? Aren’t you afraid something will happen to your job if word gets out? In my newspaper, for example?”

  “Sorry, Smithsonian, but you work for The Eye Street Observer. No one at my office would ever admit to reading it. If they did catch wind of it, I’d simply deny everything and blame it on you. Plausible deniability is the name of the game in this town. And yours is the newspaper of least respect.”

  “It’s sweet of you to care.” He wasn’t saying anything she didn’t know.

  “Don’t be offended, Ms. Smithsonian. I rather like your newspaper. I can’t help it if people in Washington think it’s a scandal sheet run by that vindictive, yet attractive, Claudia Darnell, who is simply out to get even with this whole town and pay back all the bastards who made her life miserable. I respect her for that. There are much worse reasons than payback to run a newspaper.”

  Another reporter, possibly one with some pride, or one from a bigger newspaper, might have stomped out. But Lacey wasn’t that kind of reporter, she had too much curiosity, and the Firehook Bakery coffee was too good. For a reporter, insults were just the price and reward of curiosity. Hadley was a fascinating character, and besides, Lacey didn’t disagree with him. There really were worse reasons to run a newspaper.

  Hadley suddenly clenched his fists and pressed them against his stomach, his face contorted into a grimace.

  “What’s happening? You’re in pain. Tell me, please. Can I help?”

  “Nothing you can do. This assault really wasn’t too bad. When they subcontract the work to India, the signal is weaker. I’ve been rolling on the floor with some walloping pain sometimes. You just want to blow your head off.”

  “Perhaps Raj is bad at his job,” she suggested.

  “We can only hope. Now Edgar, he’s much worse. A sadist. And a sarcastic son of a bitch.”

  “Edgar is another voice?” Lacey stirred extra cream into her latte. Maybe that explained some of her homeless friend Quentin’s problems. “How many voices are there?”

  “Half a dozen or so. Edgar is the supervisor, then there’s Raj and the Indian guys, and there’s a woman at night named Alyssa. She’s a part-timer. Those are the main voices, but there are others. I don’t even know all their names yet, and it’s been years. This thing doesn’t come with caller ID.”

  “Do you ever think you might have made up the voices? Not deliberately, but—”

  “Of course. I have tried my very best to convince myself of that. But I haven’t. And by the way”—he paused to listen—“Edgar says you’ve talked with much crazier people than me.”

  “Good point.” Lacey pulled out her notebook, but she wasn’t sure whether she would actually write anything down. Spy cameras everywhere! “Please go on. Curiosity is my weakness.”

  Hadley stared at her. “Edgar says you might be the only one who can find out who killed Cecily Ashton.”

  “If they don’t arrest you first. Did you kill her?” She held on to her hot coffee just in case he didn’t like the question and she might have to throw it in self-defense.

  “No, of course not. Besides, there are too many people ahead of her on my list.” She spilled a little coffee on the table. “A joke! A poor one, I see. Sorry. Go on, ask your questions.”

  “How well did you know Cecily?”

  “Well enough to know she was a selfish idiot who had the means and opportunity to help people but chose not to. I’m not sorry she’s dead.”

  “You had a big fight?”

  “That was orchestrated by Edgar. We needed her help, her name and resources could open doors for us. She threatened to sue us if word got out that she was a TI. I threw her out of the meeting and threatened to countersue. Edgar says you should follow your instincts, by the way. He means you, specifically, Lacey Smithsonian.”

  “Excuse me?” That was exactly the kind of ringing endorsement she needed to further her career. Lacey Smithsonian: Number One Choice of the Voices in Your Head! “I take it Edgar reads my ‘Crimes of Fashion’ column?”

  Hadley stopped and
listened to nothing Lacey could hear. “Edgar’s got a whole dossier on you. He says you’re hard-headed. It’s a compliment, of sorts. He means you’re impervious to them; they can’t get inside your head.”

  “Good for me. I’m a blockhead.” Probably too crowded in there. My own thoughts tumbling around in there are plenty, thanks. “You said there was another voice, a woman?”

  “Alyssa. Part-time at night. She torments me sometimes, she can be wicked. Other times it’s as if she’s just reading from a script. She’s a grad student somewhere, I think she believes this is some kind of research project for her psychology department. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. She’s being used. Like me. At least she’s getting course credit. But of course Alyssa, sweet Alyssa, is just a code name. She let that slip too. They’re all code names, except perhaps for the ones in India. Why bother with code names when you can’t understand them anyway?”

  “Good question. Have you had any, um, professional help?”

  “A shrink? Yes. Help? No.” Hadley addressed her unasked questions as if he’d read her thoughts. Or perhaps Edgar was reading her dossier to him. “I do not have a split personality, Ms. Smithsonian. I do not at any time give up my awareness of my identity, or my surroundings, or the universe, or the year, or whoever the current occupant of the White House is. I am not schizophrenic, I am not manic-depressive or bipolar or borderline or whatever it is they’re calling it this year. I’m not a madman, and I’m not sick. I am, however, tormented and depressed and damaged by this, and I know victims of this assault who have been driven to madness and suicide, or worse. Make of me what you will, Ms. Smithsonian.”

  “I haven’t said I don’t believe you, Hadley.”

  “It’s hard to believe, Lacey. I accept that. At least you’re listening to me. And if you can find out who killed Cecily Ashton and keep me out of the hands of the police and the courts and the prison system, where I would be even more completely at the mercy of the government’s mind control wizards, more power to you.”

  “I make no promises about anything.” Lacey took her last sip of coffee. It was much better than the newsroom’s, but she wanted to get back to the normality of the newspaper. “Martin, what can you tell me about Cecily’s missing fabric?”

  “Ah, the fabric. I’ve never seen it. She said it might be capable of shielding the wearer from some of the uglier aspects of electromagnetic terror, which as you have seen sometimes causes terrible pain in various body parts, particularly the head and the sexual organs. Searing, debilitating pain. Obviously, such a fabric would be very valuable to those of us who are suffering from this terrorism. She said she had it, but she wouldn’t share it. She wouldn’t even show it to me. She was a selfish, callous, manipulative witch.”

  “She was working with some sort of chemist? I’d like to talk to him.”

  “I was never told the name, but there’s someone I can call,” he said. “Privately. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Hadley pulled out his iPhone and went to the men’s room. When he returned, he handed Lacey a neatly torn piece of notebook paper. It had a name and a phone number written on it.

  She looked at her watch, hoping Mac hadn’t noticed she was missing yet.

  “Don’t let me keep you,” Hadley said. “I have to go too. Back to the scintillating world of patent law. Thanks for listening.”

  GOVERNMENT GOONS FRAME MIND CONTROL PATSY: FIX IS IN, TI SAYS. EXPECTS IMMINENT ARREST. It was the lead story on DeadFed dot com when Lacey reached her desk.

  Damon Newhouse had been busy with his “eyewitness account” and “exclusive interview” with Martin Hadley, the TI or “targeted individual” at the center of a government mind-control conspiracy. The prose was lurid, if not quite purple, and all from Damon’s unique bird’s-eye, alternate-reality point of view. Lacey was relieved to see her name mentioned only once, along with others in the PI class.

  Unfortunately, her name was also linked, and she clicked on it. It took her right to the Lacey Smithsonian pages. She was horrified. There were links to her stories in The Eye. That wasn’t bad enough. Newhouse had a whole gallery of embarrassing photographs of her. Just how did he manage to find so many grimy photos taken at horrible angles? No doubt with a cell phone. She steamed silently. There was even a short gossipy item on how fashion reporter Smithsonian planned to take a course in private investigation in Falls Church. It was dated a week before the class started. Good Lord, who might be reading all this? She felt the blood leave her face.

  Lacey dialed Brooke’s number and gave her friend a piece of her mind.

  “Damon probably didn’t think it would bother you,” Brooke said. “You’re a reporter.”

  “Meaning I’m public property? He told the whole world where to find me! Why wouldn’t that bother me?”

  “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Damon’s sorry,” Brooke said. “Or he will be. I’ll have him take down the link.”

  “I want it off today.”

  “You’re right, it was thoughtless of him. I’ll see what I can do. Promise.”

  Lacey was only slightly mollified, but it would have to do. After that, she couldn’t bring herself to check out Stella’s blog.

  Once her blood pressure had fallen to something approaching normal, Lacey pulled Martin Hadley’s piece of notebook paper from her purse. The name was Simon Edison. She called the number and left a message. She was pleasantly surprised when he called back a few minutes later.

  Edison was consulting on the upcoming Cecily Ashton exhibit at the Bentley Museum of American Fashion. He had been assisting Cecily personally, he said. “Cecily said I was a cross between a research scientist, a magician, and a feng shui artist,” he chuckled. “In other words, she liked telling me what to do, and I tried to do it.”

  They agreed to meet in person. She preferred talking to her sources face to face. She had noted an appalling trend in Washington to kill off the face-to-face interview. Politicians, officials, and even the lowliest bureaucrats were starting to demand that any and all questions from journalists be sent via e-mail instead. Hours or days later they would e-mail back their bland written answers, carefully vetted through invisible layers of bureaucracy and attorneys and PR specialists. It eliminated nearly everything a reporter hoped to get in an interview. No wild card questions, no follow-ups, no slipups, no spontaneity, no surprises, no unexpected revelations, no asides, no nuances of body language or expression or tone of voice. The result was “news” that was preplanned, canned, controlled, colorless, flavorless, lifeless, and generally useless. Washington officialdom loved it. Lacey hated it.

  For all its drawbacks, the fashion beat wasn’t like that. It still offered Lacey the chance to talk to people in person. Simon Edison sounded much more approachable than the mad scientist she had been led to expect. He suggested they meet at the fashion museum.

  “Cecily loved it there,” he said. “It’s as good a place as any to mourn her.”

  Chapter 22

  With its sleek open spaces, the Bentley Museum of American Fashion looked serene and inviting. The fabulous gowns on exhibit beckoned to her, but Lacey didn’t have time to dawdle. She headed purposefully for an exhibit area still roped off from the public. The entrance was nearly blocked by a large sign announcing the Cecily Ashton Collection of Twentieth Century Haute Couture would open soon. And in big letters: MUSEUM STAFF ONLY—NOT OPEN TO THE PUBLIC. There was just enough room for Lacey to slip by.

  Inside there were mannequins waiting for their clothes. Undressed, they looked like an artist’s idea of fashion as conceptual art. Many of the mannequins wore delicate frameworks of thin wire. They would gracefully support the billowing folds of a ball gown or the flow of a flaring skirt, as if to freeze a moment in motion. Plexiglas pedestals were waiting to show off Cecily’s one-of-a-kind accessories as if they were floating on air. The lighting was clean and subtle, pools of light playing over the circular platforms where Cecily’s exquisite couture creations would shine in the spotlight one mo
re time.

  In the middle of the room, Simon Edison sat on a large wooden bench. He stood up as Lacey entered. He was a large man, but not physically imposing. Wiry strands of thinning brown hair made a shaggy halo around his head. His glasses clung to his nose at an angle. His expression struck Lacey as slightly goofy, but his smile was kind.

  “You must be the glamorous fashion scribe, Lacey Smithsonian.”

  “I’m Lacey Smithsonian. I don’t know how glamorous that is.” She offered her hand. “Call me Lacey.”

  “Simon.” He put out his hand in response and shook hers with gusto. He grinned nervously. “Nice to meet you. I read your article in Sunday’s paper. I think you really captured our girl. My God, it’s such a shame. I still can’t believe it.”

  Our girl. It sounded rather intimate, possessive yet friendly. And they did have knowing Cecily in common, as if they belonged to the same club.

  Simon was wearing a lumpy navy sport coat, a blue shirt, and a red tie with a small pattern that looked like stuffed green olives, but somehow he looked as if he might still be in the process of getting dressed. The tie was crooked and he’d missed one button over his stomach.

  “Fashion’s not really my thing, you know,” he was saying, gesturing at the exhibit. I never would have guessed, Lacey thought. “So you’re wondering what on earth Cecily saw in me, aren’t you?”

  “No, of course not,” Lacey said. Cecily probably saw a kid brother, brilliant but a little goofy.

  “Then you’re very kind,” he smiled, which made her feel guilty for her thoughts. His shirttail had come loose. He hastily tucked it back in, but the other side pulled out. Simon Edison’s clothes seemed to have a life of their own, tucking themselves in and out, bunching up of their own volition.

  Edison was not a social creature. Although he must have been in his late thirties, he seemed more like an overgrown kid, alternately eager and shy. He was the kind of man who collided with chairs, rather than merely sitting on them. He had a tendency to knock into things. Lacey feared for the mannequins.