The Blackmail Club

by David Bishop

“From what Chris told me, he had only one gay lover. And before you ask, Ms. Burke, he would not identify him.” The doctor stood. “I must ask you to excuse me.” He moved toward the door.

  Jack stood. “Was Chris making progress?”

  “He was not, to both Chris’s and my disappointment. Now, I really must get on with my day. Goodbye, Mr. McCall, Ms. Burke.”

  After they got back in the car, Nora turned toward Jack, “Where the hell did that gay bit come from? Why didn’t you tell me Chris was gay?”

  “It was a guess.”

  “The Red Sox winning the World Series is a guess. That was more than a guess. Give.”

  “Chris always came across as a man’s man, never effeminate, yet in the service there were persistent rumors. I made a presumptive statement figuring if anyone knew for certain, it would be Dr. Radnor.”

  Chapter 11

  A middle-aged frumpish looking woman with jowls drooping as if her mouth were saving quarters, started toward Jack when he pulled into his underground parking space after dropping Nora off to pick up her Mustang.

  Despite the dim light, the woman wore rose-colored sunglasses. She carried a pink sweater laying over one arm and hand while keeping her other hand in sight. He guessed her age at forty-five, but she wore a hairstyle and carried her purse in a way that conspired to make her look older.

  He lowered his window.

  She moved close, her flabby chin resting on her collarbone. “Mister McCall. I’m Agnes Fuller, Christopher Andujar’s former receptionist.” The gap between her front teeth caused a slight whistle when she said Andujar’s.

  “Shall we go up to my office, Ms. Fuller?”

  She glanced both directions. “Let’s talk here.” She walked around the car, opened the passenger-side door and, ignoring the constraints of her sack dress, stepped in like a man—one leg followed by the other.

  “Why all this secrecy, Ms. Fuller?” Jack asked, twisting on the seat to face her.

  The makeup clogging the pores of her forehead and cheeks crusted in the deeper ravines venturing out from her nose and mouth. She took in a slow breath while her eyes kept moving like a bird in an unfamiliar cage.

  “I’m being watched, Mr. McCall, some big ugly guy I saw outside my new job yesterday morning, I saw again at lunch.” She ran her hands over the sweater on her lap as if smoothing invisible wrinkles. Then she changed the subject. “I apologize for being uncooperative when Nora Burke called from your office. I think my phone may be bugged.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Ms. Burke is very understanding.”

  Ms. Fuller pulled a strand of her hair across her cheek. “Last night I didn’t sleep a wink. This morning I knew I had to help. I owe it to Chris—Dr. Andujar.” Her lower lip quivered.

  “Take a deep breath, Ms. Fuller. I’ll arrange for someone to check your house for listening devices.”

  She smiled without separating her lips. “Thank you. Dr. Andujar was a wonderful man and a fine doctor. His patients loved him. He helped a great many people. I started with him two years after he opened his practice. When his wife retired I became his office manager as well as receptionist. The last few weeks, before his death he was a changed man. Nervous. Fidgety.” Her face contorted. “He started drinking more coffee than ever. And he started smoking again after having quit for five years.”

  One of her hands found the other. “The next thing I knew, he was dead.”

  “Dr. Andujar specialized in sexual dysfunctions. I take that to mean he had patients who pursued and engaged in sexual behavior outside the norm. Did he engage in any of that himself?”

  Her lips twitched, as if she were receiving a coded message through her dark amalgam dental fillings. The message must have told her to keep talking because she did.

  “You know, before I took that job I could have defined sexual behavior outside the norm, but not after working with Dr. Andujar. But, no, gosh, no, no way could the doctor and certainly not Sarah be involved in any of that stuff.”

  She blotted her eyes with the pads of her fingertips; the way a woman does to avoid smearing her makeup, and then returned to her pattern of hurried speech. “When Sarah was the office manager, she was hard on people. But like I said, the doctor and his wife were as straight as Ozzie and Harriet Nelson. Not that some of his patients didn’t try coming onto him, they even hit on me. It was no dull job. I can tell you that. Dr. Andujar even helped me shed some of my own silly inhibitions.”

  She was talking a mile a minute and skipping through random thoughts. Unsure what she might say next, Jack decided to let her ramble.

  “Mr. McCall, I’ve been wracking my brain, and I can’t imagine why he would take his own life. But I can tell you he was frantic toward the end. Maybe if he found out he had terminal cancer or something. It would have been like him to not tell me about that.” Her hands continually pierced the air with darting gestures. “But Sarah said his physician told her Dr. Andujar was in good health. Why did he … kill himself?”

  “A few minutes ago you described Sarah as ‘hard on people.’ What did you mean?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. Sarah is a lady. A real lady. But when you’re around her all the time, well, sometimes she shows a different side.”

  “Like what?”

  “She would speak harshly to our computer repairman, even the young hunk who delivered our bottled water. Stuff like that. When she belittled her husband, I was embarrassed for him.”

  “Anything else?”

  For the first time, Fuller spoke in a normal cadence. “Did he really kill himself?”

  “I plan to find out, Ms. Fuller.”

  “Call me Agnes, please. Sarah is lucky to have you as a friend.” Agnes turned toward the door, causing a loud leather screech, then twisted back with a note in her hand. “Here is my address and phone numbers. After Chris’s death I was unemployed for a long time. I recently got a job as a secretary at the State Department. I’ve been there about two weeks. Please don’t contact me until we find out who is following me. I don’t want whoever it is to know I’ve spoken to you.”

  She pulled the door handle.

  Jack reached for her arm. “Do you live alone?”

  “Yes. I have a boyfriend, but he works most nights until pretty late. Why do you ask?”

  “Tomorrow night at six-thirty, a repairman will come to your home. He’ll tell you he has come to repair your dishwasher. He will find and remove any surveillance equipment in your home. His name will be on his shirt, Drummond.”

  Her voice rose and the cadence of her speech again quickened. “I’m scared. Terrified is more like it”

  Jack gripped her forearm, held firm, and smiled. “Let’s find out if you’re being watched. The man who will come is an expert. No one will think he is anything but a repairman. Do you have a neighbor you’re friendly with?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Find a way to tell your neighbor you’re having trouble with your dishwasher. Put a rack on your drainboard and put in a few clean, wet dishes. Let it be known you’re expecting a repairman. It’ll be fine. Just do it like that.”

  “Okay, Mr. McCall. Sarah says you’re the best. Send your repairman. I’ll be alone.”

  Jack watched Agnes Fuller head for the elevator to go up to the ground floor. From the back she looked like two hundred pounds of cashews sewn into a one hundred-pound sack. He rushed up the parking ramp in time to see her cross Pennsylvania Avenue, walk one block farther away, and get into a dark coupe like the one that had abruptly driven away from Sarah Andujar’s home. At that distance he could not clearly see the man or read the license plate.

  As he walked back down the ramp, Nora pulled into the underground lot driving her Mustang with the new brakes. Going up in the elevator Nora reminded him about Mary Lou Sanchez. “She started work this morning. And don’t forget our open house Friday. I need you here no later than six.”

  “We’re going to do that?”

  “I told you to get back to me th
e next morning after we went to Sarah’s. You didn’t, so I kept moving it forward. Friday. Six. Be here.”

  Mary Lou Sanchez looked to be about five-seven and not a pound more than a hundred and ten, with short black hair fashioned in a boyish cut. She hopped to her feet.

  “Hello, Mary Lou,” Jack said. “Welcome to MI.” After a brief chat, they left Mary Lou at the receptionist desk and headed back toward their case room. Nora stopped off at the kitchen and picked up two cans of ginger ale. She closed the door and slid one can across the table.

  Jack popped the top, took a drink, and told Nora about the unexpected visit from Agnes Fuller. As he finished, he heard Chief Mandrake’s voice and headed up front to find him realigning a crooked chair in the lobby.

  “Hi, Chief. I hope you’re planning to come to our open house on Friday.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it. I just came by to take Mary Lou home after her first day. I’m sure she’s told you she has a big test Monday morning, so she won’t be able to attend.”

  “I’ve got to pound the books,” Mary Lou said, with a shrug. “I wish I could come, from what Nora’s told me it’ll be a blast.”

  “We’ll miss you,” Jack said, “but of course we understand.”

  The chief stepped closer. “Have you identified the stranger in the dumpster?”

  “We’re not trying. We have no client or case involving him. Naturally, we’re curious. Have your guys found anything?”

  The chief shook his head while helping his goddaughter with her coat. “The victim has no fingerprints on file with us. We’re waiting for an answer from the FBI fingerprint center. I’ll have Sergeant Suggs call you as soon as we hear. Of course, that will be confidential.”

  Jack waved off the comment. “Anything you ever discuss with us will be confidential unless you tell us it is not.” Then Jack turned to Mary Lou. “Good first day. I understand you are coming in for a few hours Monday afternoon, after your test. I’ll see you then. Good luck on your exam.”

  Jack locked the front door and rejoined Nora in the case room. She started talking before he sat down. “Here’s a spreadsheet of Dr. Andujar’s appointments for the past year.” She pushed it into the table space between them. “His laptop referred to his patients only by file numbers.”

  “Wasn’t there a legend matching the patients’ names with those numbers?”

  “Negative. And don’t forget our open house Friday night.”

  “You’ve already reminded me, several times.”

  “But you haven’t responded. I need you here by six.”

  “I won’t forget our open house.”

  Nora smiled, “by six.”

  “Yes, by six, Friday. Satisfied? Now let’s get back to work. Maybe Agnes Fuller knows the codes. I’ll call her after Drummy debugs her house.”

  Nora answered the ringing phone and held it out. “It’s Max.”

  “My team’s not fully assembled,” Max said into Jack’s ear, “but I’ve activated the stakeout. Donny Andujar came out once about an hour ago to walk an older, sophisticated-looking man to his car. I didn’t recognize him, but I got a picture.”

  The rest of Jack and Nora’s week was filled with gathering copies of the police reports and the medical examiner’s autopsy protocol, digging through Chris’s laptop, contacting the people in his address book, and speaking to the Andujars’ neighbors in Arlington and in the apartment building they had rented in DC. All necessary steps. All wasted time. They also came up with a few new ideas.

  Chapter 12

  Jack arrived at MI’s open house promptly at six to see Nora in a clingy blue dress brought to life by the blossoms and narrows of her body. To the extent a woman’s appearance was currency, Nora’s scoop-necked dress flashed a healthy portion of her bankroll.

  “It’s midnight azure,” she said. But, as was true for many men, Jack’s color vocabulary only included light blue and dark blue.

  “Is Max coming?”

  “No,” Nora said. “He hasn’t filled his crew yet so he’s on the Donny stakeout.”

  “That’s a shame,” Jack said. “He’s a character. I like him.”

  Police Chief Mandrake arrived a few minutes later. He had brought along Patrick Molloy, the mayor of DC. Nora greeted them at the door and called to Jack. “Come meet Mayor Molloy.”

  After twenty years as a covert operative for the U.S. intelligence community, Jack was more chameleon than peacock, but he obeyed Nora’s summons. The mayor had a build like Santa Claus, including the squishy, red-veined nose. Time had furrowed his forehead but not touched his greenish-gray eyes or their youthful-looking lids. The politician’s acumen spoke for itself. He was a two-term Irish mayor in DC, not Boston.

  Jack shook hands with the mayor, and asked, “Join me in a Scotch, straight, on shaved ice with a twist of lemon?” Nora had somehow learned that was Molloy’s favorite drink. When His Honor nodded, Jack steered him in a wide turn toward the bartender set up in their conference room.

  “You go schmooze with your other guests, Jack. I’ll get our drinks.” Molloy headed for the bar with two other guests carrying empty glasses trailing in his wake.

  Most of the guests not elbowing near the bar were gathering at the rear of their eighteen-hundred-square-foot office. Rachel and Nora had furnished the back area with cherry wood tables and overstuffed seating to give the feel of a living room.

  “Thanks for bringing Mayor Molloy,” Jack said to Chief Mandrake. “We had invited him but got no confirmation from his office. I owe you one.”

  “I’ll hold your IOU,” Mandrake said, while grinning from under bushy eyebrows that gave the impression caterpillars were nesting on his forehead.

  “It’s my guess you know everyone here, Chief, so I’ll leave you to mingle. The bar is to your left and hors d’oeuvres are near the back wall. Enjoy.”

  Mayor Molloy handed Jack a scotch and water, then headed across the room toward two congressmen whose synchronized wattles indicated an intense verbal battle was underway.

  Eric Dunn, the writer of the nationally syndicated column Dunn in D.C., strolled over with a cold Corona in his left hand, and what Chris Andujar used to call a shit-eating grin on his face. “Remember me?” he asked.

  Jack hadn’t been sure the journalist would come after he had used Dunn’s name to suggest that anyone, even Dunn himself, could be a killer. That was during The Third Coincidence case Jack had handled the prior year while still employed by the government.

  “I hope you’re not still angry at me?” Jack asked.

  “I was really ticked at the time, but the next week eleven more newspapers picked up my column and two political talk shows invited me on as a guest. All of which graduated you to hero status.”

  While spearing a Swedish meatball, Jack watched Art Tyson, a man with brown eyes surrounded by dirty whites. He had a face like one of those karate guys who impressed others by trying to break cement blocks with his forehead, and kept losing. Jack glanced at the bartender who held up three fingers; it was Tyson’s third double. The bulky Tyson walked away from the bar in his rumpled light-blue seersucker, with his fresh drink in hand, and went face up with Mayor Molloy. A moment later, the mayor was shaking his head no—an emphatic no.

  Jack walked over to Nora. “What’s the skinny on your friend Tyson?”

  “Arthur Tyson is no friend of mine.” Her mouth twisted as if she had bitten into something bitter. “He quit the force a few years back after having been suspended several times for either drinking on the job or the use of excessive force. Now he’s a PI specializing in cases involving cheating husbands.” Her upper lip rose like she wanted say yuck. “The story is, not all his compensation is monetary. The man’s an ape.”

  Art Tyson leaned into the bar and ordered another. Jack was close enough this time to hear him say double scotch rocks; he was also close enough to tell Tyson’s suit reeked of cigar smoke. When he turned, his shirt, between its struggling buttons, gave the other guests more than a subt
le peek at his belly hair. He stumbled and nearly fell on his way over to corner Troy Engels, one of the CIA’s introverted and amoral geniuses. Engels had been the deputy director in charge of some of Jack’s quiet ops.

  Tyson’s behavior was drawing stares. Jack had put down his drink and moved toward Tyson when Chief Mandrake stepped close. “Let me. I know how to handle Arthur Tyson.”

  Mandrake gently gripped the gruff man’s elbow. “Mr. Engels, please excuse Arthur. I need his opinion on something.” The chief’s hand dented Tyson’s doughy back as he began moving him toward the door.

  “Welcome to our noble profession, Mr. McCall,” Tyson said in a loud voice gurgling with phlegm. “Call me. I’ll tip you off to the ins and outs of being a DC snoop-dick.”

  “My driver will take Mr. Tyson home,” Mandrake said. “He’ll come back tomorrow for his car.”

  The chief again nudged Tyson toward the door. The man’s head flopped to one side spilling liquid from the corner of his mouth. Tyson swiped at it with the back of his hand.

  Jack knew that Sam Spade would have just jammed Tyson’s hat on his head and booted him out the door. In Sam’s day these things had been simpler.

  Nora was standing beside Jack when Mandrake finally got Tyson out of their office. Jack breathed in the fresh scent from her silky hair. “Keep mingling, Senor,” she said before surreptitiously squeezing his tush and walking away. She looked back and smiled.

  Jack forced his eyes off Nora’s butt and strolled over to the hawk-nosed Troy Engels standing alone near the window. For a moment the two men stood quietly watching the river of cars flowing past the building.

  “You miss the ops in my department?” Engels asked.

  “No.”

  “Some people do deserve to die, Jack. You must believe that the world would be better off today had someone taken out Adolph Hitler or Saddam Hussein before those monsters destroyed their countries and damaged the rest of the world.”

  “I agree in concept, but the rub is who gets to choose the targets and the qualifying infractions?”