by David Bishop
Chapter 23
Jack’s face remained an angry rainbow of black, bluish-purple, and varying shades of yellow. On the brighter side, Hannibal’s Army, which had been stomping through his head, had moved on leaving behind a single foot-soldier in hobnail boots.
He had enjoyed the barbeque with Janet and Roy. She had offered to stop by and get him some breakfast, but it would have to be early. He had declined, saying he hoped to sleep in.
Despite that intention he had wakened early, and hadn’t been comfortable enough to get back to sleep. At seven he got up and with the help of the banister got downstairs. The coffee pot lifted like a gym weight. Still, relying mostly on pigheadedness, he got through his normal morning routine.
At nine-fifteen, he walked into MI and found Nora in their case room sitting on the edge of the table, her skirt at half mast on her thigh, her legs crossed. She smiled and handed him a cup of hot chocolate. “A parting gift from the Warden,” she said.
He tipped the cup and took a drink before they settled down to work without either of them mentioning her suggestive comment from the night before.
“Any progress?”
“Agnes Fuller has been able to put names with only five of Andujar’s patients. I contacted all five by phone and told them the same thing: Your name came up in one of our investigations. We would like to speak with you in person. They all knew of his death but none of them had heard anything about him being blackmailed. They praised him as a shrink and refused to disclose why they’d been seeing him.”
“Did you ask them if they’d been blackmailed?”
“No,” Nora said. “I wanted to read their stress level without that and I didn’t want them clamming up. I then went to see each of them.”
Jack watched her slide out of her shoes, recross her legs, and wiggle her red-painted toes.
“The body language and demeanor,” she went on, “of two of the five strongly suggested they were holding something back. I met the first one, Allison Trowbridge, in the living room of her penthouse apartment. Her father, Dean Trowbridge, is some big shot in banking or politics. She avoided looking at me and kept rubbing her open palms on the thighs of her pants.
“The fourth one I met with was Dorothy Wingate, the big boss at the Washington Times. A meeting regarding almost anything shouldn’t rattle this woman, but, like Allison Trowbridge, something had tightened her screws. At least ten times she repeated the phrase: ‘I know nothing that could help you.’ These folks both have financial clout and political muscle. If we try to see them again, we can expect pressure from some direction. I recommend we leave them alone until we’ve got something that might shake their tree.”
Jack nodded. “Anything else?”
“This morning, the reporter Eric Dunn called saying he needed to see you, alone. He wouldn’t say why but he said it was urgent. You two seemed to hit off when he came to our open house, so I went ahead and set it up. He’ll be here at four.”
It was five after four when Jack limped out to greet Eric Dunn. “Hey suspect,” Jack said, “how are you?”
After a full-body laugh, Dunn used the back of his thumbnail to stroke one side of his mustache.
“I’m fine.” He followed Jack into his office. “But I can’t say that about you.” He shook his head. “You should have been a newspaperman. Unhappy customers use our thoughtfully crafted words to line their birdcages or wipe their asses. They don’t beat us up. You know who did it?”
“No.”
It was late enough for a beer, so Jack excused himself and got three. On the way back he delivered one to Nora. “I like your new hairdo,” he told her.
“I was hoping you would.”
Back in Jack’s office, Eric wrapped his hand around one of the Coronas and followed a long pull with a long ahhhhhh. “I’ve heard you met with President Schroeder,” he said, “after you got back to the States a week or so ago.”
“The word meeting implies too much.”
“The story is he’s using you as a consultant on Middle East policy.”
“The president and I have been friends for over twenty years, and friends chat from time to time. Eric, is this why you came by?”
“No. I’m not trying to learn your secrets. I’m here to reveal someone else’s.”
“Go on.”
“Rumor is you’re looking into the death of Dr. Christopher Andujar for his widow who believes her husband was being blackmailed prior to his death. I might have something.”
Jack gulped his Corona and leaned forward gingerly, placing his forearms on his knees. “I’m listening.”
“You and I need to agree on something first.”
“I don’t like backroom deals, Eric. Never have.”
“What I’m here to tell you, I’ve agreed not to print in my column. You have to agree not to disclose it unless you find the story is a lie—okay?”
“That’s very open-ended.”
“I’m a journalist. I have to protect my sources.”
“I have no secrets from my partner. If you tell me, it includes Nora. Her word is at least as good as mine.”
“That’s your risk, Jack. But I’m telling you if it gets out MI’s rep could be destroyed.” He ran his index finger through the condensation on the side of the clear beer bottle. “That’s the kind of influence I’m talking about here.” He blotted his wet finger on the fabric of his slacks.
I’m not sure I can trust this guy, but he came with something and he could be an excellent source of information in the future. “Okay,” Jack said, “but I also need a commitment from you.”
“What?” Dunn asked, obviously surprised.
“You must agree to keep confidential everything we discuss in this meeting. That means not to print it or talk about it with anyone, including at your poker games with Mayor Molloy, Chief Mandrake and the others. Will you agree to that?”
Like two boys making an imaginary blood oath, they extended their beer bottles and clinked the necks to seal their pact.
“I learn lots of things I don’t print. People know I understand some stuff doesn’t fall within the public’s right to know. That I won’t print something just for sensationalism. That’s part of why they give me important information that needs to be told.”
“We’ve agreed,” Jack said. “Stop selling.”
Eric Dunn took on an expression Jack had often seen on people about to spill the beans—someone else’s beans.
“Dorothy Wingate has been a basket case ever since Nora left her office. Somehow you knew that Dot was a patient of Christopher Andujar. What you didn’t know, but I figure you suspected, was that she had been blackmailed.”
Jack made an open hand gesture. “What we don’t know is over what?”
“Here it is. For years Dot has been intimately involved with Philippe Frenet, France’s Charge d’Affaires to the United States. She swears only three people knew: Frenet, herself, and Dr. Andujar, who’s dead.”
Eric relaxed a little, having served up the filet of his message. He closed his lips around the bottle and took another swig.
“Christ, Eric! The woman’s the editor of the newspaper your column runs in, that’s how she got your agreement not to print the story.”
Eric held up his hands. “Cool it, Jack. My column is published in more than one hundred newspapers. If her Times dropped my column, her competition has told me they’d pick it up in a New York minute. Dot came to me because I’m her friend.”
“Okay. Continue.”
“About ten months ago, Dot received copies of photos of her and Frenet engaged in activities that would not fall under the duties of a Charge d’Affaires—even France’s. Frenet received a similar package.”
“Hell, she’s single.” Jack shrugged. “A little embarrassment—it passes.”
“Frenet is married. And while the French are known for being rather loosey-goosey about sex—or more honest about it, depending on your point of view—his American wife is not. He expects the
French government would recall him for embarrassing them in diplomatic circles.”
“Tell me about the blackmail.”
“Nine months ago they each paid a half a mil, American. They’re each worth tons. Dot owns fifty-five percent of the paper. Before his government service, Frenet was the CEO of one of France’s largest insurance companies. Still, the blackmailer never came back for more. Go figure. If Dr. Andujar was the blackmailer, his death would explain that. I’m not here to accuse your client’s husband, but you have to admit it’s a legit question.” Then Eric threw up his hands. “I don’t know what to believe. There is nothing in Andujar’s background that indicates he would get involved in blackmailing his patients, but—”
“But lots that says he would not,” Jack interjected. “Besides, if Ms. Wingate really believed Chris was the blackmailer, she wouldn’t have let you tell me about it. With him dead, their indiscretion would again be their secret.”
“You’re right. She doggedly refuses to believe that Dr. Andujar was involved, but she can’t figure how else it could’ve happened. They paid a million clams, but to most blackmailers the first payment is only an appetizer, particularly when the marks have lots more where that came from.”
Jack hadn’t realized he’d been pacing until his left leg started throbbing. He flexed it a couple of times, then sat sideways on the couch and stretched that leg across the cushion.
“So, Ms. Wingate wants to know if Chris Andujar’s the blackmailer? I don’t need to tell you, I’ve already got a client, his widow, who believes her husband was also blackmailed.”
Eric got up and drifted over to the window. After a moment he turned. “Of course they’d love their money back. Who wouldn’t? But Dot accepts that the money’s gone, says Frenet sees it the same. What they really want to know is whether Andujar was the blackmailer. If he was, they can start breathing again because it did end with his death.”
It’s a legit question, Jack admitted to himself. First Max raised it, now Eric Dunn. Still, I just refuse to believe it, at least, not yet.
Eric stood and looked Jack straight on. “Dot understands that if her affair needs to be revealed to bring justice or to stop the blackmailer, then it must be disclosed. She’s not happy about that, but she’s okay with it. She’s also willing to retain you to represent her on this.”
“I’ve already got a client on this matter and don’t want a conflict of interest.” Jack opened his office door. “Thanks, Eric. Tell Ms. Wingate we’ll keep her confidence except for the reason you stated.”
Eric put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “One more request, this one from me.”
“Yeah?”
“I get first crack at the story when it ends. An exclusive.” He raised his eyebrows over a grin that pulled his mustache lopsided.
“You didn’t negotiate for that, Eric.”
Chapter 24
Jack and Nora started the next morning in MI’s case room surrounded by educated guesses. The scenario with the fewest holes went like this: Benny Haviland, the federal fugitive, had been blackmailed into providing the keys to Chris’s office. Chris was blackmailed, but didn’t commit suicide until after he learned that some of his patients had also been blackmailed. The chink in that reasoning was Jack didn’t believe that the blackmailing of his patients would be enough to cause Chris to kill himself.
It all fit, but it was all supposition. Yet somehow Chris Andujar remained the common thread.
“I’ve got the info on Clark’s Janitorial,” Max said, standing in the doorway. “The owners are Alan Clark and his wife, Gladys.” He slid their pictures across the table.
Jack angled the photos to catch the light. Studied them for a minute, and said, “The Clarks look like Carl Anson and Joan Jensen, two hippies from the sixties. The FBI figures them two, along with Haviland, burgled and blew up a National Guard Armory.”
“Whoa,” Max said. “Don’t tell me—these hippies didn’t change the world, right?”
“Not so as I can tell,” Jack said.
“The three of them could’ve been using the janitor service to gain access for their blackmailing,” Nora reasoned. “Maybe, later, Benny got cold feet so the other two took him out.”
“I’ve got to go, guys,” Max said. “It’s my shift at Donny’s Club. Listen, when you put more of this together, call me.”
“The police had found nothing that indicated Haviland had any big money,” Jack said in reply to Nora. “Still, the cops didn’t look for hidden assets like offshore accounts. It’s also possible that Haviland could have been eliminated simply to fatten Anson’s and Jensen’s cut from one-third each to one-half each.”
Nora branched off in still another direction. “Maybe the blackmailer learned that all three were fugitives and blackmailed all of them? Haviland could have been coming to see us to blow the whistle and get some help. Chris Andujar would have the dirt on his patients, but I doubt all three fugitives would have been his patients. If Chris was the blackmailer, he had a partner. Maybe his gay lover, Troy Engels? Or Tyson? Maybe both of them? They were all buddies: a shrink, a dirty cop, and the CIA’s director of black ops. Among the bunch of ‘em they could’ve learned about the three hippie fugitives, and would’ve known how to run a blackmail game. And how to murder Chris and made it look like a suicide.”
Jack found himself nodding in agreement while Nora thought out loud, but in the end he refused to believe that anyone could’ve gained enough sway over Christopher Andujar to convince him to blackmail his own patients. Still, Nora’s thinking was sound based on the sketchy information they had.
Jack didn’t like lying to Carol Sebring. She was aces, but he needed to compare the pictures Max had taken of the older Clarks with the bureau’s photos of the younger Anson and Jensen. He had to be absolutely certain.
Like she had the first time, Carol came up to the meet Jack in the lobby of the FBI building.
“I appreciate your doing this again,” he told her. “The notes from my last visit got soaked when I was attacked in the alley.”
“No problem.” She led him back to the same small office he had used during his previous visit. “Sorry to hear about your getting worked over. Still no word on whom or why?” She leaned back against the desk, denting her derriere.
“We may never find out. Thanks again for being so available.” He smiled, and sat into the chair gingerly. “Deep bends still tighten my gut.”
She took an envelope from under her arm and handed it to Jack. “I forgot to give you this last time—copies of their black and whites.” She smiled. “Considering what the fashionable hippie wore in those days, color would have done a lot to jazz up these pictures.”
Jack only needed a glance. Alan Clark was definitely the fugitive Carl Anson, although now he had less hair and more flab. Hey, why should he be immune?
Also, no doubt, Mrs. Clark was the fugitive Joan Jensen.
On the way back to the office Jack dialed Max’s cell phone and set his own in its cradle for hands-free use.
“Howdy, boss. You got anything more on who booby-trapped your car?”
“I don’t expect we’ll get to the bottom of that until we solve the Andujar case. Is Donny doing anything suspicious?”
“You figure this play school gangster is involved in the blackmailing?”
“What do you think, Max? You’ve spent a lot of time watching the guy.”
“Donny’s a punk. He runs hookers and does payoffs and bribes downtown, but he don’t have the stones for blackmail and murder. What’s your take?”
“The same as yours. What’s the punk been up to?”
“He gets home late from his club, spends a couple of hours watching the boob tube and goes to bed. The unboring part is that every couple of days one of the dollies from his club follows him home. No repeats. This guy is living the fantasy life of every American man.”
Jack pulled to the curb before entering MI’s underground parking where he sometimes lost his cell signal.
“Have your crew watch the Clarks for a few days. If they split up, tail Mr. Clark. Keep your tail on Donny, at least for now. If you need more men or overtime, do it. Log their movements the same as with Donny, where, when, and who, with photos of the whos. Anything you need?”
“Nothin’ boss. I worked out with Nora how to handle getting my guys paid. You got any comment on that?”
“If it’s okay with Nora, I’m fine with it. You’re doing a great job, Max. Are the arrangements we made working okay for you?”
“You’re living up to your end, boss. If you’re happy with me, I’m living up to mine. Maybe tailing the Clarks will give us the break we need. I’ll be in touch.”
Chapter 25
The time had come to visit Phoebe Ziegler, the high-demand lap dancer from Donny’s Club, who lapped under the name Jena Moves. Jack took Nora along to get her read on Ziegler and to reduce the chances of the dancer claiming Jack got out-of-line.
Nora’s research on Phoebe Ziegler indicated she had graduated from high school with academic honors. The police in her hometown reported she had never been in any trouble. Yet in DC she was lap dancing and probably turning tricks.
As he drove Jack kept glancing up the side streets that flowed in to join the main thoroughfare in much the way mountain streams trickle into major rivers. He also kept an eye on the rearview mirror. He never saw the black Escalade or the white Lumina or any other tail car. He couldn’t figure why whoever had been having him tailed, had stopped.
Or have they gotten so good that I can’t spot them?
The lap dancer’s address was on NW Twenty-First Street, just below Florida Avenue. When they turned onto her street, the neighborhood’s dogs were busily howling to the percussion of banging garbage cans orchestrated by the city’s sanitation workers.
A crepe myrtle sprouting its annual batch of spring leaves stood alone in the small front yard of Phoebe Ziegler’s brick row house. The bell didn’t work. Jack knocked on the wooden frame of the screen door. Hard. Three times.
