by Rae Renzi
Ditsy glanced at her. “That would absolutely be the deal-breaker for me, those tattoos.”
Casey ignored the comment.
“You think the accident and Jack are related?” Ditsy asked after a moment.
“Oh, I don’t know. Ditsy. I honestly don’t know what to think. I do know he’s a complication. I think I need to put some space between us. Maybe permanently.”
Ditsy glanced at Casey with concern, then reached over and patted her arm. “It’s a bloody mess, I’ll give you that. But, well, there is this little, tiny problem.”
“Which is?”
“You love him.”
“Love isn’t everything.”
“Hmm,” Ditsy said.
“What?”
“I merely wondered about your marriage—you know, the one that was based on rational decision-making and clear thinking rather than love? Now, how’s that going again?”
Casey crumpled into the seat, ferociously twisting a lock of hair around her finger. “Yet another part of my life in disarray. That makes it almost complete, even my work.”
“What’s wrong with your work?”
After telling Ditsy the distressing revelation that she was a political hire and describing Harley’s odd behavior with regard to the conference, she summed it up. “So what I need to do is take each part one at a time and get my life back.”
Ditsy had been quiet during Casey’s explanation, a thoughtful frown on her face. “Casey, when we do research and try to understand how different pieces of data are related, you constantly remind me that we must not try to pick and choose which data to look at. Don’t you say there’s always a pattern, but if we don’t include all the data, we won’t see it?”
Casey nodded slowly. Ditsy’s words etched a clear trajectory. “You think all of this—my job, Reed’s behavior, the attempt to hurt me, Jack—everything is related?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But as you say, we have to look at all the data.”
“You’re right. We do. Just not now.”
They spent the night in Minneapolis, and the next morning flew to Cleveland and on to D.C. It was late afternoon when they finally arrived and Casey was exhausted. As she and Ditsy threaded their way through the crowd flowing toward the baggage claim, Casey pulled out her phone and dialed her husband’s cell number. A message said the phone was not in service.
“That’s weird. Reed’s cell phone isn’t working.” A trio of gangly pre-teens swooped by on skateboards, barely missing her. She followed them with her eyes, a smile on her face. “Amazing. Can they do that in here?”
“Obviously. As long as no one catches them,” Ditsy said, a hint of admiration in her voice. The kids glided and twirled in the air, indifferent to the laws of gravity.
Tearing her eyes away from them, Casey dialed her home number. “He’s not at the apartment either.”
With happy whoops and guffaws, the skateboarders dipped around a corner and vanished.
“And why would he be? It’s only five o’clock.” Ditsy glanced at a clock over the baggage carousel. “He’s no doubt hard at work.”
Reed didn’t answer at work either, but the phone rolled over to a secretary. The baggage carousel started up with a loud beep. Casey surveyed the luggage gliding by. “May I speak to Reed Trabor?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Trabor is no longer with this office. Is there someone else who can help you?”
“I don’t understand. Reed Trabor…is gone?”
“Mr. Trabor is no longer with us. May I forward your call to someone else?” repeated the secretary, speaking slower and more distinctly this time.
“No…no, thank you.” Casey hung up and stared at the endless stream of luggage sliding by. Had she missed something? Some crucial communication from Reed? Or a whole series of communications? Had he told her he was unhappy, that he wanted to quit his job? No, she was sure he hadn’t said that. Just the opposite.
“What?” Ditsy asked, peering into Casey’s face. “You look disturbed.”
“Reed doesn’t work there anymore.”
Casey was frazzled by the time the taxi dropped them at her apartment building. She wasn’t ready for yet another mystery, especially one that had a direct effect on her, such as her husband dropping off the map without prior notification. She didn’t expect him to check with her for every little thing, but a sudden change of career was probably worth mentioning.
“Reed?” Casey dropped her bag inside the front door. “Reed?” She hurried to the bedroom, leaving Ditsy at the entry. He wasn’t there. She shoved open the bathroom door. “Reed, are you here?” The only sound was from the leaky showerhead, drip-drip-dripping water down the drain.
She returned to the living room, where Ditsy was gathering the mail that had accumulated on the floor beneath the door slot. “He’s not in the bedroom, not in the shower. Nowhere.” She wrapped her arms around herself to stifle a shiver.
“Hmm.” Ditsy straightened up with an armful of paper. “Not in the kitchen, either. Judging from the amount of post on the floor here, I’d say he’s been gone a couple days.”
“Did you check the refrigerator?”
“Ah…no. Didn’t think to check whether he was curled up in the vegetable bin. My mistake.”
“Idiot.” Casey marched into the kitchen and looked at the magnetic white board stuck to the refrigerator. Went home.
Ditsy peered over her shoulder. “Home, as in…Baltimore?”
Casey stared at the message. Her eyes began to sting. “I guess. I don’t know, really. I don’t know anything.” She leaned her face against the cool refrigerator and closed her eyes. “I feel like my life is running through my fingers like water. I can’t stop it, or get a grip on it, Ditsy.”
Ditsy patted her on the shoulder. “No, I imagine not. No fear. Turn out the lights and grab your bags. We’re going to my place. You’re not staying here alone.”
“You don’t mind having a roommate for a couple of days?”
“I’d simply be delighted.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Jack convinced the twins that they—not LAPD—were in the better position to figure out who attacked Casey and why. They went over the various oddities Casey reported. The twins agreed that checking out Celestial Productions was a reasonable next step.
Posing as Jack’s personal aide, Justin called the company and spoke with someone named Dorothy, who handled public relations. Justin explained that Mr. Raines and an associate had a project in mind, but were searching for exactly the right style. They thought it would be helpful to browse through the Celestial Productions archives. Implicit was the suggestion that Celestial Productions was being considered as a part of the project.
Celestial Productions was housed in a squat utilitarian building in an industrial part of town. A youngish woman, presumably Dorothy, waited in front dressed in a manner that wasn’t entirely consistent with the occasion, and certainly not with the hour. She became visibly flustered when Jack emerged from the car followed by Trevor Blake, who was thrilled to be part of the intrigue and happy to come along as a red herring and an extra pair of eyes. Justin and Nocona—more experienced therefore less thrilled, especially at the early hour, followed behind.
Dorothy led them to the archives, chattering giddily. “The rest of the regular staff won’t be in for least three hours. I didn’t even tell Mr. Birkhelm, the head of the company.” She opened the door to a large room that contained row after row of film canisters, videocassettes and files. “Many of these have been stored digitally by now, of course, but not all. If you want to look at something, just let me know. The viewing room is over there.” She nodded to an adjoining room.
Jack thanked her and dosed her with charm until she squirmed. Standing behind her, Justin rolled his eyes. With an over-rehearsed pose meant to display her assets, Dorothy reminded them of the time constraint, then left them to their plundering.
The four friends stood and surveyed the room.
“What are
we looking for?” Trevor asked.
“Good question,” Justin replied. “What do you have in mind, Wildcat?”
Nocona had already wandered over to examine one shelf laden with videotapes. “Chronological.”
Jack ran his fingers through his hair. “The only thing we have to go on is the emails Casey got. The first one was ‘Celestial Productions awaits your deductions.’”
“Yeah, okay, we got that. We’re here, what do we deduct?” Trevor said.
“Casey studies the social and political changes predicted by films—so I’d think it’s the subject matter of the films that matters.”
“Or the players,” Nocona pointed out. “Diversity. Actors, producers, directors.”
“Right, then. And—” he glanced at Nocona, “—maybe not the most recent films—she’d look at things that happened some years ago that accurately predicted a change.”
After they spent over an hour pawing through the archives, Justin suddenly said, “You said there was another email? Wasn’t it something to do with someone named Trixie Starr?”
“Yes. ‘Trixie Starr, she went far,’” Jack said. “Find something?”
“Maybe. In some of the early stuff, that name comes up a few times as an actress. Here—have a look at the names of these cuts. That’s what caught my eye.”
“Sweet Sixteen, Devil Doll, Hot Chocolate.” Jack looked up. “Hot Chocolate?”
“Gee, I wonder what those are about?” Justin said.
“Personally, I think Hot Chocolate has a good chance of having a social-change element,” Trevor said with a smirk.
Justin harrumphed and pronounced in baritone, “I think this warrants further investigation, men.”
Nocona shook his head at their idiocy.
“Pull that one, and one other with Trixie Starr, and we’ll have a look at them when we finish the titles.” Jack looked at his watch. They were running out of time.
Nocona had been cruising the shelves. He walked with purpose over to one, then another. “I think I’ve found something.” Everyone drifted over. “Look at this one.”
“Yeah, it’s a different format or something,” Justin said.
“Yes, and unlabeled. Now, look here.” Nocona walked down the row.
“Same thing. Different format.” Jack looked closer. “And unlabeled.”
“Now, here.” Nocona continued along the row. Once he pointed it out, a clear pattern emerged with single unlabeled tapes interspersed at regular intervals among the labeled tapes.
Jack pulled out one of the unlabeled tapes. On the side in very small print was one word. “Trahaney.”
Nocona pulled another. “Wettencamp.”
“Wettencamp? As in General Wettencamp?”
Trevor said, “Hmm. Porn, hidden tapes, famous names. I think I’m getting a picture here.”
“Pull the unlabeled tapes and write down the names,” Jack said. “Then put them back. We can’t risk boosting them.”
There was a timid knock at the door.
Justin groaned. “Jack, go do your thing with her. Get her to commit to being your sex slave or whatever, but we need a little time here.”
“Okay. Ten minutes.” Jack opened the door, a smile on his face. “Dorothy, hi. I was just coming to find you.” He took her arm and turned her around. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
When Jack returned, the men had just finished. They looked up expectantly. “I’ll take her to lunch tomorrow.”
Grunts of sympathy.
Jack shrugged. “She’s a nice person. Small price to pay for using her. Now let’s get out of here.”
A few people in the hallways treated them to curious stares. The twins now had a considerably larger bulge in the front of their pants than they had when they’d arrived. Jack didn’t think it was from excitement.
They stepped out of the building just as a new Mercedes pulled into the employee lot around the side. Justin ran to the car and started the engine. The others slid into their seats as a dumpy guy in a rumpled suit rounded the corner—the head of the company, they presumed.
“Get down.” Justin eased the car out of the parking lot. A few blocks later, he said, “All clear.”
Jack sat up and glanced around. “So, Nocona, Justin, about the fit of your pants…”
They both grinned and, reaching into their jeans, pulled out a tape each.
Jack groaned. “If they find something missing, we’re toast—you know that, right?”
“Yeah, but if these are what we think they are, I don’t think they’ll be going to the police,” Trevor pointed out.
“Anyway,” Nocona said, “they won’t find anything missing for a while. We took care of that.”
Jack didn’t ask how. They knew their business.
A couple of hours later, the four of them sat in Justin’s media room, looking at each other in dismay.
“We are in deep shit,” Trevor said.
“But at least we have an idea about why Casey was attacked,” Justin said.
“Yeah, but we still don’t know who attacked her. This could get messy.”
“They might not know about you, Trev,” Jack said. “There’s no reason for you—”
“Whoa. Just a minute. You can’t cut me out now. I know it’s dangerous, but, damn, Dyl. Danger is what I do for a living.”
Jack looked at him blankly. Trevor was the lead actor in a popular action series. “This is real life, Trevor, not television.”
“Close enough.”
The twins shrugged. “His life, his decision,” Nocona said.
“Yeah, anyway, they—whoever they are—will know about Trevor,” Justin said. “Dorothy saw him, remember? I’m thinking she’s not the type to keep celebrity encounters to herself. Who knows? She might be in it up to her eyeballs.”
“Oh, sure. That’s why she turned us loose in the archives.”
“Still, you should feel her out for anything she knows,” Trevor said.
Jack sighed. He hoped nothing seriously bad would happen, but he was not predisposed to blind optimism. Not like Casey. A pang of regret blinked through him at the thought of her eager smile, and he briefly wondered how he could miss her so badly after only two days.
Turning his attention back to the matter at hand, Jack looked at the twins.
“Don’t waste your breath,” Justin said.
Nocona didn’t even bother to address the issue.
Jack nodded. It would have been futile to try to dissuade them, and besides, he was honest enough with himself to admit he wanted them by his side. This kind of stuff was their daily bread and, Trevor’s slight confusion of reality and fantasy notwithstanding, the twins were the only ones among them who had the training and experience for it. Even the best-case scenario in this situation looked dicey.
At Justin and Nocona’s suggestion, Jack called Detective MacElroy and arranged to meet that evening at a diner near Justin’s townhouse. The twins were adamant their discovery should be shared with him at the soonest opportunity.
“The assault on Casey is the only crime on deck,” Nocona pointed out. “These tapes are evidence of bad judgment, possibly intent to do harm but, as of yet, we can’t put our finger on a crime associated with them, except as a motive for the assault on Casey.”
Justin added, “But if another crime has been committed—blackmail, for instance—then there are things like jurisdiction and chain of evidence to consider. We don’t want to get in trouble with the law.”
“Other than stealing the tapes in the first place?”
“Borrowed. We didn’t break in, we made an appointment and were told to help ourselves. We just borrowed them.”
Jack arrived at the diner early, carrying a small bag emblazoned with the logo of a bookstore, courtesy of Nocona. MacElroy was already in a booth drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. The scene looked so ordinary that Jack had a moment of disorientation, as if a director had just yelled “Cut!” He reminded himself this wasn’t a movie.
It just felt like it.
MacElroy rose to shake hands. “Mr. Raines.”
“Please call me Jack, Detective. Reminds me which life I’m in.” They settled into the booth. Jack put the bag on the table between them. “You said to call you if anything came up. I did some background work for, uh, a documentary. I thought Celestial Productions was the place for what I have in mind, so I made an appointment to browse their archives to check them out. Came across these. Thought you’d be interested in having a look at them.”
MacElroy looked at Jack with the unblinking gaze of a hawk and reached for the bag. He peered into it only long enough to see the contents and then set it aside. “I’ll look forward to it. I should have some free time tomorrow.”
“Good. The sooner, the better. There are more in the archives along the same lines, based on their titles. And by the way, turns out that this is the second time someone has tried to hurt Casey with a car.” He told the detective about the incident with Casey’s brakes.
MacElroy’s look sharpened for a moment. “I may need to reach you.”
“I’ll be out of town for a couple of days, but you’ve got my cell phone number.”
“Where are you going?” MacElroy’s voice was friendly, but Jack didn’t have the impression that answering was optional.
“Just a quick trip back east. Personal. A couple of loose ends to tie up.”
MacElroy gave Jack a long look, then nodded, pulled out his wallet and placed some bills on the table. “Travel at this time of the year can be risky. Take care.” He picked up the bag and walked out.
Jack sat in the booth a few minutes longer, then pulled out his cell phone. “Cal, this is Jack. I need to go to Washington, D.C., tomorrow. Can you get the plane ready? Early morning, if possible.”
