by Joan Francis
He put down his spoon, rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and finally answered, “Well, no, not really. She told me she was on an archeological dig.” Then he smiled and got in his own dig by adding, “Sort of like your rock hunting, I suspect, because I don’t know of any significant site around there. When I asked how she got out there, she basically told me to mind my own business. She said that unless she was breaking some law, I was to go away and leave her alone. I was in a hurry to get to my office and didn’t need some crazy woman to make a bad week worse, so I took her at her word and left.”
He looked into my face and shrugged. “It’s one of those things you wish you had done differently, but . . .”
He quit talking and ate a few bites, then added, “You’re lucky Camas just thinks you’re incompetent. Think he’s got me figured for his prime suspect. After all, she was killed practically at my house. In fact, that may be the tangent he took off on instead of contacting you. I hear he has been asking a lot of very personal questions regarding my love life.”
“Well, that’s typical cop mentality for–” I blushed. “Sorry.”
He laughed. “No offense taken. Some policemen don’t look further than the nearest relative or first person connected to the scene. Maybe now that he knows who she was, he’ll back off on me.”
I studied him for a moment, then confessed, “There are a few details I sort of forgot to tell Agent Camas. I don’t normally hold out on law enforcement, but I had no real information and, ah, . . .”
He smiled. “There may be a few things that escaped my memory too.” He looked nervously at the stack of mail piled on one side of the table, then looked at my face for a long moment. After an uncomfortably long silence he pulled out a pencil, tore a scrap of paper from a piece of junk mail, and began writing. When he finished he turned the paper around and there, in the neat box-letter style many policemen use in their written reports, were the words: HIGH POCKETS.
I was stunned.
Seeing my expression, he said, “You know what this means, don’t you?”
In answer, I took the scrap of paper, folded it, and stuffed it in my bra. “It’s from an old World War II movie. The heroine was a spy who slipped notes in her bra. High Pockets was her code name. You said Evelyn didn’t talk to you. How did you know?”
“When I come home at night I dump the day’s mail here in a pile. About once a week or so I sort through it, pay bills, answer letters, and so forth. A few days after her death I was going through my mail and I found this buried in the pile.” He dug down to the bottom of the pile and pulled out a white envelope with no address on it. Inside were two pieces of paper. He read me the first one.
“If something happens to me, I think a woman may come here and inquire after me. If she does, please give her this note. Please show it to no one else. You will know the right person because she will know the meaning of the words High Pockets.”
I took the note. “That is Evelyn’s hand-writing. At least it looks like her hand-written speech.”
“By the time I found this, it was clear that Camas was trying hard to make me his suspect. So I was not inclined to take him a note written by a dead woman and try to explain how it had been in my house for several days. Now I’m glad I saved it. Maybe it will make sense to you. It’s a puzzle that has been driving me nuts.” He handed me the second note and I was startled to see the familiar words.
“It is my private joke that the safe drop is in the old astrological gardens at the Nautical University. In the burrocity, scientific knowledge has been withheld from the people, so my pursuers will not understand the significance of the great granite spheres which chart the stars and planets. But someone among the Hidden Ones may know enough to get my joke. I leave my last information buried beneath the sphere that represents Atland, thus I am the first to get to the new planet.”
* * * * *
FOURTEEN
On the drive back to Flagstaff, I checked my cell phone for messages and found a short but disturbing message from Sam. It said simply, “Diana Hunter needs an extended vacation in Arizona. Leave her there, and don’t go to her apartment.”
At the airport I bought new tickets for cash using a phony driver’s license under my current alias. My laptop could be carried aboard, but since I had the Walther, the suitcase had to be checked. The itinerary I was able to put together meant long waits to catch available flights in both Flagstaff and Phoenix. The trip took longer than driving home, but it was necessary to brush out my tracks. It also meant a second night in a motel in Flagstaff, but after the day I’d had, I needed the rest. As my dear ol’ daddy used to say, “If you have time to spare, go by air.” On the long trip home I tried to sort out all the pieces of the puzzle. First I placed a set of imaginary parentheses around all the mumbo jumbo about Mars and Red 19, not eliminating it from my equation, just setting it off as an independent variable. I would solve for verifiable fact first.
Borson had set me up to seek Red 19. By following that lead I’d found Evelyn. Could his real goal have been to have me locate Evelyn? Unknown.
Were those hour-long talks really part of the selection process or were they just intended to gain my trust? Unknown. Why was I chosen? I hoped it wasn’t because I was the most gullible. Evelyn was attacked, frightened, and decided to run away rather than follow her itinerary. Within a week of our meeting she was murdered in the same way as Antia in the Martian Diary. Who besides Borson, Evelyn, and I would know that detail? Unknown.
No ID was left on the body, and her fingerprints were removed to prevent or delay identification. Was my card left in her bra because the killer didn’t find it, or so the FBI would call me? Why would Borson want to delay ID? Did he? Did he kill her?
What had Evelyn done in that week? Who had she gone to see in Arizona? What was the motive for murdering her? All unknown.
Why did the FBI wait so long to call me, and who was watching my place?
Enough! Those were all useless questions. What real leads did I have that I could pursue? When Evelyn had run off without filing a complaint, there seemed little use in following up on the boat used in the kidnap attempt. Now, checking the CF number was high on my list. Sam was working on information on Borson. Maybe he would have a good lead or two. Evelyn said three of her colleagues in Costa Rica had been killed. I would have to get online and see what I could learn about the murder of environmental activists in Costa Rica. There were also the three people I met at the environmental conference in Long Beach: Guillermo Jesus Montegro y Monteblan, and Ken and Judith Hoffman. Why did they disappear so quickly?
At John Wayne Airport, I waited bleary-eyed for my one piece of luggage. Renting a car under my pseudonym, I left my easily identifiable 57 T-Bird sitting in the expensive airport parking lot. Oh well, if Borson was going to shower me with cash, I might as well put it to good use. Sam could have someone pick it up later. I headed for the Yellow Umbrella Hotel in Bluff Beach.
This old hotel had been quite a Hollywood retreat in the 1920s and 1930s. All the elegant suites, complete with kitchens and wet bars, were terraced down the bluff so each room had its own patio overlooking the ocean. Of course, a lot of things have changed since those days. The rooms are no longer elegant; in fact, they stink of dirty carpet, stained upholstery, and musty, moldy walls. However, the old place still offers two things that made it a desirable retreat in the old days. Each room still has its own ocean-view patio, and the privacy of its clients is still guaranteed. No eyebrow is raised if Mr. and Mrs. Smith register, and no ID is required. No one gets past the security gates to visit any guest until the guest approves the visit. If a hasty escape is needed, the path from the apartments leads to a private beach and waiting boat. It was the perfect place to set up operations and go after answers and Evelyn’s killer.
* * * * *
FIFTEEN
I registered under my alias, Champs O’Shaughnessy and deposited my limited luggage in the penthouse suite on the top floor of the Yellow Umbrella. Fro
m there I walked two blocks to a mom and pop store and carried home sandwich makings and a bottle of Grants. Fifteen minutes later, with a sandwich in one hand and a glass nearby, I called Sam. I had no idea how Borson was getting to me, and I had decided that my first step would be to make sure I wasn’t walking around with an electronic bug.
J. Edgar answered Sam’s phone. Putting on my best East Texas drawl I said, “Well, hello there, darlin’. This is Champs O’Shaughnessy just in from the great state of Texas. Is your boss there? I have a hurry up need to have a word with him.”
Sam picked up. “Hello, Champs. I been wondering when you would blow into town. Where are you?”
“Oh, I’m havin’ myself a little holiday here at the beach. Staying in that hideaway where we met the sheik and his bride. You remember?”
“Sure.”
“You also remember that they had a little electrical problem you helped them with. S’pose you could help me with it too?”
“I’ll be right over.”
It would take Sam about fifteen minutes to drive from his classic old California bungalow in San Pedro to my temporary quarters in Bluff Beach. While I waited, I turned on the laptop, pulled up the Borson report, checked the boat CF number, and put in my second call.
“DMV. Good afternoon, this is Tamara. How may I help you?”
“Hi, Tamara, this is Diana Hunter. I would like to run registration on one CF number, please.” As she typed, I supplied the CF number, my account ID, and my password.
“The registered owner is Offshore Deep Driller, Inc. The legal owner is Blue Morpho Global Investments. There is a Department of Justice report as of 29 October. Do you receive address information on this account, Ms. Hunter?”
“Not this time. No process service needed. You said a DOJ report? So you are saying that this boat was reported stolen on the 29th of October, right?”
“Yes.”
“Does the DOJ do an investigation on that, or do they just maintain a state index as reported by local enforcement?”
“I’m sorry, I really don’t know. You would have to talk with the DOJ on that.”
“Okay, thanks.”
I dialed the 800 number I had for the Department of Justice and got one of those interminable message machine menus. Waiting none-too-patiently, I finally was allowed to press zero to talk to a staff member. The phone rang and I got another recording telling me that their staff was available from nine a.m. to noon and one p.m. to four. I looked at my watch, 12:40. Shit! Twenty minutes was too long to wait so I called the Sheriff’s Department, Harbor Patrol, to see if they knew how boat theft reports were handled. I got an operator message that said the area code had changed. Damn! With mounting frustration I tried the new area code and got hold of a deputy who hadn’t a clue what I was talking about. He didn’t even know the DOJ got stolen vehicle reports. I apologized for bothering him and said I would call the DOJ. Damn, damn! I slammed down the receiver and sat staring at my watch and steaming.
I reread the registration information, looking for another angle. Blue Morpho Global Investments had to be connected to Blue Morpho Petroleum, Inc. I was staring at the phone, debating my next move, when it rang.
“Hello.”
“This is the front desk, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. Are you expecting a gentleman named Sam?”
“Yes, please, send him right up.”
Sam came in carrying a large satchel with his debugging equipment and went to work without a word, not only checking all my possessions, but the entire room. “You’re clean, ma’ dear. Now we can relax and chat.”
“Thanks, Sam. Why did you warn me off going to my apartment? Did you find a bug there?”
“Yes, I did. Probably found it before your plane took off for Arizona on Friday. But that’s not why I told you to stay away. There’s somebody watching your building. I’ve been trying to ID the two guys who trade off watch but don’t have anything on them yet. They’re definitely not pros. On Friday afternoon I brought your stuff out right under their noses and they never knew it. I’ve got Yeabot, your PC, and filing cabinet at my place. You’re all set up for operation, complete with a secure phone line. You can move in tomorrow.”
He paused and I could tell from his expression that more bad news was coming.
“Before I got back over there Saturday, they managed to break in and pretty well trash the place. It was strictly amateur night. They hacked around the locks with a fire axe, for Pete’s sake.”
There was another ominous pause, and I braced myself for the real news.
“At least we can be fairly certain it wasn’t your friend Borson. He would have known everything he could want to know from his video-tape.”
“What! What video-tape?”
He gave me a self-satisfied grin. “Borson must have some connections in the business because he had a piece of top-secret, state-of-the-art hardware installed in your television. I had trouble even finding someone who knew me well enough to tell me what it was. My past associates call it a Big Brother chip. You remember in the book 1984 how the televisions watched the people like a security camera?”
“Yes, don’t tell me . . . ”
“Uh huh. The set didn’t even need to be on. Borson got a twenty-four-hour-a-day video, with sound. Of course he’ll know that I found it. Would have seen me debugging the place; so we lost the advantage there, and he’ll know about me and any other people you have had in your apartment, and about Yeabot.”
I closed my eyes and shook my head as I thought about the damage control that would be necessary on this one.
“But, it’s not all bad news. I did figure out how he was tapping into your computer. Clever damn program. In your first emails with him he installed a small program that allowed him to dial up your modem, send future messages and plant them in your C-drive. I am still analyzing the program to see what else it does, but I cleaned that all out of your computer and added a program that will recognize any similar attempts as a virus.”
“Thanks, Sam. You really are good.”
His face lit in an almost mischievous smile. He was actually enjoying all this. “I haven’t gotten to the good part yet. The good part is I was able to get a trace on the outgoing signal from that Big Brother chip. You will never guess where that signal went.” He didn’t wait for me to guess. “The executive floor of Heartland and Home Insurance Corporation, biggest damn insurance conglomerate in the country.”
He waited as I processed this incongruity. Bewildered I asked, “What was he doing there?”
“The correct question is: What does he do there?”
“Okay, what does he do there?”
“His real name is Nathan Niedlemyer, a.k.a. Nate. He is the youngest vice president in the company, came up through the accounting end of things, does master programming and planning in things like actuarial tables, loss projections, long-term planning for the health and wealth of his company.”
“Son of a gun! He is a bean counter. I pegged him for that when I first met him. But how the hell does that . . . it makes no sense. What was his connection to Evelyn, to Mars and the red stuff . . . and to murder?”
“I don’t know, but tomorrow morning at eight a.m. he will be conducting a training seminar for his regional managers. I tapped into his computer and inserted an extra attendee, Clara Shimmerhorn of Story City, Iowa. Here is your badge, Ms. Shimmerhorn. I used my computer to fudge up your picture a little bit. Richard is expecting you at Coiffeurs Americain tomorrow at six a.m., so he can make you up to go with the picture. See what you can find out at the training session.”
I smiled at him. “You are a real magician, Sam. Great work as always. Thanks.”
“Yeah, well, I have a rather personal interest in this son of a bitch. He’s the first person to get a jump on me since I retired. I gotta know what cards he holds and how he intends to play them. By the way, I won’t be any further away than your lapel. That badge is wired.”
* * * * *
SIXTEEN
Four years ago a con artist ripped off Richard’s entire retirement savings in a real estate swindle in Palmdale. Like most victims, Richard soon learned that the police simply referred him to a private attorney, and the attorney charged him another small fortune to get a judgment. Nine times out of ten a judgment in a fraud case like Richard’s is worthless. The con has either spent the money or hidden it beyond the reach of the court or legal investigation. I had seen it happen dozens of times, but I liked Richard so well that I did something I had never done before. I conned a con. Of course the operation called for unorthodox, if not felonious, activities, so I try to refrain from such solutions these days. But it did work slick. Not only did I recover all of Richard’s retirement, but I gained myself a friend and disguise master.
Working from Sam’s computer-doctored photo, Richard gave me dark brown hair, brown contacts under horn-rimmed glasses, and padding to round out my body to a size eighteen. Not a complete disguise, but there would probably be hundreds attending, and I didn’t expect to get too close to Borson, or, rather, Niedlemyer.
On the way to the downtown Los Angeles hotel where the seminar was being held, I bought an appropriately frumpy suit for my Clara Shimmerhorn character. It wasn’t hard to find one. If you want truly ugly colors, cheap fabrics, and styles that would be unflattering to anyone, just go to the large-size section of any store. The industry bias is so obvious it’s a wonder large women haven’t started lynching the designers.
