Funny how with certain people you just knew "it" would be good.
She glanced at the phone. Every now and then, she felt the urge to call her former supervisor to see if returning to Seattle was an option. Jack, however, had made that impossible. Even though he was in and out of her life in the span of two weeks, people would have said she jumped on a plane and flew across the country after getting dumped by the former governor's son.
A few more dates with Jack, and maybe it would have been true.
Good thing he wigged out.
Her appetite was gone. The files on the floor called out to her. Each stack was its own case, another investigation, a different victim. Andie had one of those filing systems where the work piled up – literally. Even so, she couldn't stop herself from going back to her computer and that movie again.
The FBI's tech experts had cleaned up the downloadable version of the film and burned it onto a disk, which she now inserted into her PC. It still had its shortcomings – shaky frames, grainy images, poor lighting. The geek masters were good, but they weren't magicians.
Andie let the frames advance in slow motion. It was like laying out the pieces to a puzzle with two parts. One, who raped Theo's mother? Two, why did Isaac want Theo to see it? So far she had the faces of two drunks – the heckler and his friend – in a dark room somewhere in the early 1970s. Those guys were in their fifties now, and it would be impossible to find and identify them if she didn't nail down the location. The answer had to be on this disk, and Andie was determined to dissect it from every angle. Portia's striptease in the darkness. Her argument with the drunks. The ensuing frenzy, the mad chase down hall, the -
Andie hit pause. Something had caught her eye.
She rewound several frames, still in slow motion, and watched even more intently. A flash of light brightened the screen, and she hit pause to freeze the image. The white flash had been the camera's spotlight reflecting in a mirror on the wall. She advanced one more frame – and there he was.
The cameraman.
Whoever had posted this film on the Internet had gone to some effort to protect the guilty, carefully editing out frames that would reveal the attackers' identity. Apparently they'd missed this split-second appearance of the cameraman in the mirror. Andie burned the image to a separate CD and took it upstairs to the tech floor. By definition, these guys had no life, and of course someone was still there after hours.
"Benny, can you help me again?" she said, catching her breath.
Crumpled candy wrappers and empty soda cans littered the work area around Benny's computer monitor. He swiveled in his chair to face Andie, but his mouth was too full to respond. He held a half-eaten Twinkie in one hand and a soda can in the other.
"What…now?" he said, swallowing.
Andie showed him the disk. "Can you clean up a still image for me?"
"Right this minute?"
"Pretty please?"
Bennie washed down his Twinkie with a hit of caffeine and sugar. "Okay," he said. "But first: in the television series Star Trek, who was originally offered the role of Spock, but declined?"
Andie felt a headache coming on. She liked Star Trek, but this was the price she paid for pretending to love it just to stay in the good graces of the all-important tech guys. "I don't know. Martin Landau?"
"Corrrr-ect!"
"Really?"
"Yup. And then in a truly interesting twist, after Landau left Mission Impossible, Leonard Nimoy joined that show to play the role of disguise expert-"
"Benny, please. The disk?"
He took it and inserted it into the computer. "Sure."
The image popped onto the screen. Benny worked on a monitor much larger than Andie's, and it looked even worse on the big screen. "Well, that could use some work," said Benny.
"Can you fix it?"
"Let's see." Benny zoomed on his face, sharpening the features, darkening the background, adjusting the color. Two minutes and several dozen mouse clicks later, the face was almost as clear as the other two images Andie had pulled from the movie.
"How's that?" said Benny.
"Great. Can you do anything with his shirt?"
"What about it?"
Andie pointed. "There's some kind of artwork on it, I think."
He trained the zoom onto the man's chest, and after another round of computerized adjustments, the shirt started to come into focus.
"It's a frat house," said Andie.
"What?" he said, still tinkering with the image.
"Those are Greek letters on his shirt. This was a fraternity party."
Benny tightened the zoom, and with another series of clicks the front of the man's shirt filled the screen. "That's the best I can do," he said.
Andie studied it. "Pi Alpha Delta," she said.
"Hope that helps," he said.
"More than you know," she said. She thanked him, brought the disk back to her office, and printed out the still images of the cameraman, the heckler, and his friend. Then she called university information to find out if there was a Pi Alpha Delta fraternity on campus.
There was.
Andie tucked the printed photographs into her purse and bolted out of the office.
It took twenty minutes of dodging speeding motorcycles on the expressway and another ten of winding through residential neighborhoods to reach the university's main campus. Pi Alpha Delta was actually located off-campus, one of five fraternity houses directly across from the intramural athletic fields on a busy four-lane boulevard. Andie parked her unmarked sedan in the church lot up the street, walked a half block to the house, and wondered how many frat boys had used the acronym as a bad pickup line – as in, "Come on over to my PAD."
Andie had yet to confirm that the PAD house existed in the 1970s, but from the looks of it, she was betting yes. The unadorned one-story cinder-block construction with low-slung roofline was the typical hurricane-resistant style of the 1960s that only a Florida architect could love. She walked up the sidewalk and rang the bell at the front door. It seemed surprisingly quiet inside. Apparently, even frat boys stopped to recharge their batteries every once in a while.
The door opened, and a muscular young man wearing only nylon jogging shorts and flip-flop sandals greeted her. If Andie had to guess, she'd say he spent more time working on his suntan and his six-pack abs than his studies.
He smiled and said, "Hey, baby."
"Hi. Do you live here?"
"Yeah. Wanna see my-"
"Don't say it," she said. Obnoxious enough, but on some level, she was sort of flattered that he hadn't taken her for the mother of one of his buddies. "My name's Andie," she said. "Andie Henning.
"I'm David. You with a sorority?"
Either David was playing with her, or the darkness was kinder to her thirty-something face than she realized. "Yeah," she said, playing along. "I'm a pledge over at FBI."
He scrunched his face, as if reciting the entire Greek alphabet in his head, and then it hit him. "You mean…"
She nodded and flashed her badge. "Can I come in?"
"Yeah – sure," he said nervously. "I guess so."
He let her inside and closed the door. "How can I do for you? I mean, what-"
"Relax, okay? You're not in any kind of trouble."
"I should probably get our president."
"Is he here?"
"Yeah. But he's kind of – he's with his…"
"He's in his PAD?"
He smiled, which softened some of his nervous edge. "You know how that is."
"Look, I'm working on a very old case. It doesn't affect anyone who currently lives here. All I want to know is if you keep any composite photographs of your old fraternity classes around the house."
"Of course," he said. "They're hanging in the chapter room."
"Great. Can I see them?"
"Well, I don't know."
"It will take five minutes. You live here, so all I need is your consent."
"It's just that, we don't reall
y let anyone in the chapter room. Not even pledges. It's only for brothers."
"Oh, come on. You know as well as I do that there's nothing sacred in there. The only reason you keep it locked is because you don't want anyone looking at those composites and seeing what a bunch of geeks you PADs used to be."
"Yeah," he said with a chuckle. "Those mullet haircuts in the eighties were the best."
"What about the seventies?" she said, soft-pedaling her real interest. "The days of big hair and bad mustaches. Or maybe you don't go back that far."
"Oh, we go back to 1962."
"Wonderful. I love a place with a sense of history. So what do you say? You and me in the chapter room for five minutes? Or do we have to go knocking on the door of your president's PAD?"
"Well, okay. Follow me."
He led her down the hall and through the cafeteria. It was after the dinner hour, but some men were still at the tables, eating and talking, while others were actually studying. They looked up with curiosity as Andie and David passed. Andie followed him to the kitchen, which smelled of some food that Andie was quite certain she'd never eaten. The final leg of the journey was down a hallway that was too narrow to walk in any formation but single file. The Greek letters IIAA were painted on a door that more or less blended into the wall, as if someone had made a halfhearted effort to create a secret entrance. It was secured with a combination lock. David made Andie face the other way as he dialed in the code, and then he took her inside and switched on the light.
"This is it?" she said.
She hadn't meant to insult him with her reaction, but had she endured the living hell that fraternity initiations were in the 1970s and earlier, this first look at the secret chapter room would have smacked of the proverbial crock at the end of the rainbow.
"This is it," he said.
The windowless room had all the charm of an unfinished basement – concrete floor, walls of painted cinder blocks, and shop-style fluorescent lighting suspended from the ceiling. Covering the walls, however, were several dozen framed composite photographs, each with head shots of young men dressed in suits. Andie immediately zeroed in on the composites where the outfit of choice was the powder-blue leisure suit. Andie went straight to them, as she removed her printed photographs from her purse.
David asked, "You know what year you're looking for?"
The composites were arranged in chronological order in columns of three. "Right around here," she said, searching. "Early to mid-1970s."
Andie's adrenalin was pumping. Each head shot had the young man's name underneath it, so if her computer-generated photographs matched, she was home-free. Theo's mother would have been fifteen years old in 1968, so she started there, just to be overinclusive. She compared the cameraman's image first, breezing through the late sixties, and slowing down for more careful examination in 1970, 1971, and so on. She went all the way to 1980.
He wasn't there. She went through it again, just in case she'd missed something.
He definitely wasn't there.
She did the same thing with the image of the heckler and the drunk who had started the war of words with Portia in the movie. She checked each composite, photograph by photograph.
They weren't there, either.
At this point, she was well beyond her allotted five minutes. David said, "Something wrong?"
"I was just so sure that-" She stopped herself and did a double take. "There's a year missing."
"What?"
"Nineteen seventy-two. It's not here."
David took a closer look. "You're right."
Andie walked the entire room, checking to see if it had been mounted someplace else, out of chronological order. "It's not here," she said. "Is there another room where it could be?"
"No. I been living here three years. All the old composites are in this room."
"I need to see 1972," she said.
"Well, I don't know how to help you. The one you want is the one we don't have. Which is sort of an interesting coincidence."
Andie noticed something about the wall. The composites weren't all the same size, and they'd hung so long in the same place that a faint shadow on the painted wall matched the outline of their frame. The composites after 1972 didn't match their shadow – which meant they'd been moved. Rearranged. Recently. To make it not so apparent that 1972 was missing.
"It's definitely interesting that it's not here," she said, the wheels turning in her head. "But I'd say it's no coincidence."
"Hey wait a sec," said David. "Pi Alpha Delta does have a historian"
"A historian?"
"Yeah. He's with the national office in Columbus, Ohio. Some old fart who doesn't want to let go of his college days."
"You think he has copies of old composites?"
"He has everything from every chapter in the country. But they'd be little copies. Like yearbook-sized. Would that help?"
Andie smiled. "Immensely. Think maybe I'll visit his pad."
Chapter 39
Jack got a phone call from Andie at midmorning. She had "important information" for him. Before he could ask why she didn't just tell him over the telephone, she beat him to the punch.
"You were nice enough to invite me to dinner at a gas station. How about lunch at a Laundromat?"
Jack laughed, but apparently she was serious. He jotted down the address and agreed to meet her there at noon.
The FBI field office was in North Miami, an area that Jack didn't know well, except to pass by it on his way to Broward County and all-important places like Dolphin Stadium or Fort Lauderdale beach. He was sure they had plenty of good lunch spots up that way. Knowing Miami, however, he wasn't so sure Andie had been kidding about the Laundromat-restaurant. He pulled into a strip mall off North East 163rd Street to see Andie standing in front of the U-Wash-It.
"What do you think?" she said.
Jack checked it out from the sidewalk, peering through the wide-open double doors. The place had no air conditioning; instead, a noisy commercial fan circulated hot air inside. Two sweaty old women shared a bench and yesterday's newspaper as their clothes tumbled in the dryer. A washing machine on spin cycle rattled and shook violently, as if it was about to walk out the door on its own power. That universal and distinctly unappetizing smell of a Laundromat filled the air.
"They really serve food here?" said Jack.
"Yes, but only Chinese."
Jack glanced inside again, then back at Andie. "Chinese, huh?"
She smiled. "Gotcha."
"Funny. But not very politically correct/
"It's okay. I've got my anti-PC license. I'm half Native American. Come on. We're eating at the deli right over here."
They got sandwiches and sodas at the counter and found an open booth by the window. Another patron had left a Canadian dollar on the table for the busboy and Jack weighted it down with the saltshaker. Andie squeezed a packet of deli mustard onto her sliced turkey breast, and she was about to start talking business when Jack jumped in and steered the conversation in a more personal direction.
"I'm glad we're doing this," he said.
She looked up from her sandwich. "Doing what?"
It wasn't what she said as much as the way she'd said it, but Jack didn't like the vibe. He could have said what he was feeling – something like, "Getting out together, picking up where we left off last January, giving ourselves a chance to see if we can put aside the fact that I was a total idiot when I called it quits." But something about her body language didn't seem open to it.
"Eating at the deli," he said, "instead of the Laundromat."
"Me too." She took a small bite out of her sandwich and looked out the window.
She was tensing up on him. On the car ride over, Jack had come to the firm conclusion that Andie was interested in him again. The playful little ruse at the Laundromat had only confirmed that belief. He had yet to hear word one from Rene since her return to Africa, and perhaps it was high time to stop fooling himself into thinking that ha
ppiness lay across the ocean. Both Theo and Abuela had told him that Andie was for real, but there was more to it than that.
Jack couldn't seem to stop thinking about her.
"Andie, can I ask you something?"
"Huh? I'm sorry. What'd you say?"
"I wanted to ask you something"
"Uh, sure. Go ahead."
She was beyond preoccupied. Either she'd invited him to lunch for personal reasons and completely changed her mind, or she really did have "something important" that needed to be said face-to-face.
"Never mind," said Jack. "What is it that you needed to tell me?
She put her sandwich aside. "Good news and bad news."
"Okay. I'll bite. Let's go with the good news first."
"I've uncovered some information that might help us find who raped Theo's mother."
Jack listened without interrupting as she laid out the events of the last sixteen hours. The Internet made a trip to see the Pi Alpha Delta historian in Ohio unnecessary. He'd e-mailed her the 1972 composite, and Andie's tech agent compared the facial images from the movie to the mug shots in the composite. There was no match on the drunk and the heckler.
Jack said, "Probably guests at the strip party but not brothers at the house."
"That was my guess," said Andie. "But we did get a match on the cameraman. His name is Lance Gilford."
"So, when are you going to talk to the esteemed Mr. Gilford?"
"That leads me to the bad news," she said. "I won't be talking to him."
"Why not?"
"Because I can't help you anymore."
"You can't?" said Jack. "Or you won't."
"Can't. It's not my decision."
"Somebody is telling you not to?"
She struggled to put on her business face, the one she always wore when spewing the bureau line. "You have to see this from the FBI's point of view. I was appointed to head up a task force that is looking into the reasons why Isaac Reems was able to escape from jail. From there, I started looking at who killed Isaac. Then it became a question of who tried to kill Theo. The focus then was who killed Theo's mother. Now I'm trying to find out who raped Theo's mother over thirty years ago. I'm out of my jurisdiction here, not to mention way beyond the scope of my original assignment."
Last Call Page 21
