by Webb Hubbell
When I couldn’t join her, she turned to Maggie, dragging Beth with them until she was old enough to protest. Over the years she and Maggie became the best of friends, so much so that Maggie knew about Beth’s diagnosis before I did. Her death hit us all hard. To this day she is the only one I can really talk to about Angie.
I said, “Can you imagine how excited she’d be if Doug really has made a breakthrough?”
“Oh, Jack, she would be bloody thrilled. Do you think it’s possible?” she asked.
“Well, if it were anyone other than Doug, I’d think it was a ploy to disguise the sale and use of marijuana. But the Doug Angie talked about isn’t some nutty professor type who’s invented Flubber. Neither is the one Liz is in love with. Marijuana isn’t opium or cocaine, despite what the government says. In fact, it’s less destructive than tobacco or alcohol. And more to the point, for the last ten or so years its medicinal qualities have been pretty well-documented, despite the government’s attempts to eliminate its production and use. Grass has certainly done a lot more good than harm. The government’s only real argument against legalization is that it’s a ‘gateway drug,’ but that’s a lot of hooey. It doesn’t rise to the level of alcohol as a ‘gateway drug,’ and it brings on passive, not violent behavior. If it has medicinal qualities when you smoke it, there’s no telling what a chemist like Doug could do with the whole plant. Sorry—I didn’t mean to make a lecture of it.”
Maggie smiled. I knew enough about my right arm to know she had probably experimented in her younger days, just like most every other British kid. I was one of the few in my group who hadn’t. My stepfather was a heavy smoker, and I didn’t want to be part of anything he enjoyed, including smoking. I missed out on a teenage rite of passage but, on the other hand, I never smoked a legal cigarette either. Good thing I didn’t know anyone in college who made special cookies, like Liz—I’d probably still be enjoying them today.
“Apology accepted. You know, I can just about believe in your premise,” Maggie said as she poured herself a little more wine.
“Maggie, I feel it in my bones. Who has the money and power to initiate and then co-opt a Federal investigation, one that’s top secret, to boot? We know it’s there, we just don’t know who, and I’ll admit the ‘why’ is a little iffy as well.” I topped off my wine. “I need a break.”
“What exactly do we have?” Maggie asked.
“Surprise, I hope, and what should be more important—the truth.” I raised my glass. “Oh, and the best team in the business.”
“Thank you, but that usually doesn’t win out against money, power, and time.”
“Okay, maybe not, but it’s worth the effort. Lost causes are still worth fighting for, and sometimes the good guys still win.”
“Even if you get yourself killed?” She didn’t smile this time. Maggie had every right to be concerned.
“Even if I get myself killed. For a while it was just fun being in the game again. Doug wasn’t our usual client, but he was a client, just like at Banks & Tuohey. Now it’s different.”
Maggie came back. “Except you never lost at B&T, and no one tried to kill you.”
“I never lost because I always settled the cases I couldn’t win. But you’re right: I never experienced an element of personal danger. At some point this past week I came to two conclusions. First, Doug Stewart may have actually made a breakthrough in the treatment of cancer. Second, someone, or maybe it’s a ‘they,’ wants to make absolutely sure Doug’s research never reaches the light of day until they’re in a position to control production, access, and profits. They’re ready to throw both Doug and Liz to the wolves. The rest of us are just collateral damage. Stopping that kind of conduct is worth a little risk, don’t you think?”
“How could anyone be so cold-hearted? So selfish?” Maggie asked.
“For money, and by employing a million rationalizations: the research is illegal, any product that’s untested could have terrible side effects, it needs to be controlled and regulated, its premature release could have a disastrous effect on our economy—the list goes on and on. Why try to think logically and unselfishly when you’ve got a perfectly good rationalization? Few people can go a day without at least two or three juicy rationalizations.” I smiled, remembering my favorite line from The Big Chill. “Plus, Doug made it easy. He meant well, but his letter transformed his research into low-hanging fruit.”
“So what’s next?” Maggie asked.
“We get a good night’s sleep and wake up ready to put our plan into action. The letter is evidence that the government has known about Doug’s research for at least three years and has always been ready to shut it down before he made it public. What we don’t know is the extent of the government’s involvement or who else is involved. We need to gather hard evidence to supplement what we’ve found, and if that falls through, pray for a break or two, and roll the dice.”
SATURDAY MORNING
May 3, 2014
52
WHEN I CAME down the next morning, I found Debbie in the kitchen making cranberry-oatmeal muffins. Clovis had already gone to pick up Micki’s computer guru, and Eric had left for morning rounds. Micki had poured herself a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table in old sweats, wet hair wrapped in a towel. She looked great.
I took my coffee and muffin out onto the sunny patio and watched the Tahoe round the curve into the driveway. Clovis stepped out and opened the door for his passenger, Stella Rice. Micki had told me they’d met at a triathlon. She was a friend of Mongo’s, and a computer whiz. I didn’t have any preconceived notions, but I expected a more or less nerdy woman who spent her days and night in front of a computer screen. Boy, was I surprised.
In boots with four-inch heels she stood as tall as Clovis. She wore skin-tight jeans and a tank top that showed off her muscular arms, one of which was covered with a rose vine tattoo. She had twisted her heavy, dark blond hair up with some kind of comb. Bright purple nails and lipstick completed the picture. Debbie told me later that she owned a gym downtown and spent most of her time either in it or running with her constant companion, Blakely, a solid black retriever mix. Now the dog sprang out of Clovis’s Tahoe, wagging and wiggling. He must’ve thought he’d died and gone to heaven when he saw the huge pasture.
Over her shoulder, Stella carried an obviously heavy bag filled with electronic gear.
“Hope you don’t mind. I brought my office with me.” She patted her bag with her off hand, as I shook hands with the other.
She greeted Micki and Debbie like long-lost friends, politely shook hands with Maggie, and began to set up her equipment on the dining room table.
Maggie stood staring until I pulled her into the kitchen to help me make a fresh pot of coffee. She gave me an appraising look and whispered, “Don’t you get any ideas, Jack Patterson.”
Debbie said, “See, Jack, I knew you’d like her. She’s much more your type.” I hadn’t realized she had joined us in the kitchen.
My type? I had no idea what to think of this muscle-bound package who made Clovis look flabby.
We brought coffee into the dining area while Stella swept the house once again for newly planted bugs. It seemed to take quite a while; I was long through with the flimsy local paper before she returned.
“Sorry, but we can’t be too safe,” she said after she finished and gave us an all-clear.
For the next hour she told us what she’d discovered: in a nutshell, multiple attempts to hack both our office and personal computers by more than one source. She’d left the “hacking that succeeded” in place in case we wanted to send out false information, but had created a new firewall between the intruder and our reality. She asked us to reserve time for individual training after lunch.
I asked her about Liz’s computers and phones.
“Liz was easy. She only uses an iPad to send e-mail and check Facebook. I told her to assume anything she did or said was being monitored. She laughed and said she’d be sure to be e
specially offensive from now on. Sounds like my kind of woman!” Oh, great. I tried not to think about what that meant.
Liz had called Maggie earlier to say she couldn’t see us until Wednesday morning before the auction, something about an appointment with her hairdresser. Her hairdresser? I was irritated, but also relieved. Liz required a lot of energy.
Muttering something about what was really important, Clovis had slipped away when Stella began the debugging process. Now he returned with barbecue from Ben’s— I couldn’t believe it was already lunchtime. I had devoured my sandwich, and was eyeing a second, when Maggie asked the obvious question.
“How did you get so proficient with computers? The image of a triathlete doesn’t exactly square with that of a computer nerd.”
“I was good at math, one of the few girls who went to engineering school at Arkansas. I got hooked early on computer technology and worked for IBM fresh out of school. Then, on a bet, I entered a half marathon. I didn’t make three miles. It pissed me off, and I started training for real. I found a new love and got into serious cross training. As you might have noticed, I gravitated away from IBM’s dress-for-success look and mentality. I like glossy lipstick and turning heads. So I left IBM, bought a gym, and do computer consulting when I’m not doing personal training. I’m my own boss. If I want to take off to hike Mt. Magazine or bike in the Delta, I can.”
“Have you ever married?” I was surprised by Maggie’s probing.
“Never found a man who could keep up with me.” She answered curtly, taking another sandwich and returning to her computers.
“I assume you’ve checked her out?” I asked Clovis, who was lingering out of her earshot.
“After Moira? What do you think? She’s exactly what you see—former IBM, health nut, an independent woman with an attitude. An odd sense of style, but as smart as they come. You interested?”
“Not in that way. I’m not so much into muscles, besides Maggie would tan my hide. But she does seem to know computers.”
“You should have seen Walter’s IT guys. They were all giggly and snooty at first, but within thirty minutes, they were ready to hire her. She blew them off, but you watch, they’ll make another run at her.”
“I can’t figure out how she stands up in those boots.”
Clovis laughed. “I asked her the same thing this morning.”
“And . . . ?”
“She said, ‘Men admire my ass a lot more when I wear these. They hurt like hell, but I bet I can outrun you in them.”
“Well, let’s see how good she really is before we give her a gold star. I need a break. Maybe she can provide it.” We wandered back into the dining room.
She and Maggie were huddled over Maggie’s laptop.
I was blunt. “So, Stella, can you tell me who’s been hacking our computers?”
“The short answer is ‘maybe.’ The problem is that more than one person is trying to get in there. She gestured toward Maggie’s laptop. “The multiple hacking attempts make identification more difficult, but not impossible.”
“Next question: if you figure out who it is, can you explain it to a judge?”
She didn’t hesitate. “If I can discover who it is, I can make it so easy to understand, even you’ll get it.”
“I take it Maggie told you about my computer skills,” I replied, not quite ready to be convinced.
“Micki and Maggie told me you have many talents, but computer proficiency is not one.”
“Can you do it by Wednesday morning? We don’t have much time.” I caved.
“Well, again, maybe. No guarantees, but I’m willing to try, if you’re willing to pay.”
Micki interrupted. “What do you need? Money is not the issue.”
“It would help if I could work from here. I’m likely to have lots of questions about who I’m looking for. I’ve got some idea what this case is about, but the more you can tell me, the better chance I have to discover the source. I’ll need to run programs at night. Maybe I could crash on the couch and wake one of you on occasion?”
Micki answered before I could. “We’ve got plenty of room. We’ll send someone to your place for clothes. You can start right now. If you have any questions in the middle of the night, you should ask Jack. He won’t mind.” She didn’t give me a glance, didn’t need to.
Paul beckoned me from the front door to let me know he and Debbie were leaving for Dub’s next press conference. Holding a press conference on a Saturday afternoon . . . he was either clueless or desperate. I gave Debbie a little hug, followed by a stern warning.
“Be really careful, Debbie. Dub is a dangerous man. We want his mind focused on why you are there, but I don’t want you to be in any danger. Okay?”
Debbie had chosen a very stylish dress by French Laundry. I recognized the brand from Beth’s clothes. Her lips were bright pink, and she wore flashy crystal drop earrings. “Don’t worry. He’ll notice me, but we won’t stay. I want him to wonder where I’ve gone.”
I looked at Paul.
“Don’t worry—I’ll take care of her. I’ve got back up, just in case. It’s the reporters I have to worry about,” Paul said with a smile.
I wanted Dub to sweat, but I knew each time he saw Debbie the risk grew greater. She could be Moira’s next target if we weren’t careful. I was toying with Dub at Debbie’s expense, and it scared me more than a little. Never mind my promise to Novak—Debbie was a keeper.
I returned to the dining room to find that Maggie and Stella had finished putting traps in place to catch the snoopers and were about to change into walking clothes. Micki came in from the kitchen and we walked out onto her patio. Winding wisteria covered the pergola, and the late afternoon sun crept in and seemed to embrace us with its warmth, allowing my brain to relax, to wander from the business at hand. After a few minutes of reverie, my thoughts turned to words.
“Ah, Micki, this moment feels so good—I don’t want to force my mind to connect with reality. Sitting on your porch, watching the sunset, sipping on a glass of good wine . . . it all feels so natural. Maggie, Stella, and Blakely are tromping through your property; they look like they don’t have a care in the world. It’s nice to forget all this chaos and just enjoy the peace—and being with friends.”
“You know you’re welcome any time,” Micki responded quietly.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better.” I reached across to take her hand.
She left it in mine. “I’m glad to have some company. Eric means well, but he’s such a wet blanket. I wish he’d give it a rest.”
“If you were my girl, you can bet I’d be protective, too.”
“You had your chance,” she snickered. “But I’m serious, Jack. It’s nice to have you all out here. Having Stella here is a special treat—she’s such a kick.”
“I’m not interested,” I said, surprising myself with my automatic response.
“Really. Could have fooled me,” Micki retorted.
“Listen, Maggie reminds me constantly that women here can literally be the kiss of death.” I paused.
“There isn’t much that gets past Maggie.”
AT THAT VERY moment, Eric walked onto the patio, still in his morning scrubs and obviously tired.
“What are you two up to?” he asked as he bent down to kiss Micki.
MONDAY
May 5, 2014
53
MR. KIM, HEAD of the organization’s North American operation, had called Mr. Smith to DC for a meeting with the client. He gave them both a full report on the activities of Patterson and his team. The ensuing discussion affirmed his presumption that their success depended on the upcoming auction. Mr. Kim recommended eliminating Patterson before the auction, but the client was concerned that his death would result in further unwelcome publicity, again delaying the long anticipated return on their investment. Mr. Kim agreed that loose ends could wait until after the auction. Smith’s assignment was crystal clear.
AS EXPECTED, DUB had finagled his
way onto the rounds of Sunday talk shows and public appearances. Debbie and Paul managed to be part the gallery, usually right up front, at each event. Debbie wore increasingly provocative attire, and Dub became increasingly uncomfortable with her presence. It was time to throw him another curve.
“Your gig is up. No more press events for you.” I had said to Debbie Sunday afternoon.
She was clearly disappointed. “Why? I enjoy messing with his mind.”
“I want him to loosen his guard, feel safe again.”
“No more waving and watching him sweat?”
“I didn’t say that. You’ll be front and center Wednesday in court and, if Cheryl lures him onto her show, you’ll be in the front row.”
“You mean I could be on TV?” Debbie squealed like a child.
“Well, I hope so, but for now, let’s make Dub wonder where you are.”
Cheryl had booked a room at the Armitage and was enjoying her celebrity status to the hilt. The local TV stations had interviewed her and would broadcast her show all week from the auditorium at the UALR. Her theme was a return to Little Rock, one year after the murder of Senator Russell Robinson. She’d asked Dub to appear on Tuesday night, but he demurred. Ever persistent, Cheryl had convinced him to meet her for drinks after tonight’s taping. I wasn’t worried—Cheryl would wrangle the interview.
At Micki’s urging, Marshal Maroney had agreed to personally supervise the auction. She managed to finesse the arrangements so the cars were available for inspection at a marshal’s lot. Doug’s files, computers, and lab equipment could be seen, if not actually examined, in a spare room at the courthouse. Dub’s office insisted that Maroney keep a list of exactly who requested access to either. Several car dealers had inspected the cars, but so far no one had asked to see the items in the locked room.
