by Stuart Woods
The chance of tracing the letter, a long shot at best, was rapidly becoming a pipe dream.
Teddy frowned, leaned back in his chair, and considered his options. He whipped out his cell phone and made a call.
7
Kevin Cushman, screen name Warplord924, was building a city in space. Much of it he was stealing from his neighbor on a nearby planet, but then Kevin had invested more of his resources in armies than construction. Conquest was the natural order of things. Warplord paid the iron price for his acquisitions.
Kevin was dressed as usual in pajamas and jockey shorts. His bed was unmade, his clothes were on the floor, and his wastebasket was crammed with the remnants of several takeout orders. A careful observer would peg him for a college dropout, rather than a highly respected computer technician grossing in the high six figures. Kevin was so good at his job that he could do it from home, and generally did. Kevin still lived with his mother, not through necessity but through inertia. Moving would have required effort.
Kevin’s cell phone rang. He scooped it up to send the call to voice mail, but his eyes widened when he saw the number. He clicked it on.
“Hello?”
“Do you know who this is?”
“Yes.”
“Good, then we don’t have to say. I have a job for you.”
“Really?”
Teddy felt a pang of guilt. The excitement in the kid’s voice was palpable. Warplord had helped Teddy out during a sensitive mission, and had even been given White House access. “It’s not a mission. Just a simple job.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sitting at a computer in a copy shop.”
“That’s what you need help with?”
“Yeah.”
“You want me to come over?”
“I’m in Los Angeles.”
“Oh. Probably not.” Warplord was in D.C.
“I think someone may have typed a letter on this computer in the last few days, printed it out, but never saved it. Do you have any way of determining if that’s the case?”
“What’s the address of the shop?”
Teddy gave it to him, though he suspected Kevin could have tracked it on his own using Teddy’s cell signal. The kid was that good.
“I assume you have a hard copy of the letter?”
“Yes. You want me to read it to you?”
“Absolutely. I’ll need a key phrase.”
Teddy read him the letter.
“How’s that?”
“Perfect. We’re in luck. The copy shop uses a basic keyword stroke tracker, probably to flag criminal behavior, and I can use that for a search. This is not a very active terminal, which is good for us. And, bingo! The letter in question was typed on that very machine.”
“I don’t suppose you could tell me the name, age, and Social Security number of the guy who typed it?”
“You don’t want his shoe size? I can tell you the letter was typed and printed at two-thirty yesterday afternoon. Hang on, you’re in L.A. I’m always getting tripped up by time zones. Right. It’s two-thirty Eastern. So it’s eleven-thirty Pacific yesterday morning. The guy didn’t copy the letter digitally, there was no drive hooked up to the computer at the time. Do you need anything else?”
“That’s all for the time being.”
“Do I get CIA clearance?”
“You did, but the job’s over.”
“Spoilsport,” Warplord said, and went back to building space castles.
* * *
—
The kid at the counter was reading a movie magazine. He had longish hair, and looked like he was just waiting for some producer to walk in and make him a star.
Teddy pointed to the surveillance camera over the door. “Is that camera working?”
The kid looked up from his magazine. “You the fire inspector?”
“You think the fire inspector would be interested in the surveillance video?”
“So what’s it to you?”
Teddy took out his CIA credentials and flipped them open on the counter. “There’re reports of sleeper cells in the area. You know what sleeper cells are?”
“Terrorists?”
“That’s right, domestic terrorists, who look just like ordinary citizens, like you and me. We think one of them came in here and used that computer in the last few days, and we need to check. So let’s take a look at that camera.”
* * *
—
The camera was working, and programmed to save the last forty-eight hours before recording over. It also had a time stamp, so Teddy was able to speed through and see who was in the shop at exactly eleven-thirty when the blackmail letter was typed.
Inexplicably, the camera was angled so as to catch the customers in the shop from the shoulders down. All Teddy could tell was the man who typed the letter was slender and wore a bespoke suit with silver-studded cuff links.
Teddy frowned.
Despite what Tessa might think, that certainly sounded like Nigel Hightower.
8
Teddy went home and ran a search for Nigel Hightower III. Nigel had dropped out of Oxford his junior year after getting involved in some sort of scandal that his father, Nigel Hightower Jr., managed to hush up. He had run afoul of the law, but the records were sealed. It took Teddy half an hour to unseal them. He would have been faster, but hacking British agencies and parsing the differences in their legal system slowed him down.
Nigel had been caught with an underage girl and two grams of cocaine. What Daddy had to pay to get him out of that one, Teddy could only imagine.
Teddy followed Nigel’s trail to New York, where the young man maintained a permanent address for thirteen months, probably until Daddy cut him off. He had no reported income during that time.
Teddy next found a plane ticket to Vegas, charged against a credit card that was subsequently invalidated. Another credit card got him a hotel room at the MGM Grand, before it was revoked for lack of payment a month later.
No further credit cards were issued to Nigel Hightower, so he’d changed his name, won big, or gotten killed.
Teddy ran a global search on his name and began the tedious task of sifting through worthless responses. It was about an hour before he found a Facebook post by an Eliot Clark: “You’ll never guess who I saw on the streets of L.A. Nigel Hightower. I was on a tour bus and he was walking along, but I’m sure it was him. Small world.”
The post was only two weeks old.
Nigel was in L.A.
9
Teddy had dinner with the young Barringtons and Bacchettis. Teddy was quite fond of them all, and had been ever since he met Peter and Ben and Hattie driving to L.A. He’d been working at an Esso station in Mesa Grande, New Mexico, when they stopped with a flat tire. In changing it, Teddy located a tracking device placed by Russian mobsters who were intent on seeking revenge against Stone Barrington. Not wanting to alarm the young people, he’d discreetly handled the situation for them. Later he’d been pleased to catch up with them in L.A. He’d gotten a job at Centurion, first repairing prop rifles, and rapidly worked his way up to producer. Later he’d met Tessa, and watched her growing relationship with Ben. He attended the two couples’ double wedding in England, and had a hand in keeping it safe.
The kids knew some, if not all, of what Teddy had done on their behalf, and they were happy to have him around in whatever identity he wished to assume.
Dinner was on the veranda of Peter and Hattie’s, a huge chunk of real estate carved out of what was once the property of the Arrington Hotel. It was casual, with no cook or housekeeper involved, just burgers on the outdoor grill. Peter was flipping, and Ben was shucking corn. The girls were sunbathing by the pool and taking it easy.
Teddy gave Ben a hand with the corn.
“You look concerned,” Teddy said. Ben hadn’t, but it w
as always a good opening. You played out your line and learned what information you could unearth. In this case, Teddy wondered if Ben had noticed any tension in Tessa.
Turned out, Ben had something else on his mind.
Ben grimaced. “Not really. I don’t like to bring my job home.”
“I’m not home,” Teddy said. “It’s not like you’re worrying your wife. You can tell me.”
“It’s no big deal. Someone’s buying up Centurion stock.”
“Aren’t they always?”
“Sure. But this is more systematic—several long-term shareholders have sold their holdings, all within the past month.”
“And that’s unusual?”
“To divest themselves entirely? I’ll say it is. Centurion’s doing well. Even without Peter’s pictures we’re turning a profit, and his projects are the icing on the cake. The man makes pictures people want to see.”
“So who’s buying the stock?”
“It’s a few holding companies, which isn’t a red flag in itself. With the stock trending up, there’s a chance to grab quick profits. It’s just a lot of activity all at once.”
“Could someone be attempting a hostile takeover?”
Ben shook his head. “It couldn’t be done. We control over fifty percent of the stock.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. It was tried once, when Peter’s mother was alive. His father put in safeguards so it couldn’t happen again. Stone has twenty-five percent. Peter and I each have fifteen. We’re totally protected. I can’t sell my shares without giving them the right of first refusal.”
“That’s right in the contract?”
“Sure. Same with the women.”
“The women?”
“Marriage was an added wrinkle. What if we got divorced and the stock got split in the property settlement? Not going to happen, but you know lawyers.”
Teddy put a hand on Ben’s arm before he could start another husk. “Wait a minute. You’re out of my area of expertise. You say you and Peter drew up contracts regarding the stocks when you got married?”
“Yes, as a precautionary measure. You know lawyers, belt and suspender types, planning for things that aren’t going to happen. In the event of divorce, Hattie or Tessa must sell the stock back to us at par value.”
“Did Stone draw up the contract himself?”
“No, he was afraid of conflict of interest. He had Herbie Fisher do it. He’s one of Woodman & Weld’s top lawyers. Stone swears it’s ironclad.”
Tessa came over and draped herself around Ben’s shoulders. “What are you talking about?”
Ben grinned. “You got me. I was talking business, like a bad boy.”
Tessa smiled. “I could tell when you stopped shucking corn. Really, you men are helpless. Can’t walk and chew gum at the same time.” She slipped her arm through Teddy’s. “Come on, Billy, leave the man alone. I’m getting hungry.”
Tessa led Teddy off toward the swimming pool. When they were out of earshot, she said, “What were you really talking about?”
“We were talking about work. And if you’re going to act paranoid, you might as well tell Ben the truth. Don’t you think he’s going to notice?” Teddy stopped by the pool. “Listen, I have to ask you something. I’m going to show you a picture, but try to look as if we’re just conversing casually.”
Teddy slipped his right hand in his pants pocket and slipped the photo into his hand. He pulled it out and flashed it toward Tessa, obscured from the others by his body. “Do you recognize this man?”
Tessa blinked, looked at him in exasperation. “He doesn’t have a head.”
“That is a drawback.”
“Is this a joke?”
“No. Assuming this is the only picture we have of him, could this be anyone you know?”
“Nigel?”
“Could it be Nigel?” Teddy said.
“That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? That it could be Nigel?”
“Let me put it this way. Is there anything about it that tells you it isn’t Nigel?”
Tessa looked again.
“Those aren’t his cuff links.”
10
Mason Kimble and Gerard Cardigan clinked brandy snifters.
“There’s nothing like a good action movie,” Mason said.
“I’ll say,” Gerard said.
They were watching Tessa Bacchetti’s sex tape. They never got tired of watching it. Mason had frozen it on the money shot in order to fill the brandy snifters. He took a sip and leaned back in his chair.
“You can sort of tell she doesn’t know,” Gerard said.
“Oh? How?”
“It’s subtle, but it’s there.”
“In other words, you don’t know.”
“I don’t know, and neither does she. That’s the whole thing.”
“What’s the whole thing?”
“You can tell he knows,” Gerard said. “That’s how you can tell she doesn’t. He’s self-conscious and looks toward the camera, and she’s uninhibited and never gives it a glance. The contrast, you see?”
Mason laughed. “Are you really finding subtext in a home sex tape?”
“No, but if we had to release this—”
“We’re not.”
“No, we’re not,” Gerard agreed. “But if we have to show it to her husband . . .” He smiled and shrugged.
“We’re not doing that either.”
“Worst-case scenario. We don’t want him to think she didn’t know she was being filmed. We can edit it to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“How so?”
“Take out the part that makes it look like Nigel knew he was filming.”
Mason saluted him with his snifter. “Good point.”
Mason and Gerard were very much alike. With short haircuts, button-down collars, and bespoke suits, they looked like a couple of Ivy League frat boys, which they actually were at Princeton, before their mutual love for hazing fraternity pledges got a little out of hand. One freshman had three broken fingers. Another nearly suffocated in a junked refrigerator. They barely escaped expulsion. Mason sublimated his urges into film, Gerard into bisecting lab animals.
The boys still tended to dress alike. The only real difference was while Mason’s white shirts had button cuffs, Gerard’s had silver-studded cuff links.
“How’s it coming with the stockholders?” Mason asked.
“The old lady’s going to sell. At least I think she will. She’s afraid I’m going to kill her cat.”
“How did she get that impression?”
Gerard’s smile was angelic. “I have no idea.”
“So they’re all falling into place.”
“We have a problem with Miss Morgan.”
“Oh?”
“She’s a retired actress and sees the stock as her last connection to the movie business.”
“What will it take to change her mind?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid. Her son’s another story. He’s a cokehead and needs the money. He’d sell it in a heartbeat.”
“Too bad he doesn’t own the stock.”
Gerard leaned back in his chair, cocked his head, and smiled. “Isn’t it?”
11
Teddy changed into his Billy Barnett attire and dropped in on the Centurion Studios accountant. Kenny was, as usual, sitting at his desk with his nose buried deep in a ledger. Teddy waited for him to emerge. He didn’t.
“Hi, Kenny. How’s it going?”
He looked up then, startled. “Billy. I thought you were on vacation.” In order for Teddy to act in Peter’s new film as stuntman Mark Weldon, Billy Barnett had officially taken a long vacation.
“I am. Just thought I’d check in.”
“Oh?”
“I hear
someone’s buying up Centurion stock. I can’t help wondering if it affects me.”
Kenny was surprised. “I wouldn’t think so. Aside from Stone and Ben and Peter, it hardly matters who the stockholders are.”
“But it is being bought.”
“In small amounts.”
“Who’s doing the buying?”
“Holding companies, largely. You don’t see individuals much anymore.”
“How largely?”
“You want me to add it up?”
“Please.”
“Well, let’s see. USB Corporation has nine percent, Venn Holding has eleven percent, Everest Holding has seven percent.”
“Who are they buying it for?”
“I can’t tell.”
“Okay, who are they buying it from?”
Kenny looked. “The last transfer on the books was yesterday. Ten thousand shares. That’s approximately one half of one percent.”
“Who sold them?”
“Ruth Goldstone.”
“Who is that?”
Kenny frowned. “Well, that is slightly odd. Ruth Goldstone is a little old lady. She’s retired, lives alone with her cats. Her husband owned the stock. He died and left it to her. She likes to call me up to see how it’s doing, but I guess she won’t be doing that anymore.”
“Does she need the money?”
“That’s hardly my business,” Kenny said, though he knew, and was happy to tell. “But her inheritance was not skimpy. She could afford to buy more stock, not sell it. Though she’d never make an investment of that type without her husband’s guidance.”
“Or a sale?”
“I was surprised,” Kenny admitted.
“Then let me ask you this, and consider it comes from a paranoid producer who doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Could someone be attempting a hostile takeover of Centurion Pictures?”
Kenny shook his head. “Couldn’t happen.”
