Forever (13 page)

'Doubt that,' Bobby said, looking back over
his shoulder and glancing up at her. 'But we'll know soon enough. I
put the automatic trace on.' He grinned. 'The other guy can switch
off, but we'll still be hooked into him. Nice, huh?'

She nodded, her eyes never straying from the
constantly changing screen.

'What's in the OPUS file that's so
important, anyway?' he asked.

His superior shrugged. 'Beats me,' she
murmured, 'but one thing I know for sure.' She kept staring at the
screen. 'That programme has more safeguards than the Pentagon.'

ACCESS DENIED ENTER OPUS NUMBER

Aaron Kleinfelder stared at the continually
flashing words in disbelief. 'Now what the hell?' he murmured, and
immediately looked contrite. 'Pardon my French,' he said, glancing
at Vinette.

She smiled. 'It's nothing I haven't heard
before.'

He nodded absently, reached for another
biscuit, and chewed it reflectively. He'd never been denied access
to any CRY file - ever - nor did he know what the devil an 'OPUS
NUMBER' was supposed to be.

He frowned and scratched his chin. 'I'd say
this is very curious,' he murmured to himself. 'Most definitely
curious . . . '

'What is?' Vinette looked at him anxiously.
'Is something wrong?'

He gestured towards the screen. 'My baby
won't give us any info on your baby. That's what's wrong.'

'So what do we do now?' Vinette's voice had
risen sharply.

He popped another biscuit into his mouth and
pulled up his shirt sleeves. 'Now,' he said, 'I start being
creative.' He looked at Vinette. 'But I've got to warn you, this
might take a long time. Hours. Even a day or so. I really can't
tell.'

Vinette looked directly into his eyes. 'I
have plenty of time, Mr Kleinfelder,' she said, sitting ramrod
straight. 'That is, if you do, too? I wouldn't want to keep you
from your family -'

'Nah.' He flapped a hand. 'Kids are all
grown, and the wife's divorced me. Told me it wouldn't be so bad if
I was seeing another woman, but how could she compete with my love
for work?' He smiled wryly. 'So voilal I've got all the time in the
world. But it's going to take a lot of intense concentration. I
don't mean to offend you, but I'll work faster and better if I'm by
myself.'

Vinette nodded. 'I understand perfectly, Mr
Kleinfelder,' she said quietly, already pushing back her chair.

There was a knock on the door, and Aaron's
administrative assistant popped her head in. She looked like a
grown-up Orphan Annie: red frizzy hair and little round granny
glasses. 'It's five-thirty, boss,' she said. 'Okay if I cut out
now? Or do you need anything else?'

Aaron glanced over at her. 'I need
something, Lisa. Could you find Ms Jones a hotel room close by and
settle her in as a guest of this company?''Right-o, boss.' Lisa
smiled and sketched a salute, the palm of her hand facing
outwards.

Aaron regarded Lisa through suspiciously
narrowed eyes. 'You're surprisingly chipper for having to work
late. You wouldn't happen to have an ulterior motive, now would
you?'

'Who - me?' His assistant was all wide-eyed
innocence. 'Maybe I'm just naturally happy. Or maybe,' she reminded
him slyly, 'it's because my birthday's tomorrow.'

Aaron chuckled, but his eyes were
distracted. Already, he was a million miles away, his mind consumed
with bytes and chips and bits of data.

In his spartan office on Ilha da Borboleta,
Colonel Valerio listened to the faraway voice at the other end of
the telephone and said, 'You're sure it's the same woman who raised
the stink in the Washington office?' He was seated on a grey vinyl
swivel chair, his jungle-booted feet resting on his grey metal
desk.

'Absolutely, sir. But here, there's no
fobbing her off. They're actually listening to her.'

'I see.' Colonel Valerio tapped an
unfiltered cigarette out of a pack of Camels. 'Where is she
now?'

'They put her up at the Grand Hyatt. I
wasn't sure if it was important, but -'

'It isn't, but you did right in calling me.'
Colonel Valerio hung up. He checked his black-dialled,
stainless-steel chronometer watch and then punched the number of
the exclusive Union Club in New York.

'The Union Club, good evening,' answered a
British voice. 'May I help you?'

'Yes,' Colonel Valerio said, 'I believe you
can.' His Zippo lighter flared like a torch as he lit his
cigarette. 'I would like to speak to Mr Thomas Andrew Chesterfield
the third. He should be having cocktails right about now.'

New York City

Stephanie brooded and Lili sang. For once,
even Waldo was quiet as the glorious Schneider voice rippled and
trilled and dipped and soared. It was as if something alive had
been released from the CD speakers and was flying freely on its
own, filling the room with a commanding virtuosity and the very
essence of vocal beauty.

Stephanie didn't know what had compelled her
to slip that particular disc into the CD player, but the 'Er weidet
seine Herde' from Handel's Messiah had never sounded cleaner, or
more gracefully melodic and spiritually uplifting.

Unfortunately, it didn't lift her spirits
much. Nothing could - not after her grandfather's funeral and, as
though to add insult to injury, being taken for a ride by Johnny
Stone - he had humped her like some cheap piece of female flesh -
just so some hack journalist could interview her!

The goddamn son of a bitch!

Abruptly disgusted with everything - him,
herself, and life in general - she got up and switched the music
off. The sudden silence in the double parlour was almost
unearthly.

There. At least now she could lick her
wounds in supposedly golden silence. Perhaps a long soak in the tub
would soothe? Momentarily, she considered the curative properties
of a nice, steamy hot soak and a tall cool drink.

The telephone bleated intrusively.

'Oh, damnV Turning her head, she glared
across the room at the offending instrument. Then, with a sigh, she
started to cross the carpet, but the bleating stopped and a perfect
duplication of her own voice said: 'Lo? Uh-huh . . . yeah . . .
uh-huh

Despite her funereal mood, she couldn't help
but laugh as she backtracked to the sofa and plopped herself down.
She'd almost been fooled that time: Waldo had the beeping of
microwave ovens, the bleating of telephones, and her own harried
phone voice off so pat it was positively eerie.

'Damn bird,' Stephanie swore
affectionately.

Waldo climbed up and down the bars of the
cage, shrieking happy laughter.

The telephone bleated again - on top of
Waldo's cries. This call was the real McCoy. Stephanie stared
hesitantly across the room. To answer, or not to answer? For all
she knew, it was that bastard Johnny Stone. Calling to offer a
smooth apology, no doubt - as if she'd fall for his crap after he'd
wheedled his way in just to throw her to the wolves.

It would be a pleasure to hang up on
him.

She picked up on the fourth ring. But it
wasn't Johnny. It was Ted Warwick, her producer. 'How're you
holding up?' he wanted to know.

'All right,' Stephanie said. 'You don't need
to worry about me, Ted. Really.'

'Need someone to come over and hold your
hand?'

She had to smile. 'No, Ted, but thanks.'

Call waiting clicked. Maybe that was Johnny
calling . . .

'Hold on a minute, Ted, would you?' She put
him on hold and depressed the cradle.' 'Lo?'

This caller wasn't Johnny, either, but a
male stranger. 'Ms Merlin?'

'Y-yes?' Caution had crept into her voice.
'Who is this?' she asked. The last thing she needed was journalist
crazies calling her out of the blue.

'I hope I'm not disturbing you, Ms Merlin,'
the caller said. 'You don't know me, but I was acquainted with your
grandfather. My name is Alan Pepperberg.'

Pepperberg . . . Pepperberg . . . Stephanie
frowned as she speed-searched through her mental files, but the
name Pepperberg didn't ring any bells.

'Can you please hold,' she said. 'I'm on the
other line.' She switched back to Ted, told him she had to run,
then switched back to Alan Pepperberg. 'Mr Pepperberg?' she said.
'If you could hold another half a minute, I'd appreciate it.'

'That's fine,' he said.

Putting down the receiver, she hurried down
the hall to her grandfather's study. The swollen, worn Rolodex was
on his desk, on top of a towering stack of reference books. Picking
it up, she quickly flipped through the Ps. No Pepperberg.

She picked up the study extension. 'I'm
sorry, Mr Pepperberg. Your name and number are not among my
grandfather's addresses.'

'That's not surprising,' he said. 'He and I
had just recently crossed paths - actually, we only spoke on the
telephone - and I was supposed to get back to him. Then I read that
he'd died.'

She waited for him to explain.

'The reason I contacted him initially was
because of a Lili Schneider recording I have,' he said. 'And he
expressed interest in hearing it.'

'Mr Pepperberg,' she said wearily, 'I
believe he had every Lili Schneider recording ever made. Why would
he want to listen to another copy of what he already had?'

'This particular recording is not a copy, Ms
Merlin. It has never been released. It's an unauthorised
recording.'

Stephanie caught sight of her blank face in
a mirror across the room. 'I think you've lost me.'

'I'll gladly explain it all. Is it possible
for us to meet and discuss this in person? Over lunch,
perhaps?'

She suppressed a sigh. 'Mr Pepperberg,' she
said as patiently as she could, 'the Schneider biography died along
with my grandfather.'

'Ms Merlin,' he said softly, 'did you know
that your grandfather was on the verge of his greatest
discovery?'

Her grandfather had been - what\ Stephanie's
head was spinning now. Could that have had something to do with his
untimely death?

'Ms Merlin? Are you still there?'

She was clenching the receiver so tightly
that her knuckles were white. 'Yes,' she managed.

'There's one more thing.' He hesitated.

'And what's that?'

'I don't care what the newspapers reported.
Your grandfather had absolutely no reason to commit suicide, Ms
Merlin. No reason under the sun. Not with what I had for him.'

'And if my grandfather did not commit
suicide?' she half whispered. 'What would you call it then?'

His voice was hushed. 'I think you already
know the answer to that, Ms Merlin.'

Her voice was hoarse and trembly, almost a
raspy warble. 'Do you realise what you're suggesting?'

'That your grandfather was murdered,' he
said. 'Yes.'

Stephanie drew a sharp breath. Hadn't she
herself expressed that very sentiment to the police only three
short days ago? But yet, hearing someone else - a total stranger! -
putting her own suspicions into words, was like having a knife
twisted inside a wound.

She thought quickly. She had to go downtown
to her apartment in the morning, if only to sort through her mail
and take Waldo home. 'I - I tell you what, Mr Pepperberg. I have to
be down in the Village tomorrow, and there's a place called the
Corner Bistro. It's at the triangle where Eighth Avenue, West
Fourth, and Jane Street meet. Do you think you can find it?'

It was an instinctive choice. I'll meet him
on neutral ground, she thought. Surrounded by people. One can never
be too careful . . .

'The Corner Bistro,' he repeated. 'I'll be
there, Ms Merlin.'

'Say . . . noonish?'

'Around noon it is.'

Slowly, Stephanie replaced the receiver. For
a moment, she stood there, hugging herself with her arms. She
frowned thoughtfully. Did Alan Pepperberg really know something she
didn't. Perhaps. And then again . . . perhaps not.

A wild goose chase, she cautioned herself.
That's probably all it is. I'd better not hope for too much. For
all I know, he might not even show up.

Tomorrow would tell.

New York City

Reminiscent of a grand Parisian boulevard,
Park Avenue, that exceptionally wide thoroughfare with its
greenery-planted median, cuts an impressive swath up the East Side
of Manhattan. Lined with some of the grandest and most expensive
apartment buildings in the world, it is a stronghold of New York's
oldest, richest, and most powerful families. It is no accident that
it is also home to the city's oldest, most exclusive, and selective
clubs. Having been around for a hundred and fifty-four years, the
terribly sedate, terribly conservative, and terribly snobbish Union
Club is the granddaddy of them all.

At a quarter to six that evening, Thomas
Andrew Chesterfield III was in the subterranean South Room of the
club, where he was playing host to Theodore F. Hallingby, chairman
of a major television network whose business he was trying to woo
for the law firm of Hathaway, Mooney, Buchsbaum, Chesterfield and
Gardini. To help oil the process, Chesterfield had broken out a
bottle of one-hundred-year-old Armagnac from his private liquor
compartment in the wall.

He poured it gently into the giant balloons
himself, not trusting the steward with the eight-hundred-dollar
bottle. 'I've been saving this vintage for years,' he told
Hallingby with a little smile. 'No time like the present to see how
it's aged, eh?'

Hallingby went through the ritual of
swirling, sniffing, and sipping. Then he sat back, an appreciative,
rosy glow colouring his face. 'Ah,' he murmured approvingly.
'Excellent, excellent.'

'Older than I am,' Chesterfield grinned.

Hallingby looked around wistfully. 'You
know, I sort of like this club,' he said, his matter-of-fact voice
belying his envy. 'Long waiting list for new members?'