Old Poison (18 page)

He turned to leave and looked back. “When he
sees the condition of your apartment, he’ll probably give up on
chasing you down, but just in case, you better clear the decks for
action. Get showered and dressed and ready to roll. I’ll call you
after I check your pad.”

My shower took just two and a half minutes,
but Sam was gone and the house quiet by the time I got to the
kitchen for that first cup of coffee. I jumped at the sound of a
phone ringing, but this time it was Sam’s phone and his J. Edgar
answered it.

The little robot took a message and then
turned to me. “Sam says I should turn on the radio for Diana to
KWSP, right now.” The news announcer’s voice began immediately from
one of J. Edgar’s speakers.

“. . . his statement later. At this time all
we have is a brief announcement from Lieutenant Patrick Marshal,
saying that two prisoners were shot by a sniper late yesterday
evening. The unidentified men, who were taken into custody
yesterday, were being transported from the San Pedro police station
to the jail at Parker Center. The officers loading the prisoners
into the car were not harmed.”

“Fascinating report, Dick. Any information
on who these men were or why they were being held?”

“None, Mark. An earlier report that they
were in custody on smuggling charges has now been denied. We have
also heard that the FBI is involved in this case, but we have no
verification of that at this time.”

“Great report, Dick. We will be back to you
for any updates.”

As the announcer cut to commercial, I sank
down into a chair. The dead men had to be the two Venezolanos, and
I’d bet my last dollar that Special Agent Camas made that call to
me from San Pedro. He must have gotten my report and flown straight
to LA. No wonder he was breathing flame when he called me. Murder
suspects he could have had if I had given him that boat CF number,
murdered. He was going to want a lot more than my license, and I
don’t look good in striped suits.

“J. Edgar, please keep that station on, but
mute the volume. I want to hear more on that same story. Also,
check both radio and television for other reports. Turn up the
volume if you find something, and make audio and video records of
all reports.”

Without a clue as to where I would be going,
I began packing. Fortunately there was little to pack: a few
clothes and toiletries, stun gun, fanny pack, Walther and bullets.
I saved the entire Evelyn Lilac file to a CD and packed it in the
laptop case.

The volume came up on the TV as J. Edgar
played an ongoing report. Detective Walsom stood just outside the
station door, looking worn and haggard. A semicircle of reporters
clamored around him with mikes, cameras and video cams as he read
from a prepared speech.

“Two men being held on kidnaping charges at
LAPD’s San Pedro Division were shot and killed by sniper fire while
officers were attempting to move them to Parker Center last night
at 9:45. Their names are being held until their identities can be
confirmed and their next of kin notified. The investigation into
this matter will be handled jointly between local authorities and
the FBI with help from INS. Further information will be released as
it becomes available.”

He folded the notepaper and, ignoring
shouted questions, returned to the station house.

Wonderful. Camas undoubtedly would have
treated the PD to a royal flaying for letting his suspects get
killed right under their noses. I hoped Walsom would remember that
he’d told me to report any information I had to the FBI. Whether he
blamed me for Camas or not, he would want my hide. Since the
station was letting Walsom play “Meet the Press” he was probably
tagged to take the fall for this mess. Poor guy looked ready for
retirement, but nobody wants to go out under a cloud. Now I would
have a second law enforcement officer who would be happy to toss my
ass in jail forever.

I was about to have J. Edgar mute the TV
when something caught my attention. In the back of the crowd was a
baseball cap with an iridescent blue butterfly on it. “J. Edgar,
play back the last thirty seconds of that report. Freeze frame
right there.”

I walked over to the screen. “Can you blow
up this section here?” The screen filled with a closeup of the man
in the cap. “Can you give me better resolution?” The picture
cleared and became slightly smaller. “Oh, my God! Print that, J.
Edgar.”

I could clearly read the name Blue Morpho
and identify this man as the same person who ordered me canned for
shipment to Costa Rica. The possibility of coincidence was out of
the question. “The arrogance of it. He doesn’t even worry about
wearing his company logo to the scene of the crime. Is he that
stupid, or is he so untouchable he doesn’t have to be careful?”

I was talking to myself again, but J. Edgar
thought I was talking to him and answered.

“Context of questions not specified. Answer
unknown. Would you like his identification file?”

I looked at the little robot. I have never
known what all Sam had this guy programmed to do and would never
impose upon our friendship by asking such an indelicate question.
“Can you give me his identity, J. Edgar?”

“His image matches one of my data records to
eighty-nine percent. Would you like to view the record?”

“Yes, please.”

Sam walked in the door just as I finished
reading the six-page bio on Harry Winczewski. He was a
nineteen-year career officer in military intelligence and the
commander of an elite black ops force with a budget carefully
hidden as military child welfare and education. He had been forced
out of the service when his continued presence might have exposed
secrets regarding Ollie North, Ronny Reagan, and Irangate. I knew
him as Harriman Woods of Blue Morpho.

I handed Sam the bio and the picture of
Woods/Winczewski printed from the news report. “Saw one of my
kidnappers on television, and J. Edgar offered to ID him for me. I
hope it was okay to accept.”

Sam didn’t answer. He stared at the image.
“Silly son of a bitch. He still likes to show off his colors and
rank. Never was able to teach him subtlety.”

“You know this guy?”

He sat on the couch beside me. “Was this the
guy at White’s Boatyard?”

With that question, his face took on an
expression I had never seen. His voice was low, controlled, in a
tone I had never heard. This was the old Sam, the one who ran black
operations for U.S. military intelligence. My gentle companion had
suddenly morphed into someone I didn’t know, someone cold, hard,
and dangerous.

I nodded.

“You read the bio?”

Another nod.

“You understand what this means? You can’t
fuck with this guy, Diana.”

“And how do I keep him from fu . . . messing
with me?”

Sam didn’t answer. I knew he was processing
an answer, and I waited. He hit the picture with the back of his
free hand.

“There were a lot of guys like him in the
service. They’re the reason I got out. They have no real
understanding of freedom, of the true brilliance of our
constitution. They are totally immoral and unprincipled, with no
true sense of patriotism. For them it was just a game in which the
end justified any means.”

I had never heard Sam speak so passionately.
He looked back down at the picture and shook his head.

“The worst thing about it was, the end
didn’t even have to make good sense. In most cases the real purpose
was just to make good dollars. Most of what we did wasn’t for
freedom or democracy, it was to prop up some fucking zillionaire
corporation.”

I nodded. “Well, I guess now he’s gone to
work for the end client. I think this is the guy who has been
sniffing around Nate for the last two weeks. I saw him at the
insurance seminar as well as at White’s. My guess is he didn’t find
whatever it was that Evelyn had on Morpho, and he’s nosing around
Nate for a lead.”

“That Martian crap? He’s a crazy son of a
bitch, but I don’t think he’d bite on science fiction bait.”

“I have been thinking about that, too, and
about the articles I read on Evelyn’s first attempt to expose the
problem with Morpho’s fuel. I think she had more than the
Martian Diary
. I think she had some sort of scientific
proof, maybe some of Morpho’s own secret studies or something. She
had something that scared the shit out of them.”

“Diana, do you have any idea the kind of
power you’re up against here? You think those clowns and puppets we
elect to Washington really run this country? No. The world is no
longer run by nations, it’s run by international, interlocking
corporations. What you are after isn’t just Morpho. You’re going
after the most powerful industry in the world. They’ll swat you
like a fly.”

I believed him. “Sam, I’m basically a
coward, and I have no delusions about my ability to deal with this
kind of organization. I would gladly drop it and hope to hell
Evelyn’s story of ecological destruction was just an environmental
nightmare. But do you believe Harriman Woods is going to drop it?
He is already onto Nate. He already saw me. I may have been
disguised, and he may not know my name yet, but how long do you
think it will take him to ferret it out? Do I have any real
choice?”

Sam studied his hands for a moment, then
scratched his head, then interlaced his fingers on the top of his
curly gray locks, and sat staring out the window. I waited quietly
for several minutes.

“Costa Rica,” he said, then looked back at
me. “That week between the day you saw Evelyn on the bike trail and
the date she was found dead in the wash, she spent four days in
Costa Rica. She flew from Orange County to San Jose, then back to
New York. Then she flew to Phoenix two days before she was
murdered.”

“How do you know that?”

He smiled. “You think I’ve just been sitting
on my butt while you’ve been gone?” Thoughtfully, he continued, “I
just didn’t know what to make of it until now. If they had found
what they wanted on Evelyn, Harry wouldn’t still be looking. My
guess is she stashed it in Costa Rica. I guess finding it first is
the best life insurance.”

“Well, I’ve always wanted to see the rain
forests of Costa Rica before they disappear.”

“Yeah, well, we just have to make sure
you
don’t disappear.” He pulled me to him and hugged me.

“You remember the story I told you last
night? The one code-named “Pied Piper” that you made me stop
telling in the middle?”

I remembered the story all right. It was the
one that was so horrific that I couldn’t bear to hear it. I pulled
back and looked in Sam’s face, waiting for what I knew he was going
to say.

“It was Harry Winczewski who dreamed up the
idea of sending those village kids back to their parents a piece at
a time.”

My stomach turned over in revulsion. I know
my face showed my horror.

“Diana, you’re going to have to be like the
prairie dog with plenty of back doors to dive for cover, a half a
dozen backup identities, lots of money, and some trustworthy help.
I still have some contacts. I’ll make a call or two.”

“OK, and I’ll get started on those backup
identities.”

* * * * *

The next morning I was scheduled for special
treatment at Rick’s Coiffeurs Americain. After I took a long soak
in the hot tub and received an hour-long massage, Richard began my
“beauty” treatments. I’d requested a disguise that would age me but
not require face mask or body padding because that might be
detected and cause questions and grief. He complied with uncanny
artistry: fingernails short and broken, hair salt-and-pepper gray
with that look of just growing out of a bad permanent, leg hair
unshaven, varicose veins on the legs, liver spots on the hands,
sunspots on the face, a light sprinkling of chin and mustache
whiskers, eye bags and shadows, eyebrows thinned to wispy stubs,
and every line on my face delicately deepened, all with makeup that
would not wash off with ordinary soap and water. I was appalled as
I watched myself age.

Someone said, “Rick, what have you done? She
was beautiful when she came in.”

I knew the voice instantly but didn’t
identify the speaker at first. In that split second before I looked
up to see who it was, I felt a joyous response as if someone I knew
and loved had just walked into the room. With my pupils narrowed in
the bright makeup light and the rest of the room fairly dark, the
woman behind me was only a shadowed silhouette, but that was
enough. The hat brim pulled down slightly over one eye, the famous
profile, and most of all, the voice and accent. Ingrid Bergman had
just walked into the room. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say
Ilsa Lund, for the actress was costumed in the suit and hat from
that wonderful parting scene in Casablanca.

I turned around to get a better look.
“Please, say something else.”

“What would you like me to say?”

“That is amazing. You have the voice and
accent down perfectly. That is the best Bergman I have ever
heard.”

She laughed, still in character it seemed,
because it was Ilsa’s quiet, controlled little laugh. “That,” she
said, “is the only thing about me that is real. All the rest I owe
to Rick.”

“Yeah,” said Rick in his very poor Bogart,
“Of all the beauty shops and all the spas in Beverly Hills, she had
to walk into mine.”

“It’s a good thing you hire your Bogart,
Rick.”

He gave me a look but returned to his normal
voice, which was closer to Tom Conte.

“The minute I heard this lady speak, I knew
I had to have her as my permanent Ilsa. Now I not only have an
impersonator, but she also serves as my full-time receptionist,
that is, when she’s not off digging up old bones.”

“Yes, that’s what he says, but the truth is
he knew my husband had died and I needed work. He is a soft touch,
this one.”