Practice to Deceive (9 page)

“Buy me lunch and I’ll give you a lot more ammunition,” she told me after she had finished laughing.

“Where and when?”

She named a café in the Nicollet Mall in downtown Minneapolis that had an outside terrace. “Noon,” she said. “If the weather holds.”

T
HE GIRL BEHIND
the customer service counter giggled when she spoke, as if embarrassed to hear the sound of her own voice. “You want this ad to start running tomorrow?”

“That’s correct,” I answered. “Tomorrow and every day for a week. How much is it?”

She counted the words carefully, consulted a rate card, then named the price. I paid in cash, declining a receipt.

“OK, look it over one more time to make sure it’s correct.” She giggled again.

For sale by owner, prestigious brick residence near river, 4BR, 3 baths, 4,000 sq ft + lg gourmet kitchen, elegant dining area, 2 massive fireplaces, dramatic master suite & bath, wet bar, spa, sauna, 2 car garage, extras. MUST SELL BY NEXT WEEK. Will accept best offer, call day or night.

“Perfect,” I confirmed.

“And this is your correct phone number, Mr. Field?” she asked, showing it to me.

“Yep.”

“Thank you and good luck,” she said, still giggling.

S
ARA WAS WEARING
a pink double-breasted blazer over a matching sweater, pleated trousers, and white gloves. She looked cold sitting at an outdoor table, a light breeze mussing her hair. The DJ on KBEM, the jazz station I listen to, said it was fifty-eight degrees, but I didn’t believe him. I was wearing a heavy brown-leather jacket zipped up over a wool sweater, and I was freezing.

“Sure you wouldn’t rather eat inside?” I asked after apologizing for being late.

“No, I like it out here,” she insisted, watching two men watching her as they walked past. That’s when I realized why she had chosen that particular restaurant—she wanted to be seen.

Sara ordered grilled salmon and white wine. I went with a club sandwich and a Summit Ale. After the waitress departed, I asked Sara what she had for me. She slid a file folder across the table. Inside the file folder was a list of credit card numbers; one of them was circled. I asked her why.

“Because it’s in the name of a twenty-two-year-old college freshman named Crystalin Wolters.”

“Crystalin?”

Sara nodded, taking a sip of wine.

“Who’s Crystalin?”

“Background is on the next page,” Sara informed me. I perused it quickly:

Crystalin Jean Wolters, 22, eyes green, hair blond, height 5-9, weight 135, no corrective lenses; address 127 Cathedral Hill Apartments, St. Paul; owner red Porsche 911; speeding tickets September: 95 in 55 zone paid $150 fine, November: 110 in 55 zone $500 fine, March: 105 in 55 zone, pending; freshman Macalester College, St. Paul, MN; previous occupation: waitress Dixieland Barbecue, quit September; no current employment; parents: John & Sybil Wolters, St. Cloud, MN; John, construction worker, Sybil, grocery clerk; no marriage license filed her name Ramsey, Hennepin, Scott, Dakota, Washington counties …

“Apartment on Cathedral Hill? Porsche? Think she’s paying for all this with what she earned from tips?” I asked.

“The credit card,” Sara said in reply. “It’s in Crystalin’s name, for her exclusive use. But all the bills are sent to Levering Field—at his office, not his home.”

“Ahhh.”

“What do you want to do?”

I gave it a moment’s thought, then said, “Cancel the card. Can you make it look like it was on Field’s orders?”

“Sure.”

“Good. When she calls the company, that’s what they’ll tell her.”

“What about the cards in Field’s name?”

“How often can you spoof the system?”

“I only want to go in once; gain root status, mess with Field’s cards, get out—no sniffers, no back doors, no fingerprints. Man, I gotta tell ya,” Sara said excitedly, using Steve’s voice, “this is really juicy, but it’s scarier ‘n shit.”

“Then don’t take any chances. Leave his cards alone for now. I have a use for them, anyway.”

Sara nodded her agreement, then added, “I’m trying for his bank accounts now.”

“Don’t take any chances,” I repeated.

“Not to worry, I’m using cutouts.”

“Cutouts?”

“The telephone company keeps records of all local phone calls—”

“MURs,” I volunteered.

“Message unit records, right. Any local call you make is recorded on your personal MUR; the cops can check it to see who you called. Well, you know that.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Anyway, with a cutout, every time I make a call, the record of the call is assigned to a random telephone number—my calls are listed on somebody else’s MUR.”

“What about a direct trace?”

“I set up a special number last night, goes all around the world—Rome, Singapore, Nova Scotia—through a half dozen long-distance telephone companies, a few local exchanges, three cellular-phone companies. I own the telephone companies, man.”

I believed her.

“When I go in, I watch the line carefully. Someone tries a trace, I’ll know and break the connection before they can complete it. No way they can find me if I’m quick enough.”

“You are a marvel.”

Sara smiled. It was not the smile of an elegant, sophisticated woman receiving a compliment. It was the smile of a mischievous boy planning his next prank.

“Be careful,” I stressed yet again. Sara was too cocky, and it made me nervous.

F
REDDIE CAME OUT
of nowhere. Before I even knew he was there, he was sitting at our table. “Hiya, Taylor, how you been?” he said without looking at me. He was looking at Sara, staring into her hazel eyes. He took her gloved hand. “I’m Sidney Poitier Fredricks,” he announced.

“Sara VanderTop,” Sara replied quickly.

Freddie kissed the back of the glove. “It is my great pleasure,” he said. Sara smiled and withdrew her hand, holding it like she had no intention of ever washing it again.

“I’m an old friend of Taylor’s,” Freddie added.

“No, he’s not,” I corrected him.

Freddie was the only black private investigator I knew. He was also one mean sonuvabitch. I didn’t trust him as far as I could throw the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome, and while I didn’t mind sharing a booth with him in a crowded bar if we met by accident, we certainly were not friends.

“He’s just saying that because I intruded on his party without asking,” Freddie claimed. “But when I saw you from across the street, I couldn’t resist.”

Sara smiled. “I’m glad,” she said.

Oh, man …

“I bet you work out, a figure like yours,” Freddie said.

“Every day at the Y,” Sara said.

“That’s funny. I go to the Y a lot, but I’ve never seen you there,” Freddie replied, grinning.

“Different branches, perhaps,” said Sara, smiling even more brightly in return.

“Perhaps.”

I cleared my throat, and they both turned to me.

“Now Taylor, here, he’s into martial arts; can break a man’s back forty different ways,” Freddie said. “Ain’t that right, Taylor?”

“Forty-one.”

“Yeah, but who’s countin’?” Freddie asked, eyeing the remains on my plate. “You gonna eat those fries?” Freddie shoved a handful into his mouth and continued flirting with Sara while he chewed. Smooth, man, smooth.

The waitress arrived, bused the plates, and asked if we wanted coffee. Sara said she did.

“Cream or sugar?” the waitress asked.

“I like my coffee the way I like my men: strong and black.”

Freddie smiled broadly and said real low, “Ooooh, mama.”

“All right, that’s enough,” I announced. “Cut it out, the both of you.”

Sara chuckled, pushed away from the table, and excused herself. I watched as she made her way to the ladies’ room. So did Freddie.

“Very nice,” he whistled low.

“Go away, Freddie,” I told him. He ignored my suggestion.

“You humpin’ her, man?” he asked.

“Excuse me?!”

“Oh, sorry, don’t want to hurt your delicate sensibilities.” Freddie smiled again. There was ketchup on his lip. “Are you and the lady having relations? Hmmm?”

“Strictly business, Freddie.”

“You ain’t lookin’ for her husband, are you?”

“No.”

“And you ain’t slippin’ it to her, right?”

“Freddie!”

“So there’s no reason why I can’t make a play.” Freddie pulled the lapels of his jacket. “I like white women,” he said.

I didn’t say anything.

“You got a problem with that, Taylor? You got a problem with a black man and a white woman bein’ together? I never pegged you for no bigot.”

“A couple months ago you whipped my head with a pistol and left me for dead in an alley,” I reminded him.

“So? Couple days later you shoved a Colt Commander into my mouth—my own gun, man—and threatened to blow my fuckin’ head off. I don’t take it personal, why should you?”

“Freddie …”

“What?” he asked as Sara made her way back to the table.

“Help yourself.”

Sara did not sit when she returned. Instead, she announced she had to return to her office.

“Is it downtown?” Freddie asked.

“In the warehouse district,” Sara replied.

“Not the best part of the city,” said Freddie. “I should walk with you, keep you safe.”

“I’d like that,” Sara agreed, then looked at me.

I shook my head. “You live dangerously,” I told her.

She smiled. “What’s a little danger?”

A
CCORDING TO MY
research, despite his apparent wealth, Levering Field had never donated so much as a nickel to any charitable or nonprofit organization: no United Way, no American Cancer Association, no Save the Whales. I helped him make up for it, pledging a total of fifty thousand dollars to a wide array of groups, everyone from the Corporation for Public Broadcasting to the American Nazi Party. They could send a pledge envelope or a representative to pick up the check, it was all the same to me, and of course they could use Field’s name in their newsletters.

I was contemplating further mischief when I heard a no-nonsense rapping on my office door.

“Who is it,” I sang out sweetly in a high falsetto.

“Monica Adler,” a voice shot back.

“Are you armed?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Come in.”

Monica Adler pushed the door open and stood there like a gunslinger about to make a play. She regarded me carefully for a moment from the doorframe, then marched to my desk, tossing a piece of paper on the blotter before she came to a stop.

“What’s this?” I asked, without touching the paper.

“It is a temporary restraining order issued by the Ramsey County Court. You are forbidden to contact Mr. Levering Field in any fashion or to come within five hundred feet of his person, his family, his home, and his office. Is that understood?”

“Sure. Want some coffee?”

“What?”

“Coffee. French almond. I grind my own beans.”

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“Perfectly. And I want to give you my personal assurance that I will strictly adhere to the court’s request. Now, about that coffee …”

Monica glanced down at the paper, picked it up again, and held it out for me to take. “Are you Holland Taylor?” she asked, serving me properly this time.

“Yes, I am,” I said, taking the paper and tossing it back on the desk. Monica’s eyes followed it to the blotter, then turned on me. I shrugged. “I just had lunch with a guy who pistol-whipped me couple of months ago. I don’t hold grudges.”

Clearly Monica had expected some kind of confrontation, would even have welcomed it—why else deliver the restraining order personally when she could have hired it done? Instead, I was being hospitable, offering her a beverage, and now she was confused. No doubt she figured I was up to something, so she accepted my offer while she tried to determine what it was.

She smiled with pleasure when she sipped from my mug—I make dynamite coffee—then wiped the smile from her face, not wanting to give me the satisfaction.

“So, how is the Ring man these days?” I asked when I was sitting snug behind my desk and she was sitting in front of it.

“You should know,” Monica told me.

“But I don’t know,” I claimed. From her expression, Monica did not believe me.

“He’s angry,” Monica said.

“Why is that?” Monica did not answer the question, so I did. “Let me guess. He got a flat tire, a couple of crank calls, and he’s holding me responsible. He remembers what I said, and now everything that goes wrong in his life he figures is punishment because he ripped off poor Mrs. Gustafson. A guilty conscience will do that.”

Monica set the coffee mug carefully on my desk and said, “You and I both know there’s been a lot more going on than just flat tires and crank calls.”

“Such as?”

“Such as death threats in the middle of the night.”

Monica’s answer shook me, and I took a long pull from my own coffee mug before I was ready to reply. I chose my words carefully: “That is something I would never do.”

“Oh? Why not?” Monica asked, retrieving her mug, leaning forward, on the offensive now. “You’ve killed before. How many times? Four?”

“Four,” I agreed.

“Of course, the review board let you get away with it. What was it they said? ‘You were acting within the scope of your employment’?”

“Close enough,” I replied. She was fighting dirty now, hitting me where it hurt. I was sorry I had offered her the coffee.

“I know all about you, Taylor.” Monica was leaning across my desk now, her hands supporting her weight, her face only inches from mine. “You’ve been skating on thin ice with the Public Safety Commission for years. You keep it up and I’ll personally see that your license is revoked.”

A trick my father taught me years ago: When someone is giving you the business, threatening you, trying to put the fear of God into you and you want to get the upper hand, ask something innocuous that will throw them off track and break their concentration.

“Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” I asked.

Monica stopped speaking. A quizzical expression crossed her face.

“You obviously think I’m this terrible person stalking innocent victims in the night, and I’m not,” I added. “I’d like to prove it to you.”