The Woman (5 page)

Chapter 6

Two years ago, Alistair Webster had assigned oversight of the Sea Crest mission to Ryan Testler, the most seasoned man in his private five-man force, and Webster’s best field coordinator. Each of the five sometimes employed others under the strict order that no one else was to know Webster’s identity.

While Webster had given Testler oversight of the Sea Crest operation, he had not ordered Testler to go there until three weeks ago. At that time Webster advanced the Sea Crest operation from oversight to cleanup and disposal because Cynthia Leclair had discovered his identity and how he used the information her company, SMITH & CO., had developed for Webster. After his first two weeks in Sea Crest, Testler had called in two other operatives, a man called Tag and a master interrogator known as The Dentist. Both men were scum, enjoying their work a bit too much, but they always got the job done.

At first the cleanup and disposal had gone well, then Webster began receiving reports about another woman, a friend to whom Cynthia Leclair may have told what she had learned about Webster’s activities. The local woman, Linda Darby, had gotten away from two of Testler’s men.

Webster used his satellite phone to call a Sea Crest man on his payroll, a local man who had installed surveillance equipment in Leclair’s consulting company.

“Tell me the latest on Linda Darby.”

“The two men who took her are dead, killed in a downtown alley. . . . No. I have no idea who took them out. Do you have any other operatives in Sea Crest?”

“I have kept your secret,” Webster said, “in return for your maintaining electronic surveillance inside SMITH & CO., and keeping me informed of anything you learn concerning that company or Cynthia Leclair. Who else I may or may not have on the scene, is not your concern. You’ll be informed in the usual way if your assistance is needed further.”

“Listen, whoever you are, this has become more than I bargained for. Sea Crest has no history of violent deaths. The town fathers are demanding that I solve these killings. This is not some Chicago ghetto or Brownsville, New York.”

“Christ, man, stop being a cunt,” Webster snarled. “You’ve got a town full of yokels. When we’ve finished our work there, I’ll provide closure that will satisfy your locals.”

The snitch made some sniveling sound before saying, “I should have just told the truth back in Jersey. Maybe I should just tell the truth now. Be done with it.”

“Oh, stop yanking your pisser,” Webster said, preferring to talk to his minions as if he were a thug himself. “Truth is a wisp of smoke. People reject the truth more often than they accept it. The truth nearly always lacks the substance of preparation that accompanies a well-planned lie. Leave the thinking to me. Now go get laid and forget about all this shit. What about that local banker’s wife? That woman has an ass that can make boys into men, and turn men back into boys. But I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. I’ve got some great pictures of the two of you.”

“You know about that?”

“You should know by now that I know whatever I need to know. And as long as you do what you’re told, her husband won’t get the pictures. I’ve paid you a lot of money in the past for doing nothing but maintaining that bug. If your town fathers knew what I know about you they’d drop you out beyond their breakwater. If I can’t count on you, I don’t need you. Do you understand me?”

Webster also realized that once Linda Darby had been removed and Sea Crest had settled back into its sedentary lifestyle, he would need to remove this mealworm. This conversation had convinced him there was no way he could rely on this man staying quiet about all this for the rest of his life.

“What do you want from me?”

“Just keep your eyes and ears open,” Webster said. “Scan and send me copies on the secure line of all police reports. I want to know a minute after you, everything that is even remotely relevant. Everything. And, remember, we’re watching you as well. I may have more for you later so get a grip on yourself and be ready. Linda Darby is the ticket to keeping your past from finding its way into your present.”

“I won’t do anything more without at least knowing who you are.”

“You’ll die before you know who I am. The relevant point is I know who you are. So shut up and take care of the assignment I’ve given you.” Webster hung up.

Webster paid enough to get obedience without having to answer unnecessary questions. Testler knew his identity, but not any of the men working under Testler.

Webster’s immediate problem, Testler would not get back to Sea Crest until the day after tomorrow. For those two days, the only eyes Webster had in Sea Crest would be his now unstable snitch. He considered immediately ordering Testler to return to Sea Crest, but decided against doing so. Webster had ordered Testler to come east so he could watch the man’s eyes while he explained his failure to interrogate and eliminate one ordinary woman.

Webster also knew that Testler had nearly a year ago inserted one of his own men into Sea Crest, a sleeper with instructions to become part of the local community, to watch Cynthia Leclair and SMITH & CO., and Police Chief McIlhenny. He would confirm that Testler had put that man on alert while he would be gone, but the man was only an observer. Webster had approved that expenditure, telling Testler that he would be held responsible for the conduct of his undercover man. And that under no circumstances was Testler to disclose Webster’s identity.

In the meantime, Alistair Webster had an embassy ball to attend. Several politicians and members of the Foreign Service would be attending, insiders with whom Webster needed to stay in contact. To twist the necessary political arms, Webster needed to participate as a connected man in the nation’s capital. Quietly. Socially. And those same people expected Billionaire Webster, as he was called, to attend. Politicos always used the “B” word to segregate out those who could be counted on to write checks for almost anything asked of them.

He smiled at the thought of politicians thinking they were using him when it was he using those empty suits. The favors Webster bought and extorted from regulators and congressmen had made millions, even billions for Webster’s clients, and for himself.

Chapter 7

Linda stepped off the bus in front of Cynthia’s condo building and, finding a sun-dried bus bench next to the curb, sat down to see if Captain Ahab would show up, knowing full well that if he did, it would freak her out.

After ten minutes of not seeing anyone, she rose and opened the cranky iron gate that announced all entries into the courtyard of the Oceanview Condos.

Cynthia’s condo, located halfway back on the side, lacked the quality ocean view promised by the name of the development. Cynthia had told Linda she had difficulty seeing distances so she chose a unit close enough to allow her to listen to the surf, without paying for a view she could not fully appreciate. When the weather permitted, Cynthia often walked down onto the beach to watch the waves break and spread silently across the smooth sand. She often commented about the popping of the tiny bubbles over the breathing holes from the clams, or whatever lived in the basement of the sand.

Hope and fear met in Linda’s throat as she pressed Cynthia’s doorbell.

No answer.

After ringing again, she noticed that yesterday’s Portland, Oregon newspaper, a bit wet, lay beside the door. She rang a third time, and keeping her ear close to the door she heard the bell, a melodic tune she couldn’t quite place. Cynthia always needed a few extra minutes to get to the door and this time she was likely coming from a sickbed. Linda stood back nearer the rail, cleared her throat and waited hoping Cynthia would soon open the door and clear up the mystery. When that didn’t happen, Linda got out her cell phone and dialed one more time, with each ring beseeching her friend to pick up the phone and assure her that all was well. But the phone, like the door chimes, brought only empty promises.

Linda reached into her leather shoulder bag for the key to Cynthia’s condo. Linda had never before let herself in, always choosing to respect her friend’s privacy by knocking and waiting until Cynthia opened the door. Several years ago Cynthia had said, “Take this key, dear. I want you to have it, just in case.”

Linda decided that right now defined
just in case
.

Linda hollered through the open door, “Cynthia!” Hearing no reply, she stepped inside. “Cynthia? Are you home? It’s Linda.”

Cynthia’s living room looked normal, even smelled normal. Cynthia used plug-in air fresheners, changing fragrances each time she plugged in a new one. Cynthia always chose flower scents, but this one had an aroma not reminiscent of flowers. Perhaps the old woman had left some food out on the kitchen counter.

Cynthia’s hobby, ceramic dolls, stood in silent vigil on the high shelf rimming the room. Early American furniture, arrayed on medium-length cut pile wall-to-wall carpeting, looked as it always did: neat and orderly. A flowered TV-tray with gold metal legs fronted the red rocker, a throw blanket over its back. Cynthia’s bifocals, waiting flat on their temple bars, were on the table beside the rocker. Her prized Thomas Kinkade lithograph silently looked out from over the tweedy couch against the far wall. Two stone coasters, the kind that absorbed moisture, waited on the small kitchen table where they had been left last Friday when their cribbage game ended.

She found no food on the kitchen counter, only the day before yesterday’s newspaper, an inside page folded over to the crossword puzzle. Beside the puzzle lay an opened box of facial tissue. Cynthia’s normal morning routine would have included bringing in yesterday’s paper to compare her puzzle work against the completed version shown in the next day’s paper. But the paper with the puzzle solution had still been on the landing outside the front door.

The only furniture not straight out of Aunt Bea’s home in Mayberry was the 55-inch TV that helped Cynthia watch her favorite shows. Like a larger-than-life buccaneer, wearing a black eye patch, the large dark-screen silently watched Linda as she moved through the condo.

Despite having been in Cynthia’s home on many occasions, Linda felt like an intruder. Still, she had to get to the bottom of her friend’s disappearance so, thinking that maybe Cynthia was asleep, Linda tiptoed toward the rear bedroom where Cynthia slept with a high window ajar to let in the sounds of the sea.

She found Cynthia.

Linda’s heartbeat eased, she had reasoned it out correctly. Cynthia had apparently taken ill, and not had her cell phone. Her friend, lying on her side, appeared asleep. The covers pulled up over her shoulder. Relieved that all appeared to be okay, Linda looked around and saw a large crack in the dresser mirror, a broken piece having fallen onto the dresser top.

Confused by the broken mirror, she approached the bed. She had to be certain Cynthia was okay, and didn’t want some company or need anything, perhaps a cup of tea.

When she touched her friend’s shoulder, Cynthia rolled onto her back. And Linda instinctively pulled back her hand, holding her breath. Cynthia’s face was a patchwork of dried blood. Her eyes were open. Her stare was blank.

A fly crawled out of Cynthia’s open mouth.

Linda wanted to scream, but no sound came. Her eyes welled. She sat on the corner of the bed, just looking at her friend. The only portions of her face which looked normal were the drooping folds of skin below her eyes. Unable to look any longer, Linda turned away.

After what seemed to be forever, she again looked. It was clear now that her friend had suffered greatly before her death, likely even prayed for it to come. Those last minutes had to have hurt beyond description. Linda guessed Cynthia had been shot, but Cynthia’s face had been brutalized to such an extent that Linda was unsure she could recognize a gunshot wound to the head. Linda’s father had taught her to shoot quite well as a youngster, but after a childhood friend was accidentally killed by an unidentified hunter, Linda had never again touched a gun.

Linda gathered her hands on her lap without conscious consent. She just sat staring at a drop of crusted drool on her friend’s wrinkled chin. She couldn’t just walk out. She couldn’t just leave Cynthia lying there. She had to call Chief McIlhenny.

What should I say?
She asked herself.
Should I also tell him about my being attacked? About the stranger who saved me? That I saw a stranger pausing as he passed SMITH & CO.? That the man had reappeared near the bus stop? That all three of those men could be the same man? Was it time to tell all of it? Should I tell none of it? Or, should I just admit I may be nuts.

The one thing certain, she could not just leave Cynthia dead in her bed. She had to report the death of her friend, the rest she would figure out when the time came. Long ago, Linda had put the police department, along with the fire department and the local hospital and ambulance service in her cell phone. She highlighted “PD” in her directory and hit the call button.

“Hi, Pamela, this is Linda Darby. I need to talk with Chief McIlhenny.”

“Hi Linda, how’s things? The chief just checked in by phone. He’s at a domestic disturbance on the far side of town. His deputy is off today.”

Linda explained the reason for her call, gave Cynthia’s address, and said she would wait there until the chief arrived. After Pamela cautioned her about crime scene contamination, Linda said she would wait outside on the deck.