Authors: Marilyn Campbell
Topaz Dreams (4 page)
Steve leaned forward in her seat, but kept her lips clamped against the next set of questions she would have fired.
"Mrs. Nesterman is no dummy. She wasn't going to sit back and watch everyone else get nowhere fast.
Although
her husband never gave her any specifics about confidential projects,
she knew he worked on them from time to time. She was not exactly in
his class computer-wise, I gather, but she was no slouch on the
keyboard, either.
"Instead of worrying, she spent her time reviewing
the working disks he kept at home in hopes of finding a clue about who
could have wanted him or his knowledge so much they would commit a
crime as serious as kidnapping. It paid off. Nesterman kept a private
journal in which he reviewed his daily activities. Even his wife hadn't
known about it until she found it. Considering who his notes
implicated, she decided to turn the information over to Bob Crandall
instead of the law. The two of them decided to hire us. They were no
longer confident the government could get Nesterman back."
"You're dragging this out on purpose, aren't you? So, who's our number-one pick for bad guy?"
"Gordon Underwood."
Steve's
face lit up as her mind automatically rolled through everything she
knew about Underwood. "Good grief. What was in that journal?"
"Two
entries of particular interest. Here." Dokes handed Steve the sheet.
"The first part is an excerpt from about eight weeks ago. The second
entry was made two days before Nesterman disappeared."
Steve began reading.
...
Gordon Underwood shocked us all today when he deigned to attend the
association's luncheon. He's even more imposing than his pictures. To
my greater shock, he walked right up to me and offered me a job for a
ridiculous sum of money and a chance to "touch the heavens." I might
have been tempted if it hadn't been he who made the offer. Everyone in
the Valley knows the man's dealings are not always on the square, and
if it wasn't illegal, or impossible, why would he have offered me
$5,000,000 to solve a computer problem? He did not gracefully accept my
refusal. After repeating that he wanted me for the job and no one else
was good enough, he informed me I had exactly two weeks to change my
mind. I can't forget the strange feeling I got when I looked in his
cold eyes.
(Two weeks later) I don't know whether to report the
incident. Evelyn would be so worried. If they only meant to frighten
me, they did a good job of it, but I can't believe anyone would do me
serious harm just because I don't want to work for them. Of course the
two thugs who accosted me this afternoon didn't actually say who sent
them—only that my two weeks were up and I would call a certain person
in his San Francisco office tomorrow and accept his offer—or else. I
can't believe they were serious!
When Steve finished reading, she
let out a soft whistle. "Sounds like more than enough to sic the law on
the big shot. Why did Crandall decide to give this to us instead?"
"If
Underwood is behind Nestennan's disappearance, he's going to be even
harder than usual to locate. As it is, he only grants telephone
interviews to the media, and those only when it involves some new
development he wants publicized. He's also on his guard against
potential lawsuits and being served subpoenas since he's hounded by so
many different Federal agencies. And when something like that comes up,
I swear he has a kind of sixth sense about who's looking for him and
vanishes into thin air.
"Crandal's afraid if Underwood sniffs a
lawman hell go further underground and Nesterman may never be found.
His and Mrs. Nesterman's only concern is to get Karl Nesterman back and
they think that the government might use Nesterman to get something
solid on Underwood and not care what happened to the scientist in the
process. Crandall's idea is to get someone in contact with Underwood to
offer a deal, even promising not to press charges if necessary. The
hope is that once he hears about Nesterman's journal, he'll be willing
to negotiate."
"Underwood must be pretty desperate for something to go out on the limb this far."
"I'm
not so sure. I think Underwood guessed Nesterman was not the type to
brag about the offer or to report a threat supposedly from someone as
powerful as Underwood. Up to a point he was right. He just hadn't
counted on a smart wife getting into the picture. But then he's never
been married, so what does he know?
"You'll get a clear picture of
just how good Underwood is at evasion from the reports in the file on
him." Dokes placed another file on top of the Nesterman case file. "You
might want to call John to see if he's got anything else you might use."
Steve's
brother, John, had never been interested in their father's adventures.
Eight years her junior, John was the passive one, perfectly happy to
sit behind a desk at the Internal Revenue Service, shuffling papers all
day long. The IRS would definitely be one of those agencies thrilled to
get something dirty on Underwood and to hell with anybody who got
stepped on while they went after him. John hated it when she asked him
for information, but he usually came through for her.
"Whatever
cover you decide on, it had better be pretty convincing. You've got to
get past a corps of secretaries and bodyguards before you can get near
Underwood. He's got offices all over the country. Go where you have ta
go. QRTs picking up the expenses, but keep an eye on them anyway. We
still have to justify what it costs, especially if we come up
empty-handed. Well, what are you waiting for? You have a lot of reading
to do before you get started."
"Yes, sir." Steve quickly stood up and picked up the files.
"Steve?"
"Yes, sir?" She stopped in his doorway and turned back to him.
"Regular check-ins, right?" He used his Uncle Lou voice.
"Yes, sir." Steve began to leave when he stopped her again.
"Barbanell!" He switched to his senior partner voice. "By the book!"
"Aye, aye, sir!" Steve saluted and headed for her office.
the files did not take as long as Steve had anticipated. The trainee
had done an excellent job of collating the information, and Steve
promptly wrote a memo to Lou stating her opinion of the young woman's
work. She never wanted to forget what it was like to be a rookie, or
how important a few strokes could be.
She spent the afternoon in San
Jose talking to Nesterman's wife and his coworkers at QRT. It was not
that she had additional questions; she simply wanted to get a personal
feel for the missing man.
There were no surprises at the office.
Karl Nesterman was well liked and trusted. Bob Crandall was torn
between concern for his employee and sweating bullets over the fate of
the project on which Nesterman was working.
Evelyn Nesterman was
warmly receptive to Steve's questions, even though it was probably the
tenth time she had answered them. Her frustration and nervous fatigue
poked through a strained veil of optimism. Steve reinforced the woman's
rationale that her husband was alive. Whoever kidnapped him most
certainly wanted his intelligence and knowledge, and they would have to
keep him healthy to take advantage of them.
Satisfied with the
interviews, Steve was doubly pleased to be heading home to Kensington
ahead of rush-hour traffic. She decided to surprise her mom and the
kids by taking them out for pizza and a movie when it wasn't even
Saturday night.
Staying home with them last week had been an
eye-opening experience. Unlike previous vacations, there were no
structured plans or hectic racing from one activity to another. With no
school for the children, there was nothing but time together, time to
play, time to love, time to get on each other's nerves. Although her
mother insisted Steve and her brother had behaved exactly the same way,
Steve had not realized her five- and-seven-year-olds fought constantly
about everything. Nor had she ever noticed just how many times her
mother repeated the same bit of news or advice. Steve knew she was not
alone with her mixed feelings of love, disappointment, and guilt, and
she tried to be as honest with herself as possible about all of it.
She
loved her family, but she would never have been happy being a full-time
mother. She loved her work, and would never have been satisfied if she
had not followed her dream, but she also would have had an enormous
void in her life if she had never given birth to Mary Ann and Vince. As
long as she needed to work to support her family, at least she was one
of the fortunate ones, doing something she enjoyed and having the
support of a kindhearted mother.
When Steve had returned to northern
California after her divorce, she had happily accepted her mother's
invitation to move into the big empty house where Steve and John had
grown up. Ann Ohara had deeply loved her husband and had taken care of
him all their married life. She needed to be needed, and Steve needed a
responsible, live-in caretaker if she was going to make her dream come
true. Steve automatically stepped into her father's shoes as the family
breadwinner and, along with her children, the recipient of her mother's
abundant attentions.
She pulled her vintage Mustang into the
driveway of the split-level home that she still thought of as her
father's. It was an older home with small bathrooms and smaller
closets, but it was paid for, with only taxes to worry about each year.
Even though it was worth a small fortune today, there was no place in
the San Francisco area they could move without incurring a huge
mortgage. Her mother would never be as comfortable anywhere else anyway.
After
Vinnie had left her, Steve had wondered if she would ever meet anyone
else who would want to marry her with or without two babies. She had
fretted over the idea of leaving her mother alone again. But there had
been no reason for her concern. Vinnie had been right. No other man had
shown her more than a passing interest since the divorce.
Steve
could hear the German shepherd, Mr. Spock, barking the second she
closed her car door. By the time she reached the front door, little
arms circled her thighs and waist and two paws landed heavily on her
chest. All three got the customary hug, kiss, and knuckle rub on the
top of the head. Then normal chaos returned.
"Ma-a-w-m-e-e! Vince
took one of my Barbie dolls and ripped its head off, and Mr. Spock
picked it up in his mouth and now I can't find it anywhere! I think he
ate it!" Mary Ann whined in a voice that threatened the safety of every
glass window on the block. She squeezed a tear out of one eye to show
how devastated she was.
Not to be outdone, Vince screamed, "I did
not!" repeatedly throughout her speech, backed up by the dog's barking.
It was impossible to tell whose side
Mr. Spock was on, or if he was simply defending himself against Mary Ann's accusations.
"It was her fault," Vince added when Steve raised an eyebrow at him. "She called me a baby, and—"
Steve
cut off the rest of his excuse and restored order with a tried and true
method—distraction and bribery. "How about pizza and a movie tonight?"
It almost worked, until they discovered they could now fight about
which movie they would see.
"You're home early, honey. You're not in
trouble with Lou again are you?" Ann did not wait for an answer before
going on. "Would you like a glass of wine? The Krebbs's cat got in our
yard again today. Poor Mr. Spock almost went right through the window
trying to get at it. I don't see why they can't keep that thing tied
up."
Steve smiled and gave her mom a hug and kiss on the cheek. "No
wine, thanks. I'm going to change into jeans. After a week in
comfortable clothes, this suit felt like a straitjacket all day."
Heading
down the hall, Steve could hear her mother's voice rising above the
children's in an attempt to get them to behave. Just as there was a lot
of love in their house, there was an awful lot of noise. Except late at
night—after baths and prayers and excuses to stay up longer, after tea
and a replay of the day with Mom, after the newscasters said good
night. Alone in her small bedroom, it was very, very quiet.
the Underwood Financial Center Steve had an excellent view of the
Transamerica Pyramid. She could not help but speculate if Gordon
Underwood felt a prick of jealousy when he stood at the entrance of his
older, more conservative building, or if he pretended the architectural
attraction did not exist. In reviewing the information gathered on
Underwood, Steve learned he spent more time in his San Francisco office
than any of the others. Its proximity made her decision to start there
inevitable.
In order to bluff her way in to see him without raising
anyone's suspicions, she picked a cover that had worked well for her
before and might draw on the man's big ego at the same time. Dressed in
a pair of worn designer jeans, a loose tee shirt under a large cotton
shirt, baggy socks, and well-used sneakers, Steve looked ten years
younger than her age. A lot of mousse to spike her hair, black eyeliner
to enlarge her eyes, but no other makeup, and big, black plastic ear
hoops completed her ensemble. A professional Nikon camera hung from a
strap around her neck, and a scarred leather photographer's case was
slung over her left shoulder.
The directory in the lobby listed the
floor for the executive offices. In the elevator Steve remembered to
stick a big wad of bubble gum into her mouth. The receptionist on that
floor listened to Steve's explanation, made a brief phone call, and
told her how to find the office of Mr. Underwood's executive secretary.
Steve's heart beat a little faster, but her palms remained dry. No way could it be this easy.
A
woman in her fifties, with flaming red hair, bifocal glasses, and a
no-nonsense expression greeted Steve as she opened the door and shut it
behind her. "May I help you?" The woman took in Steve's appearance over
her glasses and clearly disapproved.
"Yeah. I'm lookin' for Mr. Underwood. I'm here to do the photo layout for the article in
I
." Steve blew a medium-sized bubble and let it pop as she looked around the office with open curiosity.
"I'm sorry. We weren't expecting any photographer. At any rate, I have never heard of anything called
I
," she stated smugly.
Steve
quickly dug a smudged card out of her shirt pocket which identified her
as Zena, Freelance Photographer, with an address and phone number of an
Oakland telephone booth. Handing it to the redhead, she identified
herself in between bubble-gum cracks. "That's me, (crack) Zena.
I
is a new
magazine
(crack) like People, ya know? They gave me this assignment yesterday.
Said Mr. Underwood would be expectin' me. (crack) Look, maybe his
secretary knows somethin' about it."
Before the woman could respond,
the office door opened again. Steve automatically shifted to protect
her back and get a glimpse of the person entering. The detective in her
instantly sized up the man from a statistical viewpoint; the woman in
her added a few extra details.
Male Caucasian, age twenty-five to
thirty, six feet tall, approximately 175 pounds, looks pretty solid,
shoulder-length, stylized hair, honey-blond with streaks of light brown
and gold, brown-topaz eyes which seemed to flash when the light hit
them.
He had to be the most intriguing man she had ever seen. Not
exactly handsome. Beautiful might have been more accurate—like a caged
lion, a beautiful, wild animal, strictly controlled. Or was it just
that gorgeous head of sun-streaked hair that made her think of a lion?
No, it was also the way he prowled into the office outwardly at ease,
but the close fit of his black slacks and open-collared shirt revealed
a tightly muscled body that contradicted a relaxed attitude. He wore
comfortable-looking loafers, made for walking, and carried a leather
bag. She frowned as her perusal stopped on the ring finger of his left
hand. He was wearing a gaudy opal ring. Not only was it ugly, it didn't
match the wearer. A definite incongruity.
In one smooth scan, his
gaze recorded every inch of the room, not stopping until it met Steve's
bold stare. That action, combined with the way he seemed poised for
action, told Steve his profession might have some similarity to hers.
Steve
turned back to the secretary, who had also stopped to give the man the
once-over. "I'll be with you in just a moment," she said to him. "Now,
Miss..."—she glanced at the card in her hand again—"Zena. I am Mr.
Underwood's secretary, Miss Preston. I do not have you listed as having
an appointment. I suggest you recheck with whomever gave you the
assignment."
The lion had moved out of Steve's line of peripheral
vision, and she could only guess that he stood directly behind her.
Suddenly she was certain. She tensed, ready to defend herself, but
hoped she would not have to show her hand so soon. At first she
actually felt his body heat, then the hair on her neck lifted slightly
then settled again as he exhaled. He was ... smelling her! Steve
stepped quickly to her left and glared at him. Of all the perverted....
Jolting
herself back into character, Steve pleaded, "Ah, Miss Preston, I really
need this job. Won't you please ask your boss to see me? I'll just take
a few candid shots. Five minutes, tops, I promise." She sniffed and
dabbed at her eyes on the last word, just in case Miss Preston had a
soft spot for desperate kids.
The stern secretary relented a little.
"Look, Zena. I'd like to help you, but it's impossible. Mr. Underwood
is in the Los Angeles office all this week, but even if he were here,
he would refuse to see you without an appointment. If you'd like
though, I'll be glad to call L.A. for you and see if he has any
openings." She reached for the phone.
"L.A.! Damn! They didn't pay
me in advance for this gig, and they sure as hell didn't offer to pick
up travel expenses. I've got too many other things going to waste time
on this one. Thanks anyway. Can I have my card back?" Steve snatched it
from the secretary's hand before she could object. "Thanks again. See
ya." Steve swiveled clockwise fast enough to cause her heavy case to
swing out to the side and catch the pervert squarely in his lower
abdomen. "Oh! scuse me," she said with a smirk as she noted his pained
expression.
As she drove to the airport, Steve tried to put the
strange man out of her mind. She wished she had an excuse to hang
around long enough to find out what he was doing in Underwood's office.
He made her think of a half-finished jigsaw puzzle. Having seen just
enough of him to get interested, she wanted to see the whole picture.
Her first assumption was that he was a professional, maybe with another
agency or police department, but a pro would not have crowded her that
way without good reason, and what in the world was that smelling
business about? By the time she parked her car, she gave it up as an
unsolved mystery.
She could not be certain that Miss Preston would
not alert the L.A. office about a flaky photographer looking for
Underwood, but she planned to switch covers regardless. The
photographer's case and camera went in the trunk and a huge black
shoulder bag came out.
At the ticket counter she purchased a seat on
the commuter flight to L.A. that left in an hour, and headed for the
nearest ladies' room.
The guys called her big purse her "bag of
tricks," and with good reason. First Steve wet her hair and blew it dry
into a fluffy pixie-style, brushed toward her face. A full makeup job
came next. In five minutes flat she put on foundation to tone down her
freckles, three-color eye shadow, mascara, and complementary raspberry
blush and lipstick. She knew how to make herself more attractive; she
just didn't see much point to the fuss most of the time. But this was
different. This was business.
Steve pulled a purple knit ball out of
the magic bag. A few shakes turned it into a snug-fitting, mini-length,
low-necked sweater dress. The black earrings were exchanged for silver
ones, and a silver necklace and bracelet were added. Last of all, Steve
donned sheer taupe pantyhose and black high heels. The discarded
disguise went into the oversized bag and the new Steve hurried to catch
her plane.
The first thing Steve noticed when the taxi dropped her
off was that Underwood's Los Angeles office building looked exactly
like the one she had just left. She quickly realized the interior
design and layout were identical as well. Apparently Underwood's
passion for power extended to controlling his environments. She had
read that he was rather inflexible in his business decisions, but she
got the impression he was downright weird.
Steve put on a pair of
big, dark sunglasses and pulled a small notebook and pen out of her
bag. As she stepped out of the elevator, she halted, made a quick note
in the book, tapped the pen on her chin while she inspected the lobby
of the executive floor, and wrote a few more scribbles. Without pausing
at the receptionist's desk, she strode directly down the marble hallway
toward her destination.
"Excuse me!" The young girl called after Steve. "You can't go down there without being announced!"
Steve
never broke her stride as she waved the notebook in the air and called
back over her shoulder. "It's okay. She's expecting me!" Heels clicking
purposefully along, Steve tried to reach the executive secretary's
office before the receptionist could warn her on the intercom. Timing
and extreme self-confidence made up her new character's style.
As
she placed her hand on the doorknob, it was pulled away from her grasp,
causing her to stumble into the room. She was brought up short as her
nose touched a small snap on a black shirt. Stepping back, she saw the
shoes, the leather bag, the custom-fit black slacks over his thighs and
hips. Steve barely suppressed a surprised gasp.
It couldn't be! Be
cool, Steve. There's no way he could recognize you the way you look
now. Leave the shades on, head down. How the hell did he get here ahead
of me?
Steve heard his sharp intake of breath at the same time as
his chest expanded in front of her. God help me, he's smelling me
again! Steve made a mental note to change perfumes along with her
disguises in the future. Normally, like today, she wore no scent at all.
"Excuse
me, please," she said in a brusque tone as she pressed her palm against
his chest. He didn't budge. Behind him, she could hear the secretary
telling someone, probably the outside receptionist, that she would
handle it, obviously meaning her. Who was this guy? Was he going to
blow her cover or not? Until he did, she had every intention of going
ahead with her charade. Using her own body as a wedge, Steve pushed her
way past him into the office.
Nodding briefly to the secretary who
had risen to deal with the intruder, Steve turned to one side then the
other, made a few notes, then addressed the young woman. "Hi. Ronnie
Howser. '60 Minutes.' This will only take a few minutes." Steve noted
that this secretary was also a redhead, more strawberry than the first.
Her nameplate on the desk read MISS PRESTON. Another example of company
regimentation, Underwood-style, Steve supposed. Identical buildings,
identical office layouts, why not identical secretaries?
"What will
take a few minutes? I was not expecting anyone today, ma'am." The wary
voice let Steve know this Miss Preston was not quite as sure of herself
or her position as the one in San Francisco.
"Not today, hon. The
shooting's tomorrow. I'm just getting the layout and lighting
requirements.'' As Steve pretended to inspect the ceiling fixtures, she
realized the man had left without saying a word. Her shoulders relaxed
a little and she got on with her charade. "Is this his office here?"
Before the woman could move, Steve pulled open one of the two doors in
the back wall. A storage room. Swiftly, she moved to the other door.
"You
can't go in there!" the redhead cried, beginning to show her distress.
She had obviously been impressed by Steve's introduction, but not to
the point of being bull-dozed.
Steve yanked the door open and
marched into the next room. It was large, expensively appointed with
dark woods and leathers. Built-in bookshelves lined two walls and
another consisted of floor-to-ceiling tinted glass windows displaying
the city of Los Angeles below.
"Perfect!" Steve announced as she
paced off the room. "The camera can set up here. Great natural
lighting. Probably won't need to bring in more than two spots. Say,
where is he? It would help if I could line up a few of the Q's and A's
ahead of time." Steve continued looking around as if she was not
holding her breath waiting for the answer to her question.
Finally
the secretary seemed to remember to whom she owed allegiance. "I'm
afraid you've made a mistake, Miss Howser. There is no shooting
tomorrow, at least not in this office."
"Certainly there is. I made
the arrangements with Gordon, er, Mr. Underwood, myself at the Silicon
Valley Association luncheon a couple of weeks ago. It was all decided.
Go get him. He'll confirm it." Steve waved her little book at her to
send her on her way. That was the final act to push this Miss Preston
over the edge.
"Listen, I don't know who you think you made an
appointment with, but it was certainly not our Mr. Underwood. He never
makes plans without informing his secretaries, and his schedules are
worked out at least four weeks in advance at all times. Never anything
less and rarely does he make any last-minute changes. There were never
any plans for him to be in this office at all this week. This entire
week was set aside months ago for foundation business. I can assure you
if he had agreed to any media coverage, I would have been duly
informed, and I was not"
Steve calculated it was time to revert to
being friendly. "I guess I should have known it was too good to be
true. How am I going to live this one down back at the station? God,
I've been bragging about my coup for weeks. What am I going to do now?"
Steve took off her sunglasses and looked mournfully at the younger
woman, whose ruffled feathers were slowly settling down. "I'm sorry,
this isn't your problem. I feel like such a fool. I don't suppose
there's any chance Mr. Underwood would be doing any of this foundation
business here?"
"Mrs. Nesterman is no dummy. She wasn't going to sit back and watch everyone else get nowhere fast.
Although
her husband never gave her any specifics about confidential projects,
she knew he worked on them from time to time. She was not exactly in
his class computer-wise, I gather, but she was no slouch on the
keyboard, either.
"Instead of worrying, she spent her time reviewing
the working disks he kept at home in hopes of finding a clue about who
could have wanted him or his knowledge so much they would commit a
crime as serious as kidnapping. It paid off. Nesterman kept a private
journal in which he reviewed his daily activities. Even his wife hadn't
known about it until she found it. Considering who his notes
implicated, she decided to turn the information over to Bob Crandall
instead of the law. The two of them decided to hire us. They were no
longer confident the government could get Nesterman back."
"You're dragging this out on purpose, aren't you? So, who's our number-one pick for bad guy?"
"Gordon Underwood."
Steve's
face lit up as her mind automatically rolled through everything she
knew about Underwood. "Good grief. What was in that journal?"
"Two
entries of particular interest. Here." Dokes handed Steve the sheet.
"The first part is an excerpt from about eight weeks ago. The second
entry was made two days before Nesterman disappeared."
Steve began reading.
...
Gordon Underwood shocked us all today when he deigned to attend the
association's luncheon. He's even more imposing than his pictures. To
my greater shock, he walked right up to me and offered me a job for a
ridiculous sum of money and a chance to "touch the heavens." I might
have been tempted if it hadn't been he who made the offer. Everyone in
the Valley knows the man's dealings are not always on the square, and
if it wasn't illegal, or impossible, why would he have offered me
$5,000,000 to solve a computer problem? He did not gracefully accept my
refusal. After repeating that he wanted me for the job and no one else
was good enough, he informed me I had exactly two weeks to change my
mind. I can't forget the strange feeling I got when I looked in his
cold eyes.
(Two weeks later) I don't know whether to report the
incident. Evelyn would be so worried. If they only meant to frighten
me, they did a good job of it, but I can't believe anyone would do me
serious harm just because I don't want to work for them. Of course the
two thugs who accosted me this afternoon didn't actually say who sent
them—only that my two weeks were up and I would call a certain person
in his San Francisco office tomorrow and accept his offer—or else. I
can't believe they were serious!
When Steve finished reading, she
let out a soft whistle. "Sounds like more than enough to sic the law on
the big shot. Why did Crandall decide to give this to us instead?"
"If
Underwood is behind Nestennan's disappearance, he's going to be even
harder than usual to locate. As it is, he only grants telephone
interviews to the media, and those only when it involves some new
development he wants publicized. He's also on his guard against
potential lawsuits and being served subpoenas since he's hounded by so
many different Federal agencies. And when something like that comes up,
I swear he has a kind of sixth sense about who's looking for him and
vanishes into thin air.
"Crandal's afraid if Underwood sniffs a
lawman hell go further underground and Nesterman may never be found.
His and Mrs. Nesterman's only concern is to get Karl Nesterman back and
they think that the government might use Nesterman to get something
solid on Underwood and not care what happened to the scientist in the
process. Crandall's idea is to get someone in contact with Underwood to
offer a deal, even promising not to press charges if necessary. The
hope is that once he hears about Nesterman's journal, he'll be willing
to negotiate."
"Underwood must be pretty desperate for something to go out on the limb this far."
"I'm
not so sure. I think Underwood guessed Nesterman was not the type to
brag about the offer or to report a threat supposedly from someone as
powerful as Underwood. Up to a point he was right. He just hadn't
counted on a smart wife getting into the picture. But then he's never
been married, so what does he know?
"You'll get a clear picture of
just how good Underwood is at evasion from the reports in the file on
him." Dokes placed another file on top of the Nesterman case file. "You
might want to call John to see if he's got anything else you might use."
Steve's
brother, John, had never been interested in their father's adventures.
Eight years her junior, John was the passive one, perfectly happy to
sit behind a desk at the Internal Revenue Service, shuffling papers all
day long. The IRS would definitely be one of those agencies thrilled to
get something dirty on Underwood and to hell with anybody who got
stepped on while they went after him. John hated it when she asked him
for information, but he usually came through for her.
"Whatever
cover you decide on, it had better be pretty convincing. You've got to
get past a corps of secretaries and bodyguards before you can get near
Underwood. He's got offices all over the country. Go where you have ta
go. QRTs picking up the expenses, but keep an eye on them anyway. We
still have to justify what it costs, especially if we come up
empty-handed. Well, what are you waiting for? You have a lot of reading
to do before you get started."
"Yes, sir." Steve quickly stood up and picked up the files.
"Steve?"
"Yes, sir?" She stopped in his doorway and turned back to him.
"Regular check-ins, right?" He used his Uncle Lou voice.
"Yes, sir." Steve began to leave when he stopped her again.
"Barbanell!" He switched to his senior partner voice. "By the book!"
"Aye, aye, sir!" Steve saluted and headed for her office.
* * * *
Reviewingthe files did not take as long as Steve had anticipated. The trainee
had done an excellent job of collating the information, and Steve
promptly wrote a memo to Lou stating her opinion of the young woman's
work. She never wanted to forget what it was like to be a rookie, or
how important a few strokes could be.
She spent the afternoon in San
Jose talking to Nesterman's wife and his coworkers at QRT. It was not
that she had additional questions; she simply wanted to get a personal
feel for the missing man.
There were no surprises at the office.
Karl Nesterman was well liked and trusted. Bob Crandall was torn
between concern for his employee and sweating bullets over the fate of
the project on which Nesterman was working.
Evelyn Nesterman was
warmly receptive to Steve's questions, even though it was probably the
tenth time she had answered them. Her frustration and nervous fatigue
poked through a strained veil of optimism. Steve reinforced the woman's
rationale that her husband was alive. Whoever kidnapped him most
certainly wanted his intelligence and knowledge, and they would have to
keep him healthy to take advantage of them.
Satisfied with the
interviews, Steve was doubly pleased to be heading home to Kensington
ahead of rush-hour traffic. She decided to surprise her mom and the
kids by taking them out for pizza and a movie when it wasn't even
Saturday night.
Staying home with them last week had been an
eye-opening experience. Unlike previous vacations, there were no
structured plans or hectic racing from one activity to another. With no
school for the children, there was nothing but time together, time to
play, time to love, time to get on each other's nerves. Although her
mother insisted Steve and her brother had behaved exactly the same way,
Steve had not realized her five- and-seven-year-olds fought constantly
about everything. Nor had she ever noticed just how many times her
mother repeated the same bit of news or advice. Steve knew she was not
alone with her mixed feelings of love, disappointment, and guilt, and
she tried to be as honest with herself as possible about all of it.
She
loved her family, but she would never have been happy being a full-time
mother. She loved her work, and would never have been satisfied if she
had not followed her dream, but she also would have had an enormous
void in her life if she had never given birth to Mary Ann and Vince. As
long as she needed to work to support her family, at least she was one
of the fortunate ones, doing something she enjoyed and having the
support of a kindhearted mother.
When Steve had returned to northern
California after her divorce, she had happily accepted her mother's
invitation to move into the big empty house where Steve and John had
grown up. Ann Ohara had deeply loved her husband and had taken care of
him all their married life. She needed to be needed, and Steve needed a
responsible, live-in caretaker if she was going to make her dream come
true. Steve automatically stepped into her father's shoes as the family
breadwinner and, along with her children, the recipient of her mother's
abundant attentions.
She pulled her vintage Mustang into the
driveway of the split-level home that she still thought of as her
father's. It was an older home with small bathrooms and smaller
closets, but it was paid for, with only taxes to worry about each year.
Even though it was worth a small fortune today, there was no place in
the San Francisco area they could move without incurring a huge
mortgage. Her mother would never be as comfortable anywhere else anyway.
After
Vinnie had left her, Steve had wondered if she would ever meet anyone
else who would want to marry her with or without two babies. She had
fretted over the idea of leaving her mother alone again. But there had
been no reason for her concern. Vinnie had been right. No other man had
shown her more than a passing interest since the divorce.
Steve
could hear the German shepherd, Mr. Spock, barking the second she
closed her car door. By the time she reached the front door, little
arms circled her thighs and waist and two paws landed heavily on her
chest. All three got the customary hug, kiss, and knuckle rub on the
top of the head. Then normal chaos returned.
"Ma-a-w-m-e-e! Vince
took one of my Barbie dolls and ripped its head off, and Mr. Spock
picked it up in his mouth and now I can't find it anywhere! I think he
ate it!" Mary Ann whined in a voice that threatened the safety of every
glass window on the block. She squeezed a tear out of one eye to show
how devastated she was.
Not to be outdone, Vince screamed, "I did
not!" repeatedly throughout her speech, backed up by the dog's barking.
It was impossible to tell whose side
Mr. Spock was on, or if he was simply defending himself against Mary Ann's accusations.
"It was her fault," Vince added when Steve raised an eyebrow at him. "She called me a baby, and—"
Steve
cut off the rest of his excuse and restored order with a tried and true
method—distraction and bribery. "How about pizza and a movie tonight?"
It almost worked, until they discovered they could now fight about
which movie they would see.
"You're home early, honey. You're not in
trouble with Lou again are you?" Ann did not wait for an answer before
going on. "Would you like a glass of wine? The Krebbs's cat got in our
yard again today. Poor Mr. Spock almost went right through the window
trying to get at it. I don't see why they can't keep that thing tied
up."
Steve smiled and gave her mom a hug and kiss on the cheek. "No
wine, thanks. I'm going to change into jeans. After a week in
comfortable clothes, this suit felt like a straitjacket all day."
Heading
down the hall, Steve could hear her mother's voice rising above the
children's in an attempt to get them to behave. Just as there was a lot
of love in their house, there was an awful lot of noise. Except late at
night—after baths and prayers and excuses to stay up longer, after tea
and a replay of the day with Mom, after the newscasters said good
night. Alone in her small bedroom, it was very, very quiet.
Chapter Three
A stranger in a strange land.—Exodus II
FromA stranger in a strange land.—Exodus II
the Underwood Financial Center Steve had an excellent view of the
Transamerica Pyramid. She could not help but speculate if Gordon
Underwood felt a prick of jealousy when he stood at the entrance of his
older, more conservative building, or if he pretended the architectural
attraction did not exist. In reviewing the information gathered on
Underwood, Steve learned he spent more time in his San Francisco office
than any of the others. Its proximity made her decision to start there
inevitable.
In order to bluff her way in to see him without raising
anyone's suspicions, she picked a cover that had worked well for her
before and might draw on the man's big ego at the same time. Dressed in
a pair of worn designer jeans, a loose tee shirt under a large cotton
shirt, baggy socks, and well-used sneakers, Steve looked ten years
younger than her age. A lot of mousse to spike her hair, black eyeliner
to enlarge her eyes, but no other makeup, and big, black plastic ear
hoops completed her ensemble. A professional Nikon camera hung from a
strap around her neck, and a scarred leather photographer's case was
slung over her left shoulder.
The directory in the lobby listed the
floor for the executive offices. In the elevator Steve remembered to
stick a big wad of bubble gum into her mouth. The receptionist on that
floor listened to Steve's explanation, made a brief phone call, and
told her how to find the office of Mr. Underwood's executive secretary.
Steve's heart beat a little faster, but her palms remained dry. No way could it be this easy.
A
woman in her fifties, with flaming red hair, bifocal glasses, and a
no-nonsense expression greeted Steve as she opened the door and shut it
behind her. "May I help you?" The woman took in Steve's appearance over
her glasses and clearly disapproved.
"Yeah. I'm lookin' for Mr. Underwood. I'm here to do the photo layout for the article in
I
." Steve blew a medium-sized bubble and let it pop as she looked around the office with open curiosity.
"I'm sorry. We weren't expecting any photographer. At any rate, I have never heard of anything called
I
," she stated smugly.
Steve
quickly dug a smudged card out of her shirt pocket which identified her
as Zena, Freelance Photographer, with an address and phone number of an
Oakland telephone booth. Handing it to the redhead, she identified
herself in between bubble-gum cracks. "That's me, (crack) Zena.
I
is a new
magazine
(crack) like People, ya know? They gave me this assignment yesterday.
Said Mr. Underwood would be expectin' me. (crack) Look, maybe his
secretary knows somethin' about it."
Before the woman could respond,
the office door opened again. Steve automatically shifted to protect
her back and get a glimpse of the person entering. The detective in her
instantly sized up the man from a statistical viewpoint; the woman in
her added a few extra details.
Male Caucasian, age twenty-five to
thirty, six feet tall, approximately 175 pounds, looks pretty solid,
shoulder-length, stylized hair, honey-blond with streaks of light brown
and gold, brown-topaz eyes which seemed to flash when the light hit
them.
He had to be the most intriguing man she had ever seen. Not
exactly handsome. Beautiful might have been more accurate—like a caged
lion, a beautiful, wild animal, strictly controlled. Or was it just
that gorgeous head of sun-streaked hair that made her think of a lion?
No, it was also the way he prowled into the office outwardly at ease,
but the close fit of his black slacks and open-collared shirt revealed
a tightly muscled body that contradicted a relaxed attitude. He wore
comfortable-looking loafers, made for walking, and carried a leather
bag. She frowned as her perusal stopped on the ring finger of his left
hand. He was wearing a gaudy opal ring. Not only was it ugly, it didn't
match the wearer. A definite incongruity.
In one smooth scan, his
gaze recorded every inch of the room, not stopping until it met Steve's
bold stare. That action, combined with the way he seemed poised for
action, told Steve his profession might have some similarity to hers.
Steve
turned back to the secretary, who had also stopped to give the man the
once-over. "I'll be with you in just a moment," she said to him. "Now,
Miss..."—she glanced at the card in her hand again—"Zena. I am Mr.
Underwood's secretary, Miss Preston. I do not have you listed as having
an appointment. I suggest you recheck with whomever gave you the
assignment."
The lion had moved out of Steve's line of peripheral
vision, and she could only guess that he stood directly behind her.
Suddenly she was certain. She tensed, ready to defend herself, but
hoped she would not have to show her hand so soon. At first she
actually felt his body heat, then the hair on her neck lifted slightly
then settled again as he exhaled. He was ... smelling her! Steve
stepped quickly to her left and glared at him. Of all the perverted....
Jolting
herself back into character, Steve pleaded, "Ah, Miss Preston, I really
need this job. Won't you please ask your boss to see me? I'll just take
a few candid shots. Five minutes, tops, I promise." She sniffed and
dabbed at her eyes on the last word, just in case Miss Preston had a
soft spot for desperate kids.
The stern secretary relented a little.
"Look, Zena. I'd like to help you, but it's impossible. Mr. Underwood
is in the Los Angeles office all this week, but even if he were here,
he would refuse to see you without an appointment. If you'd like
though, I'll be glad to call L.A. for you and see if he has any
openings." She reached for the phone.
"L.A.! Damn! They didn't pay
me in advance for this gig, and they sure as hell didn't offer to pick
up travel expenses. I've got too many other things going to waste time
on this one. Thanks anyway. Can I have my card back?" Steve snatched it
from the secretary's hand before she could object. "Thanks again. See
ya." Steve swiveled clockwise fast enough to cause her heavy case to
swing out to the side and catch the pervert squarely in his lower
abdomen. "Oh! scuse me," she said with a smirk as she noted his pained
expression.
As she drove to the airport, Steve tried to put the
strange man out of her mind. She wished she had an excuse to hang
around long enough to find out what he was doing in Underwood's office.
He made her think of a half-finished jigsaw puzzle. Having seen just
enough of him to get interested, she wanted to see the whole picture.
Her first assumption was that he was a professional, maybe with another
agency or police department, but a pro would not have crowded her that
way without good reason, and what in the world was that smelling
business about? By the time she parked her car, she gave it up as an
unsolved mystery.
She could not be certain that Miss Preston would
not alert the L.A. office about a flaky photographer looking for
Underwood, but she planned to switch covers regardless. The
photographer's case and camera went in the trunk and a huge black
shoulder bag came out.
At the ticket counter she purchased a seat on
the commuter flight to L.A. that left in an hour, and headed for the
nearest ladies' room.
The guys called her big purse her "bag of
tricks," and with good reason. First Steve wet her hair and blew it dry
into a fluffy pixie-style, brushed toward her face. A full makeup job
came next. In five minutes flat she put on foundation to tone down her
freckles, three-color eye shadow, mascara, and complementary raspberry
blush and lipstick. She knew how to make herself more attractive; she
just didn't see much point to the fuss most of the time. But this was
different. This was business.
Steve pulled a purple knit ball out of
the magic bag. A few shakes turned it into a snug-fitting, mini-length,
low-necked sweater dress. The black earrings were exchanged for silver
ones, and a silver necklace and bracelet were added. Last of all, Steve
donned sheer taupe pantyhose and black high heels. The discarded
disguise went into the oversized bag and the new Steve hurried to catch
her plane.
The first thing Steve noticed when the taxi dropped her
off was that Underwood's Los Angeles office building looked exactly
like the one she had just left. She quickly realized the interior
design and layout were identical as well. Apparently Underwood's
passion for power extended to controlling his environments. She had
read that he was rather inflexible in his business decisions, but she
got the impression he was downright weird.
Steve put on a pair of
big, dark sunglasses and pulled a small notebook and pen out of her
bag. As she stepped out of the elevator, she halted, made a quick note
in the book, tapped the pen on her chin while she inspected the lobby
of the executive floor, and wrote a few more scribbles. Without pausing
at the receptionist's desk, she strode directly down the marble hallway
toward her destination.
"Excuse me!" The young girl called after Steve. "You can't go down there without being announced!"
Steve
never broke her stride as she waved the notebook in the air and called
back over her shoulder. "It's okay. She's expecting me!" Heels clicking
purposefully along, Steve tried to reach the executive secretary's
office before the receptionist could warn her on the intercom. Timing
and extreme self-confidence made up her new character's style.
As
she placed her hand on the doorknob, it was pulled away from her grasp,
causing her to stumble into the room. She was brought up short as her
nose touched a small snap on a black shirt. Stepping back, she saw the
shoes, the leather bag, the custom-fit black slacks over his thighs and
hips. Steve barely suppressed a surprised gasp.
It couldn't be! Be
cool, Steve. There's no way he could recognize you the way you look
now. Leave the shades on, head down. How the hell did he get here ahead
of me?
Steve heard his sharp intake of breath at the same time as
his chest expanded in front of her. God help me, he's smelling me
again! Steve made a mental note to change perfumes along with her
disguises in the future. Normally, like today, she wore no scent at all.
"Excuse
me, please," she said in a brusque tone as she pressed her palm against
his chest. He didn't budge. Behind him, she could hear the secretary
telling someone, probably the outside receptionist, that she would
handle it, obviously meaning her. Who was this guy? Was he going to
blow her cover or not? Until he did, she had every intention of going
ahead with her charade. Using her own body as a wedge, Steve pushed her
way past him into the office.
Nodding briefly to the secretary who
had risen to deal with the intruder, Steve turned to one side then the
other, made a few notes, then addressed the young woman. "Hi. Ronnie
Howser. '60 Minutes.' This will only take a few minutes." Steve noted
that this secretary was also a redhead, more strawberry than the first.
Her nameplate on the desk read MISS PRESTON. Another example of company
regimentation, Underwood-style, Steve supposed. Identical buildings,
identical office layouts, why not identical secretaries?
"What will
take a few minutes? I was not expecting anyone today, ma'am." The wary
voice let Steve know this Miss Preston was not quite as sure of herself
or her position as the one in San Francisco.
"Not today, hon. The
shooting's tomorrow. I'm just getting the layout and lighting
requirements.'' As Steve pretended to inspect the ceiling fixtures, she
realized the man had left without saying a word. Her shoulders relaxed
a little and she got on with her charade. "Is this his office here?"
Before the woman could move, Steve pulled open one of the two doors in
the back wall. A storage room. Swiftly, she moved to the other door.
"You
can't go in there!" the redhead cried, beginning to show her distress.
She had obviously been impressed by Steve's introduction, but not to
the point of being bull-dozed.
Steve yanked the door open and
marched into the next room. It was large, expensively appointed with
dark woods and leathers. Built-in bookshelves lined two walls and
another consisted of floor-to-ceiling tinted glass windows displaying
the city of Los Angeles below.
"Perfect!" Steve announced as she
paced off the room. "The camera can set up here. Great natural
lighting. Probably won't need to bring in more than two spots. Say,
where is he? It would help if I could line up a few of the Q's and A's
ahead of time." Steve continued looking around as if she was not
holding her breath waiting for the answer to her question.
Finally
the secretary seemed to remember to whom she owed allegiance. "I'm
afraid you've made a mistake, Miss Howser. There is no shooting
tomorrow, at least not in this office."
"Certainly there is. I made
the arrangements with Gordon, er, Mr. Underwood, myself at the Silicon
Valley Association luncheon a couple of weeks ago. It was all decided.
Go get him. He'll confirm it." Steve waved her little book at her to
send her on her way. That was the final act to push this Miss Preston
over the edge.
"Listen, I don't know who you think you made an
appointment with, but it was certainly not our Mr. Underwood. He never
makes plans without informing his secretaries, and his schedules are
worked out at least four weeks in advance at all times. Never anything
less and rarely does he make any last-minute changes. There were never
any plans for him to be in this office at all this week. This entire
week was set aside months ago for foundation business. I can assure you
if he had agreed to any media coverage, I would have been duly
informed, and I was not"
Steve calculated it was time to revert to
being friendly. "I guess I should have known it was too good to be
true. How am I going to live this one down back at the station? God,
I've been bragging about my coup for weeks. What am I going to do now?"
Steve took off her sunglasses and looked mournfully at the younger
woman, whose ruffled feathers were slowly settling down. "I'm sorry,
this isn't your problem. I feel like such a fool. I don't suppose
there's any chance Mr. Underwood would be doing any of this foundation
business here?"
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