Try Try Again (25 page)

“But if Darlene – if that’s her real name,” Jill said, “was
friends with someone who suddenly disappeared at the time of her father’s
death…”

Hub spoke up. “A kind of ‘Dr. Zempf’ from
Lolita
,
always hanging around, keeping track of her?”

“Something like that,” Liv said.

Jill looked up suddenly. “Then that could be our hit-guy, or
someone working for him.”

“Yes,” Liv said, “but it’s a pretty slim trail.”

“But worth following up,” Hub said.

Jill began, “And I could…”

“In Charley’ last letter to me,” Liv said, “the day before
he was killed, he asked me to look after Darlene. Actually I never followed up
on that, because Brent talked me out of it. He convinced me it would be a waste
of time, and Darlene wouldn’t be in danger anyway. But maybe we could find her.
She might know something.”

Jill said, “OK, I’m closer to Roanoke than either of you.
I’ll go there and see what I can find. Did Charley tell you exactly where she
lived?”

“No, I don’t think he knew that himself. But he wrote he
sent her money when he could – from one robbery or another, I suppose – and
she’d pick it up from a friend at a 7-11 on Ninth Street. Of course that
contact could be long gone; it’s been two years since Charley sent that letter
to me. I’ll email you a copy.”

“Do you know the contact’s name?” asked Jill.

“No, but given the turnover in those places, I’d start with
the manager; he’s more likely to have been there for a while than the others.
Or he might know who’d been around back then. Go to Roanoke,” Liv concluded,
“and see if you can find Darlene; and if you do, what she knows, if anything.
If you please.”

“Sure, OK,” said Jill, looking slightly annoyed at the
brusque supervision. “I could do that,” she added. “I’m the closest one of us
to Darlene and I’ve got time on my hands now.”

“Remember,” said Liv. “Charley’s letter led me to believe
Darlene didn’t know anything – not even the name of her father who was sending
her that sometime-money.”

“And next,” said Liv after a pause, “based on what Frank
Dickstein told Hub, I think Hub should visit WizWhiz and find out if that woman
changed the show, and if Stan Collins – is that his name? – knows anything more
about her than Frankie did.”

“OK,” said Hub. “I’ll visit them and see if that woman was
behind the cut we’re calling The Clue. And maybe they know more about her than
Frankie did.”

“Fine,” said Liv. And now I think we should get the raw
footage that JTJ’s class shot. From all three cameras.”

The other two opened their mouths, but for a moment nothing
came out.

“Well fuck!” said Hub finally, “why didn’t we know about
that before? That there were three cameras, I mean, not just one.”

“You’re the Hollywood guy,” said Liv, “Don’t you always have
more than one camera rolling?”

Hub frowned. “
We
do; but I’ve looked at that
footage hundreds of times. The point of view changes from trial-day to
trial-day, but on each individual day it’s always the same POV – although with
some pans and zooms – which means it’s always a single camera, just moved
around from one day to the next.”

“I know there were three,” said Liv, “I saw them every day
for five days. JTJ wanted to use three cameras, and Brent and I didn’t object,
and neither did Judge DuCasse, subject to a few conditions. It was for JTJ’s
media class at the local JC. And she did use three.”

“But the three cameras shot the same trial,” said Jill, “so
why would we need to see all three?”

“Probably we don’t,” said Liv, “I guess. But I think we
should take a look anyway.”

“OK,” said Jill, looking at Liv. “JTJ’s in Grantwood – still
in Grantwood anyway, perhaps – so you should be the one to see her about this,
and then we can look at the tapes together.”

“All right,” said Liv. “I’ll do that. If she’s there - last
I heard she was scheming to get to the big leagues somewhere. And I’ll also
talk to her about what she saw. She was in the courtroom when that little
glance from Charley happened. I don’t know where she was looking at that moment,
but we should find out.”

“And,” she continued, “I could see Brent. Before he goes to
Congress he might have some time to see me. I can ask a few favors that a
prosecutor could do but we couldn’t.”

“Like what?” Hub asked.

“Like get the FBI and a few other agencies to locate a woman
fitting the description Frankie gave you, Hub, who uses the alias ‘Stephanie
Bloomberg.’”

“That’s assuming she’s used that name before.”

“Yeah, it is. But worth a shot. The cost of getting a really
convincing fake ID can be high enough that buyers are tempted to use it multiple
times.

“How do we know that ‘Bloomberg’ has ever come to the FBI’s
attention? said Jill.”

“Well, we don’t. But as I said, I think we should give it a
shot.”

“And there’s one more thing,” Liv added. “I visited Ezra
Barnes’ staff after he died, about a week before they dispersed. Most of them will
probably have gone on to other jobs on the Hill, or at some agency. I spoke
with them about the possibility Senator Conning was involved, since he was the
only one who benefited from Barnes’ death – that we know.”

Hub looked up sharply. “The new President?”

“Yes,” said Liv, “but that doesn’t mean he was personally
involved. Those hangers-on can do a lot of damage the candidate doesn’t know
about. Now, I have two assignments here already, and I’ve got a job as well,
and I’m not worth three million dollars, and I don’t live around Washington. So
if Jill can take this task on, I think we’d all be grateful.”

Jill nodded.

“When I speak with Brent,” Liv said, “I’ll ask him to call
the Hill and get the current addresses of Barnes’ people of two years ago, and
I’ll send those over to you, Jill.”

“Fine,” said Jill.

“Anything else on your list,” Hub asked.

“OK, for the record,” said Liv, “not as important as what
we’ve agreed to look into. What about this completely irrational presence of
the car key that didn’t fit anything? There must have been some reason for it.”

Heads were shaken all around.

“I guess we’ll just drop it,” Liv said.

“Well” said Hub, “we’ve got some assignments – Team!”

Liv looked up. “Team?”

“Sure,” Jill said, “we’re the – ah – Agonauts! How about
that?”

There were frowns but no audible disagreement.

After a moment of silence, “Well,” said Hub, “I guess we’ve
got ourselves a mystery to solve. Let’s stay in touch, and get back together in
– a month?”

The women nodded.

“At my place,” said Hub, “in the tub.”

“Wait a minute,” said Liv, “Jill and I live in the east. It’s
your turn to wait wait wait in the boarding lounge and not get any peanuts.
Meet us in – oh, the D.C. area?”

Hub shrugged. “I guess I could do that.”

“Are you all right with that, Jill?”

“Sure,” she said. “I hate to fly.”

“Well then,” said Liv, “it’s settled. Exactly one month from
today, nine p.m., we’ll meet at the Stirrup Bar and Grill in Washington.”

Jill and Hub sat with open mouths as Liv ate her last
tortilla, and theirs.

Back in the hotel, Jill couldn’t wait to tell Ellie about
the Great Sleuthing that was about to begin, but Ellie was still out. She’d
left a message that she’d found some great people and they were going out to
celebrate. Jill worried a little, wonder what they were celebrating other than
having found fellow-souls who also liked to celebrate.

But the next morning Ellie turned up, happy and hung over.
As they headed for LAX courtesy of another car from Hub, she told Jill what a
great bunch of people she’d met in the hotel bar and they just loved it that
she knew Hub Landon for real, and even had dinner with him (with two other
people, but she didn’t quite say that) that very night.

On the flight from LAX back to Grantwood (by way of BWI, Grantwood’s
airport having no commercial flights other than once a week to Johnstown), Liv
phoned JTJ. She said “This is Olivia Saunders” slowly and clearly, figuring she
might as well use her renewed fame for something. Immediately, JTJ was on the
line.

“Liv!” Wonderful! I was just wondering how I could get an
interview with you.”

“Are you recording this?”

“Hell, yes!”

“Well, turn it off.”

“My memory. I could misquote you, and then you’d…”

“Off the record.”

A hesitant “Well, OK.” A click.

Look, Ms. Jackson –“

“That’s ‘JTJ’ among friends, honey, especially famous ones!”

“’JTJ’ then. I’ll be happy to give you an interview tomorrow
or the next day, tell you how thrilled I was and how sweet and kind all those
suits in Hollywood were this year except they don’t wear suits anymore and they’re
all egotistical shits. But not now. I need you to remember something.”

“Promise?”

“Promise what?”

“Interview.”

“Oh. OK. Promise.”

“OK, here’s what I’m wondering. When you covered the Charley
Dukes trial, were you actually in the courtroom?”

“Sure. Most of the time, anyway. I ducked out to give a
quickie report ‘on the hour’ as we say in the trade. The Duchess, you know, she
wouldn’t…”

“I know.”

“… wouldn’t let me broadcast from the courtroom, y’know? Even
during a recess. But most of the time I was inside taking notes, especially
watching faces, body language, all that human stuff that makes me a great
reporter.”

Liv thought A great reporter? In Grantwood, Pennsylvania?
Give me a break! But said nothing.

JTJ continued on. “How about tomorrow afternoon?”

“I have some questions for you, too,” Liv said, “about the
trial, and I need your answers. Soon. About what you saw at the trial. OK? So
how about eight o’clock this evening instead? My plane lands at six and I’ll be
home by eight.”

“Sure. I’ll be at your place.”

“Not the studio?”

“Honey, I like to get a little atmosphere behind the people
I’m interviewing, y’know. Dirty dishes, yapping dogs, and all that.”

“Fine, although I don’t have any dogs and very few dishes.
And I need something from you. I need the unedited tapes from those three
cameras your people used at the trial, all five days. I’ll give them back in a
month, so don’t bother copying them.”

“Ah – I hope those tapes haven’t been tossed. Some of the
work was really student-class, focus and all that, people bumping into tripods,
but I’ll look this afternoon at the JC and see if I can come up with them.”

“It’s really important, ‘JTJ,’ especially if you want that
interview.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the call.

“OK. I’ll try.”

Liv resolved to have all her dishes washed by eight o’clock,
and not buy a dog in the meantime.

The meeting with JTJ had been productive, Liv considered as
she was on her way to meet with Brent Nielsen: the original trial tapes were
still in existence and could be made available. She was still annoyed at Brent
for his surprise attempt to get the death penalty for Charley Dukes. Her level
of pissedness was somewhat reduced by the thought she’d had won that battle, or
perhaps Brent had just lost it and her maneuvers hadn’t made any difference.
Some consolation! But bygones, etc., and she had to tell Brent about “Stephanie
Bloomberg.” Had to get him interested in finding out who that woman was.

Liv went to Brent’s office and had to wait no more than five
minutes before she was ushered in. He looked about as unstressed as Liv
remembered ever seeing him. “Hi, Liv!” he said, “Well, I’ll be off to
Washington pretty soon, and I’ve already handed off my cases here to my deputy,
so I do have time to see you, if you’ll make it brief of course.”

“Of course,” said Liv, thinking she’d be glad when he was
gone.

“So what can I do for you?”

“Remember when Charley Dukes implicated a man going by first
name of ‘Art’ or last name of ‘George’?”

“Sure,” said Brent. “And you had me looking in every
database this side of Russia’s FSB, and not much came of it, just a cold trail.
So are we going back to that dry hole again?”

“Almost,” said Liv. She gave him a rundown of the mysterious
Stephanie Bloomberg’s two appearances: In Frankie Dickstein the producer’s
office, and at WizWhiz. “And she’s real,” Liv continued, “by whatever name. She
met with Dickstein under false pretenses.”

“Did she try to defraud him or otherwise harm him or that
Wooz-What company?”

“Well, no, not that I know of.”

“Then there’s no prosecutorial interest in her. Anyway,
that’s not in my territory, anymore, by about three thousand miles.”

“Just another database search, Brent. This is the last
time…”

“Until next time.”

“No, this is it. Obviously an assumed name: ‘Stephanie
Bloomberg.’ Can you please have your aides take a look? They could probably use
some practice in searching databases, anyway.”

Brent gave Liv an annoyed glance. “OK,” he said. “We’ll run that
name against the FBI and some State police files, and in California too. Do you
have a photograph and a description?”

“Description, yes. But no photo.”

“That’s OK; computer photo matching is chancy, although
sometimes it works. DHS has spent hundreds of millions… Anyway, do you know
what part of the country she might have a record of some kind in?”

For the first time, it occurred to Liv she had no clue as to
Bloomberg’s location: west, east, south, or middle, much less state or city.
She took a leap of faith and prayed Bloomberg was behind George or associated
with him, so “D.C. area” would be her best guess as to location.

“Yes,” she said, “I do: Washington D.C. or somewhere close:
Maryland or Virginia. She must have flown cross-country to pull that impersonation
on Dickstein. So it must have been really important.”

Brent leaned back in his chair. “That at least limits the
scope. I’ll put this out tonight and you should have something in, oh, two or
three days. Maybe a little more.”

“Thank you!” said Liv a little too loudly.

“Think nothing of it,” said Brent. “Next election cycle I
may be calling on you for a favor.”

In the next month, the Agonauts performed their
investigations, met people, made calls, took trips – and asked questions. This
activity came to the attention of several automated systems and thence to
Sybille Haskin.

Haskin felt her exposure keenly. She’d been at the trial to
check that no accusations of a conspiracy had been mooted. Risky, but her face hadn’t
appeared in seasons one or two and by now everyone who’d been there would have
forgotten her presence.

And her visit to Frankie, and then to WizWhiz – again she’d
shown her face. But if WizWhiz had been questioned, they’d say her consultation
on cutting snippets out of the show hadn’t had any effect, and in fact she
seemed to show no interest at all in what Charley’s face was doing in episode
four. Anyway, there was no reason to associate “Stephanie Bloomberg” with
Charley Dukes – or with Sybille Haskin.

But what had Dukes told Saunders? What had he learned that
he could tell her? She’d heard he’d written her a letter the day before he was
killed. The warden, stupidly enough, hadn’t destroyed it, had in fact handed it
over to Olivia Saunders the next day without reading it himself. Some BS about
attorney-client. In that letter, had Charley told Saunders about Sebastian
George? And what had Charley known about George, anyway? They’d spent two whole
days together.

That was the great unknown. George could be perfectly safe,
or he could be on the verge of being arrested for murder. If he were put in a
tight spot by the authorities, he might try to bargain.

Haskin was bothered by unknowns, and she didn’t like to take
chances. Sebastian George would have to be deleted.

Sebastian George was relaxing in the indoor pool of a new,
tall, and antiseptic-looking Northern Virginia hotel when he received a note
from an old friend, saying an “E.G. Robinson” was in Chicago and needed to meet
with him, regarding an “opportunity” to be available there right away. There
would be a private jet from National to Midway with one passenger – himself.

George had hoped for a new job – he was running low on cash.
But he’d been worried, especially about Haskin. She might have no further use
for him. He envisioned a meeting with her, a dressing down, a 9mm pulled from a
drawer, or perhaps a door opening and someone pretty much like himself, a hood
for hire, a .22 with that unflattering schnoz of a silencer at the end of its
barrel. Yeah, he’d never be heard from again.

So he was glad to get the Chicago assignment; the perfect
excuse for disappearing to a place where Sybille Haskin might never see him
again.

But, cautious by nature, George felt he had to assume this
was a setup, and Haskin was taking him out of the picture. He made some
discreet inquiries about an E.G. Robinson in Chicago and drew nothing but blank
stares, although one contact remembered the name from an old movie. His suspicious
aroused, George made some very special plans for a long vacation starting right
in Chicago, where his welcoming committee would somehow fail to meet him.

“Sydney Martin” made an air reservation from O’Hare to San
Francisco. He’d lose whoever was supposed to meet him at Midway. Find a
different gate, not immediately exit through security. A gate that was filled
with waiting passengers. As they were boarding, he’d quietly move to a
different gate, and so on.

To be extra cautious, he’d allow four hours for his
reception committee to give up and leave. Then George would take a cab from
Midway to O’Hare.

If spotted at O’Hare, he just hoped whoever might be
watching wouldn’t dare a shooting in public, in a place with numerous security
guards. They would watch him, with annoyance and disgust, board another plane –
to San Francisco – one that had no Sebastian George on its manifest.

After a cab ride and a three-hour layover on the Peninsula,
he’d be on a flight on a different airline, under a different name, from San
Jose to LAX, connecting to a flight that, two hops later, would land in Dubai.
He didn’t know what he’d do in Dubai, but he’d always wanted to see the place,
enjoy some of the luxury, enjoy being treated, if not as well as an Arab, at
least a lot better than those poor fucking Paki bastards.

Perhaps these were the Arabs the mention of which had so
discomfited Haskin. But no, Emiratis were well behaved, mostly because they
were rich. The movement, or conspirators, or plotters – whatever they were – would
have to be from some other Mid-East or North African country.

His contacts had arranged for passports and visas and major
credit cards in the names of the newly christened “Richard Dorr,” “Hershel
Sussman,” and “James C. Califano,” that would pass muster, at least until he
could arrive in Dubai and then disappear again with yet another passport and an
impressive set of visas.

Where was his ultimate destination? Somewhere rich and
corruptible; he’d make a final decision when he had to. He was looking forward
to being Jewish, at least for the Sussman leg of his flight, had long envied
their legendary acumen, had from time to time wished he’d been born to the
tribe, for real. But flying to Dubai it was much better to be a Califano than a
Sussman.

He boarded the small plane, said a casual hello to the
pilot, looked carelessly but carefully around. The pilot was unarmed and there
was nothing suspicious in sight.

As instructed, he moved back through a sturdy privacy door
into the passenger compartment. He buckled himself into one of the six
passenger seats and daydreamed about tall hotels and warm beaches where the
shore was too salty for bugs, about a city where whores were tolerated for
foreigners like him, as was whiskey. He touched the small pistol in his pocket
and kept an eye on the privacy door.

He thought about JTJ, how he’d been tempted to call her with
an offer of alliance, or perhaps partnership. But, in hiding, he wouldn’t be
able do that. Too bad.

The plane reached cruising speed and elevation. Purring over
the ground, his flight passed from one province of air to another, and then
another. George dozed off.

Waking at last, George could see the towers of Chicago out
the window to his left. The plane should be turning west toward Midway any
minute.

But the minutes went on, and the plane didn’t turn. George
grew worried. Was he being taken somewhere else? The Michigan shore was a faint
blur out the right side.

He rose and opened the door. “Hello?” But the cockpit was
empty and the pilot was gone, had obviously bailed out. Shit! Panic, that
unaccustomed sensation, gripped George’s heart. So Sybille had been ahead of
him all along! He ground his teeth in fury, then regretted performing so
expected a cliché.

But what to do now? He sat down in the pilot’s seat. He’d
flown a small plane a few times, always under the watchful eye of a real pilot.
What had he learned? How to steer, like those 9-11 people. But not how to land,
just like them, too. Up and down and sideways. And not how to reduce airspeed.

He heard the first stuttering of the fuel tank running dry.
He could steer toward the Michigan shore, aim for a farmer’s field. Maybe by
that time he could figure out how to slow down. Stall? Well, if he were going
low and slow enough he still had a chance to survive, cushioned by an acre or
two of some field crop.

He dropped down to five hundred feet. The shore was hazy but
more visible now. Yes, there was a town off to his right, probably Muskegon,
but he’d miss it. There, north of the town was a large expanse of nothing but
green. A forest? He couldn’t tell. He’d rather land in a cornfield than a
forest, but by the time he’d dropped that low it would be too late to choose.