The Answer Man (15 page)

Gant strode into the audiovisual lab at nine
A
.
M
. sharp, greeting the two officers on duty. A/V patrol was a popular slot for cops sidelined with injuries. Carlton and Wittkower were manning the consoles, and both had crutches next to their chairs. Carlton had been shot during a drug bust, and Wittkower had slipped on a cupcake wrapper in the squad room. Ironically, it looked as if Carlton would be the one to recover more fully.

“What's going on, guys?” Gant asked as he peered over their shoulders.

“Not much,” Carlton groused. “I'm just logging in the Michael Moss show.”

Gant looked at the monitor, and sure enough, there was Officer Moss in his uniform, giving a sobriety test to a suspected drunk driver. The video camera was mounted inside the police car, recording the officer's each and every move.

“Look at the way Moss keeps playing with his hair,” Carlton pointed out. “And he always tries to keep the right side of his face to the camera. He thinks that's his good side.”

Gant laughed as he kept watching. He caught a brief glimpse of Moss's left profile. “I'll be damned. His right side
is
better.”

Carlton smiled as he noted the time on a log sheet. “He thinks he's gonna be on TV. Maybe
Cops.
”

Gant turned toward Wittkower. “What do you got for me?”

“Nothing yet. You know that expression, Doing nothing but watching the grass grow? I've just been watching the grass grow. Literally.”

Wittkower motioned toward the monitor above him. There, in black and white, was the side of Ken Parker's office building, with the tape being played at several times faster than normal speed. Wittkower turned the dial to slow it as he saw someone. He pushed a button, and the picture zoomed in on a man entering the building. Wittkower compared it to photos of Ken and Sabini taped onto his console. Satisfied it wasn't either of them, he continued scanning.

“How much do you have done?”

“About twelve and a half days. I haven't even seen Parker yet. He obviously doesn't use this entrance. Do you really think we'll find anything?”

“We might. Keep watching, Wittkower.”

Ken walked with a slight limp as he tried to make out the worn house numbers along St. Charles Avenue. It was a pleasant street in the trendy Virginia-Highlands section of the city, but Ken couldn't enjoy the scenery.

Someone had tried to kill him.

Who was behind the wheel of that boat?

Was it the same person who killed Sabini? Don Browne? Carlos Valez?

Ken glanced around. That person could be any of the people he saw walking on this sunny street. Just waiting for another chance at him.

Ken had never visited this address before. It belonged to one Stan Warner, a self-described “information broker.” Ken had met him the year before, when the man's then-employer, Greenfield Electronics, suspected Warner of stealing computer time from a mainframe at the firm's New York headquarters. When he came in for a polygraph test,
he offered Ken his own unique services to coax a passing grade. His lucrative side business involved the selling of personal information, ranging from credit histories to driving records to unlisted phone numbers.

Ken failed Warner, who was immediately fired from his job. But Ken was intrigued by his “information brokering” service, so he kept the address.

This was a stupid move, Ken thought as he walked toward the duplex. Warner would probably K.O. him before he could get two words out. Oh, well. What was one more bruise?

Ken rang the doorbell. After a few moments, a shirtless, wild-haired young man swung open the door. He eyed Ken suspiciously.

“Stan Warner?” Ken asked.

“Yeah.”

“I'm Ken Parker. I'm a polygraph examiner, and you failed a lie detector test I gave you last year.”

Warner looked closer and burst into a broad smile. “I'll be damned! Come on in!” he said with a thick southern accent.

He flung the door open wide and stepped back into his home. Ken hesitated. He hadn't expected a warm greeting.

Warner called back as he stepped into another room. “Don't worry. I got only one dog, and she doesn't bite.”

Ken followed to a messy living room area, with newspapers, magazines, and tractor-feed computer paper everywhere. The only illumination came from the sunlight peeking from around the roll-down shades. Warner cleared away some papers from his couch, making just enough room for Ken to sit.

“What brings you here?” Warner asked as he plopped down on a stool.

Ken was still taken aback at Warner's gregarious manner. “Do you remember who I am?”

“Sure. You flunked me. Made me lose my job.”

“I thought you might be mad about it.”

“Nah. You caught me. I was guilty as hell. I'm just glad they didn't have me arrested.” He gave Ken a curious look. “You didn't come here to apologize, did you?”

“No, I—”

“Because you don't have anything to feel bad about. Losing that job was the best thing that ever happened to me. I never would have had the guts to leave on my own. I work only for myself now. I love it. But what am I talking about? You know how it is. It's great, isn't it?”

“Yeah. Great. That's kind of why I came to see you. You're still in the information business, aren't you?”

“Of course!”

Ken instinctively distrusted people who were this peppy. Either they were on drugs, or they were masking deep-rooted anxieties that could result only in their going berserk at a playground with an AK-47.

“I need information on someone. As much information as you can find.”

“Do you have a social security or driver's license number?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Don't be. You're the one who'll be paying extra for it.”

“How much are we talking about here?”

Warner presented Ken with a rate card listing his entire range of services. Ken smiled at some of the items: UNLISTED PHONE NUMBER $50.00, UNLISTED HOME ADDRESS $40.00, COMPLETE POLICE RECORD $275.00, MEDICAL HISTORY $225.00.

“How do you decide on the prices?”

“Depends on how hard it is for me to get the information, how risky, or how much
I
have to pay. I have sources, and they don't come cheap. I think I have the lowest prices in the city though. If you can find any lower, I'll beat 'em.”

After some haggling, Ken finally settled on a “general background” package that Warner assured was becoming increasingly popular among older, wealthier women who
wanted to check out their young suitors. Warner showed him a few samples, reminding Ken of his own file at Myth's house.

“Okay,” Warner said. “All I need now is the name.”

“Two names. The first is Burton Charles Sabini.”

Warner scribbled it down. “Fine. What's the other?”

Ken paused a moment before answering. “Daniels,” he finally replied. “Her name is Myth Daniels.”

“What is it?” Margot asked as she fingered the blue-purple metal bar Ken had found in the late Don Browne's office.

“I was hoping you could find out for me.” Ken leaned against the deck railing outside Elwood's Pub. Bill and their other friends were watching a Braves game inside.

“Why?”

“It might be important. You guys run tests all the time. No one would notice if you had this analyzed, would they?”

“
I
would notice,” she said. “And before I send this to the lab in my company's pouch, I'd like to know why I'm doing it.”

Ken looked away. Of course she'd like to know. How could he explain that he was keeping her in the dark for her own good? Just because he was up to his ass in muck didn't mean he had to drag her down with him.

He could always make up a lie.

No. Not with her. She deserved better.

“I can't talk about it right now, Margot. It would help me if you would do this, but if you don't feel comfortable with it, that's fine too. You have to know that I'm not telling you about this for a reason, and that when I can discuss it, I'll answer any question you want. But right now I just need you to trust me.”

Margot was silent as the Braves fans went wild inside. She squeezed the metal bar in her right hand.

“Will you do it?” he asked.

She finally nodded. “I'll send it out to the lab first thing
in the morning. I give them a lot of business. I'm sure they won't mind doing it for me gratis.”

“Thank you, Margot.”

“You're welcome. When you feel like talking, just remember I'm here. Sometimes I think you forget that.”

“I never forget.”

Ken returned home to hear the phone ringing. He answered it. “Hello?”

“It's time.” Michaelson's voice.

“It's pretty arrogant to expect people to recognize your voice after only a couple of conversations.”

“I'm just giving you credit. Since you're a trained observer and all.”

“Uh-huh. So what is it time for?”

“It's time for the favor you owe me. What are you doing early tomorrow morning?”

K
en had never tested a more nervous subject.

Matt Lansing was trembling as Michaelson escorted him through the door of Ken's office. Lansing licked his lips every few seconds, and his eyes darted furtively around the room. Although it was normally Ken's job to keep his interviewees on edge, this young man was already terrified.

Michaelson's “favor.” Shake the guy up, bully him, and see what he has to say. You know all the tricks, right?

Of course he knew all the tricks. It was all part of his job. He didn't want to do it, but he believed Michaelson when he said he could make things uncomfortable for him. The last thing he needed was a loudmouth P.I. rocking the boat.

He extended his hand to Lansing. “It's really not that bad.”

Lansing managed a weak smile. “Then
you
take the exam for me.”

“If I could, I would. Have a seat.”

Lansing sat down next to the polygraph, looking at it as if it were a bomb that could go off at any moment. He took short, quick breaths.

“Don't hyperventilate,” Ken said. “It's hard to get a good reading if you're unconscious.”

Lansing smiled, but his breathing didn't improve.

Ken turned to Michaelson and motioned toward the door. “Wait outside. You can come back when the test is over.”

“You're the boss,” Michaelson said. He left the office and pulled the door shut behind him.

Ken looked back and saw that Lansing's condition was improving. Michaelson's presence obviously rattled him.

“Okay,” Ken said. “Let's talk about why you're here.”

“My company doesn't trust me.”

“That's not necessarily true. Businesses have all kinds of reasons for testing employees. There are parent companies, investors, and board members who often require these tests. They just want to examine all the options.”

“Right,” Lansing said caustically.

“That said, you were sent here for a reason. Can you tell me why your company wouldn't trust you?”

“Some investigators have approached me about possible securities violations on Vikkers Industries' part. I haven't told them anything, but they keep coming back.”

“That's all?”

“That's all.”

Ken fixed Lansing with a doubtful stare. The man looked away, then back. He squirmed.

Keep the heat on…

“Okay,” Ken said as he picked up his clipboard. “Let's see what we have here.”

He went over the questions with Lansing, who was eager to respond. Ken told him to save his answers for the exam. As Ken pulled the polygraph cords across Lansing's chest, he made a point of feeling the wireless microphone Michaelson had told him about.

“What's that?” Ken asked.

“Uh, it's a microphone.”

“You're recording this?”

“No. Vikkers has been making me wear it ever since this stuff started.”

“You wear it all day?”

“And at night. I never know when I'm going to be approached.”

Ken smiled. “What about when you're with your girlfriend?”

“I don't have one at the moment. But if I did, I don't think I'd treat that investigator to a show.”

“I don't blame you. You should take the wire off. The polygraph is a very sensitive instrument. The radio waves from that mike could throw off the readings.”

“Okay. But please tell that to Michaelson when he asks why I'm not wearing it.”

“Sure.”

Ken knew, of course, that Michaelson was listening to their every word on a Walkman outside. Another mike had been planted on the desk, and Ken was quite sure the radio waves would have no effect on the test readings.

He did the card trick for Lansing, who was appropriately impressed by the polygraph's “accuracy.” With that out of the way, it was time to begin the test.

“Are you presently an employee of Vikkers Industries?”

“Yes.”

“Will you be completely truthful to me regarding the subjects you've agreed to discuss?”

“Yes.”

“Do you understand I will inquire only about the issues we have discussed?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever stolen anything from an employer of yours?”

“No.”

“Have you divulged your company's confidential information with investigators from any sector of the law enforcement community?”

“No.”

Lansing's response was reasonably stable, but Ken frowned
at the graph as he made a mark with his felt-tipped pen. He had to lay the groundwork here.

“Have you ever lied to keep from getting into trouble at work?”

“No.”

“Have you discussed confidential details of your company's merger with Lyceum Metals with members of the law enforcement community?”

“No.”

Mention of the merger sent Lansing's blood pressure through the roof.

“Is your name Matt Lansing?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever violated any laws in the preparation of business or personal tax documents?”

“No.”

“Have you accepted an offer of leniency or immunity from prosecution in exchange for providing law enforcement agencies with confidential information about your company?”

“No.”

Lansing was getting comfortable. His last response was milder than those for the earlier irrelevant questions.

“Let's do it again,” Ken said.

He ran the test once more, and again Lansing's blood pressure soared upon mention of the merger.

Why was the merger freaking this guy out?

Ken tore off the graphs and took them to his desk. He studied them intently, making meaningless marks with his pen. He moved back toward his interviewee.

“Let's talk about the men who came to see you. I'm sure they asked you a lot of questions, and it's only natural that you would answer a few, if only to get them to leave you alone. Am I right?”

Lansing shrugged.

“I know you told these guys more than you're letting on,
and if I were in your shoes, I might have too. Those government types are pretty scary.”

“I told you the truth,” Lansing said.

“If you ask ten people for the truth, you'll get ten different answers. It's all a matter of perspective. I'm sure you didn't
want
to talk to those guys. Anything you said, I'm sure you said under incredible duress. They probably threatened you with everything under the sun. I know you wouldn't have talked to them otherwise, and I'm sure your company knows it too. So although on one level you feel you didn't do anything wrong, deep down you're disturbed about something. It's all over these graphs. Unless you can talk to me about it, I'm afraid it's going to look much worse than it really is.”

“Maybe your polygraph needs an adjustment.”

“The equipment is fine. Remember the playing card test?” Ken smiled. “I'm afraid you're an open book. That's not a bad thing though. It shows you're an honest man at heart.”

“Even though you're calling me a liar,” Lansing said.

“That word doesn't fit you. You're between a rock and a hard place, and you're not sure of the best way out.”

Lansing looked down at the floor.

Stand your ground, Ken thought. Don't fall for this shit. Can't you see what I'm doing here?

“Are you sure there isn't something more you want to talk to me about?” Ken asked. “It would look good for you if we can clean up these readings.”

Lansing rubbed his temples. “This whole thing has been a nightmare.”

“You can stop it. Explain what I'm seeing on these graphs.”

Don't fall for it, Lansing. The graphs don't say squat.

“Do you have anything to drink around here?”

“Sorry.”

Lansing clasped his hands together until his knuckles turned white. “I keep telling myself that it's just a job. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Just give me the truth.”

“I think I'm gonna be sick.”

“These readings are too strong to ignore. Are you working with the feds? Is that it?”

“No!”

“That's not what your boss is going to think after he's read my report.”

“It's not true.”

“Then tell me what
is
true.”

Lansing cleared his throat. “It's not that bad.”

“Then
tell me.
It's for your own good.”

Lansing's lips quivered. He
wanted
to talk.

“Tell me!”

Lansing sighed. “The FBI wants me to gather information about Vikkers. They have a list of people in the company they want me to approach.”

“Approach for what?”

“Information. The FBI wants to know all about the inner workings of Vikkers Industries.”

“Why?”

Lansing ignored the question. “I didn't talk to any of those people. The feds can say whatever they want, but I'm not going to spy for them.”

“Did you report this to your bosses?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know. Could this be why my readings are the way they are?”

“It could be part of it, but I have to tell you something, Lansing. You're still holding back a hell of a lot. You know it, I know it, and my machine knows it. And when I make out my report, your company will know it.”

Ken looked at the pulse needle. The man's heart was about to explode.

“Come on,” Ken pressed. “Talk to me.”

“The FBI threatened me with prison. They said my career will be ruined and my life won't be worth a damn.”

“Does this have anything to do with Burton Sabini?”

“In a way. Sabini was disgusted with the company. That's why he did what he did.”

“Why was he disgusted?”

“Because he was a decent man.”

“We're talking in circles here. Out with it. What's going on?”

Lansing eyed Ken for a moment. “This is really outside the scope of the exam. I don't think I should be discussing this with you.”

“Your company hired me to find out the truth. They trust me. Let's get everything out in the open, okay? No secrets.”

The door flew open and Michaelson hurried into the room. He was holding a Walkman and the headphones were down around his neck. “The test is over,” he said.

“The hell it is,” Ken replied.

Michaelson tore the blood pressure cuff from Lansing's arm. “Come on, we're getting out of here.”

“I'm not finished,” Ken said.

“Yes, you are. I know what I need to know.”

“You were listening?” Lansing asked.

“You bet. Did you put the feds in touch with any other Vikkers employees?”

“No.”

“I want those names. Every last person the FBI wanted you to approach, got it?”

Lansing glanced nervously at Ken. “Uh, sure.”

“I was still talking to him,” Ken said.

“I'll finish up my own way,” Michaelson replied.

Ken spoke to Lansing. “Tell me about the merger!”

“Not a word!” Michaelson barked.

“Just thinking about the merger scares the hell out of you, doesn't it, Lansing?”

Michaelson fumbled with the perspiration sensor and chest cords, freeing Lansing from the polygraph. “Come on,” he said as he pulled Lansing to his feet.

“Tell me about it!” Ken shouted.

But Lansing was silent as Michaelson pulled him out of the office and down the empty corridor.

Ken stepped to the doorway. Dammit. Lansing was
so close
to saying more. Why was Michaelson suddenly so skittish? If information was what he wanted, why did he shut down the session?

One subject sent Lansing's blood pressure soaring and compelled Michaelson to yank him out of the room.

The merger.

It all kept coming back to the merger.

“This takes time, Kenbo. The stuff comes from a lot of different sources. You gotta be patient.” Stan Warner rifled through a stack of papers.

“That's something I've never been good at.” Ken stood next to Warner. He had known it was probably too early for results, but the Q&A with Matt Lansing whetted his curiosity. After Michaelson pulled the plug, Ken had driven to Warner's to see if the information broker had uncovered anything of use.

Warner handed Ken two legal-sized photocopies. “This is it so far. It's their DMV reports.”

“What good is that?” Ken took them.

“You'd be amazed. It's the gateway to a lot of other information. It has the birth date, social security number, sometimes place of birth. Anybody with four-fifty can get it on anybody else.
If
you want to wait four to six weeks. It so happens I got a buddy down there who can get 'em for me right away.”

“Good for you.”

“Good for you too. Because he tipped me off to something the DMV would never tell you.”

“What's that?”

“Someone else has shown an interest in Myth Daniels in the past week.”

“What kind of interest?”

Warner handed him a small sheet of scratch paper. “This chick requested a file on Daniels just a few days ago. My friend gave her name and address to me. It's all yours. No charge.”

Ken looked at the name Warner gave him: Jessica Barrett.

“Anyone you know?” Warner asked.

Ken shook his head.

“Me neither.” Warner sat on the floor and crossed his legs.

Ken stepped across the dirty room, still staring at the name. “Why would she want this?”

“Myth Daniels is an attorney, right? Maybe it's someone who's thinking about hiring her. Or maybe someone who's going up against her. You never know. The people who hire me want information for all kinds of reasons. Which reminds me, you never told me why you want background on these people.”

“That's right, I didn't.”

“That's cool. I'm into the discretion thing. As long as you know I could probably find out if I really wanted to.”