The Answer Man (17 page)

“Then tell me.”

She handed Ken the fax of Myth at the Denver crime scene. “Meet Madeleine Walton.”

His eyes never left the photo as she related to him the entire story of her investigation. He barely even glanced at the Lexis/Nexis newspaper printouts she handed to him.

After she finished her story, Ken looked away. Lies. Myth had lied to him. Would they ever stop?

“Hey, I'm sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

“This isn't just about business, is it?”

He did not reply.

“She's very beautiful,” she said, taking back the photos and fax. “But tell me something, what made
you
investigate her?”

“There's a lot about her I don't know.”

“Obviously.”

“Is this all you got?”

“Yeah. I tried to call her. She wasn't in all day. The last time I called I left a message. I told her secretary my name was Madeleine Walton. I figured that would get her attention.”

“I bet it did.”

He stood up and walked toward his car. “I gotta go.”

“Hey…” She rose and took a few steps toward him. “Let me know how it comes out.”

“I will. Thanks, Jessica.”

“Call me Hound Dog.”

Matt Lansing drummed his fingers on the conference table.

Michaelson had deposited him there twenty minutes before, promising—or threatening—a meeting with Herbert Decker. Lansing hated his confrontations with Decker, which almost always ended with the company president screaming at him about something. How would he react this time?

Lansing had withheld information from the company's investigator, and he knew that Decker would not be pleased. It went against everything Vikkers preached to its employees. Commitment. Teamwork. A unified front. The Sabini embezzlement had dealt a blow to the corporation, and this was only packing salt into the wound.

Lansing hadn't asked for any of it. The FBI agent, Lars, had approached him three times, on each occasion affecting a loose, casual demeanor even when he was threatening poverty, prison, and public scorn. The guy acted almost as if
he
didn't
want Lansing to cooperate, so he could take him down with the rest of the company.

Vikkers Industries hadn't exactly been supportive either. Although Decker and the investigator maintained that the wireless mike was there only to study the FBI's line of inquiry, Lansing suspected it was also to make sure
he
didn't reveal anything. He patted his chest to make sure the wire was still in place. It had become a habit, like feeling if he still had his wallet.

Damn Herbert Decker.

Lansing stifled a gasp as Decker walked into the room. Don't be a wuss, he told himself. Decker couldn't read minds, even if it sometimes seemed like it.

“Relax, Lansing. Stress kills, don't you know that?”

Then why hadn't this job killed him years ago? Lansing rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen up.

Decker sat on the other side of the conference table. “Ted Michaelson said you and he had an interesting conversation.”

“Yes. Do you want me to recap it for you?”

“Not necessary. He told me what I needed to know. Did you give him the complete list of executives the FBI wants you to put them in touch with?”

“Yes.”

“What took you so long to tell us about this? The FBI may have gotten to these people by now.”

Lansing cleared his throat. He wasn't supposed to mention the polygraph exam to Decker. That was probably to protect the company from liability since his taking the test violated the terms of the Employee Polygraph Protection Act. Michaelson told Lansing to pretend he had decided to come clean on his own, which would make him look better anyway. “I was confused,” Lansing said. “The feds have a way of screwing with your mind, I gotta tell you.”

Decker's face turned red. “You fucking moron. Would you accept that excuse from one of your subordinates?”

Probably, Lansing wanted to say. Instead, he replied, “Of
course not. That's why I'm talking to you now. Don't I get some points for that?”

Decker patted his pathetic comb-over as he suddenly became calm. The change in mood frightened Lansing even more than the angry outburst. That, at least, had been predictable.

“Don't worry,” Decker said. “You'll get
exactly
what you deserve.”

M
ark was right, Hound Dog thought. Her inquiry into Myth Daniels's life suddenly seemed childish. It was all a big game to her. But after meeting her visitor, she felt ashamed. He obviously had a reason for needing to know, and his pain was real. The truth mattered to him in a way it never could to her.

She took solace in thinking she may have helped him with her information, but it wasn't enough. She felt rotten.

Maybe she'd skip the scanner surfing tonight.

Or maybe not. She wasn't going to feel better hanging out in the trailer, that was for sure. After flip-flopping on the issue a few times, she finally attached her multiband scanner to the belt of her black jeans, pulled on her helmet and denim jacket, and set out on her motorcycle at ten-thirty
P
.
M
.

There wasn't a lot of activity on the streets—a few nonfatal accidents and a drug buy gone bad that ended in the shooting death of a seventeen-year-old boy. Hound Dog was squeezing off pictures of the boy's family when his bereaved mother, a hugely overweight woman in her late thirties, started screaming and had to be restrained from attacking her. Hound Dog backed off. At the urging of the police on the scene, she hopped on her motorcycle and left.

She didn't get a shot of the body, but that was no great
loss. She had seen plenty of dead bodies. Her first had been a teenage girl who was the victim of a serial rapist. Hound Dog had brought her camera but couldn't bring herself to use it. She stood on a bluff overlooking the crime scene, just sobbing. It was the last time she had cried at a crime scene. She still refused to photograph dead rape victims whose bodies were exposed; it would be like perpetuating the rape, becoming an accessory after the fact.

Cruising east on Ponce De Leon Avenue, she spotted the blinking neon
FRESH DOUGHNUTS
sign at Krispy Kreme, meaning a batch had just come out of the oven. She rolled to a stop near the shop's plate glass windows. The harsh fluorescent lights were so intense, she had to squint to see inside. At the counter were the usual four
A
.
M
. customers: prostitutes, bartenders, a homeless guy. But no cops. Good, she thought. Officers on the graveyard shift made a habit of harassing scanner geeks, and they knew her. She had to be especially careful of traffic violations, since the police relished each and every opportunity to ticket her.

She dismounted, went inside, and bought a doughnut and a cup of coffee. She kept her scanner on as she sat at the counter. Her right earphone dug uncomfortably into her ear, and after checking it, she discovered the foam had almost worn through. She put it back on, mostly to discourage conversation from the guys staring at her a few seats away.

A 10-71 crackled over the scanner. A shooting.

“Murphy sixteen, Murphy sixteen. Code 10-71. Unidentified white male wounded, paramedics en route. Perpetrator at large. 15614 Corsair, repeating, 15614 Corsair. Please respond.”

Hound Dog felt as if she were yanked outside her body, looking at herself from above.

Mother of God.

She grabbed her helmet and bolted for the door.

It was her home address.

Hound Dog pushed her motorcycle harder than she had ever pushed it before, tearing through deserted streets, through red lights, through a construction site. She had to get home.

To Mark.

No further details came through on the scanner; police had not reached the scene yet. She gritted her teeth and roared through an intersection.

Mark had to be okay. He just had to.

She raced into the trailer park, catching sight of two sets of police flashers in front of her home. She threw the bike down and ran for the open front door, pushing past the half-dozen neighbors standing outside. An officer tried to block her.

She yelled at him. “Goddammit, I live here! Where's Mark?”

Before the officer could answer, she slipped past him. Mark was lying on the floor.

He wasn't moving.

His white shirt was soaked with blood.

Hound Dog dropped to her knees and screamed.

Another officer tried to lift her up, but she shook free and scrambled toward Mark's motionless body. She grabbed his hands.

Ice cold.

Not him, not Mark. Jesus Christ almighty, not Mark.

Come on, honey. Please…don't die, don't leave.

She sobbed, bunching the bloodstained shirt in her hands.

A beefy officer knelt beside her. “Ma'am, an ambulance is on the way. We're gonna help him, but you have to step back. Okay?”

Her face was so twisted in anguish, she could barely see through the narrow slits between her eyelids. “Please, you've got to let me—”

She couldn't make herself choke out the words. She finally let the officer pull her away as she heard the approaching sirens of a paramedic unit.

In the hours that followed, Hound Dog remembered only that she talked to a great many people about the same things over and over. Doctors, nurses, paramedics, police officers…No one was listening. She kept telling them they had to save Mark, but they were ignoring her.

He went into surgery at five thirty-five
A
.
M
. While she waited, police officers took her statement. A picture of the event began to take shape: Someone had broken into the trailer and was surprised by Mark coming home from work at four-fifteen
A
.
M
. They scuffled, and during the fight Mark was shot once in the stomach with a handgun. The assailant escaped to an unseen car just outside the trailer park.

Most of this information was gleaned from an insomniac neighbor who heard the gunshot and squealing tires. The neighbor investigated, found Mark, and phoned the police.

Thank God, Hound Dog thought. Otherwise, Mark might not have been found until daybreak. Then it would have been too late.

It might still be too late, she thought.

“No news is good news,” one of the nurses quipped, and Hound Dog supposed she was right. But as the morning wore on, she looked toward every person in a scrub suit for some sign, any sign.

None looked back.

Ken was eating lunch at the corner deli when the television blared news of the shooting. He almost missed the story entirely, registering it only when he glanced up and saw the mobile home he had visited the evening before. There it was: the two plastic lawn chairs, the plant boxes, the awning…

He rushed from the deli and jumped into his car. His first fear was that something had happened to Jessica Barrett, but the gunshot victim was actually a twenty-three-year-old male in critical condition at St. Vincent's Hospital. Apparently it was a botched burglary attempt.

Apparently.

Ken arrived at St. Vincent's, parked his car, and followed a confusing series of colored stripes on the hospital floor until he arrived at Intensive Care. He found Hound Dog alone in the waiting area. She looked like she should be in a hospital bed herself, he thought.

“I heard what happened, Jessica.”

“I told you to call me Hound Dog,” she said dully. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I thought this might somehow be related.”

“Related to what?”

“To what we were talking about last night.”

“It's not my fault.”

“I didn't say it was. I'm just thinking—”

“Goddammit, it was a burglar! That's all. There've been four other trailers broken into during the last month.”

“Okay, fine,” he said, trying to soothe her. “What was stolen?”

“Nothing. Mark surprised whoever it was before they could take anything.”

Ken sat next to her. She had started crying. Now her head bobbed wearily and finally came to rest on his shoulder.

“Do you have any family?” he asked.

“They live in Illinois, and I can't call them.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm supposed to be in North Carolina. My parents think I'm an English lit major at Duke University.”

He stayed until she had pulled herself together and convinced him she was okay. So different from the tough number he had met the night before, Ken thought. Poor kid.

He drove downtown as he considered the unpleasant possibilities. If
he
found out about Hound Dog's investigation of Myth, anyone could. The scanner geek had not been exactly secretive about her actions, and her carelessness just may have gotten her boyfriend shot.

It was time to confront Myth.

Ken arrived at the closest of the courthouse parking lots, and after some driving around, he found her car. He parked, waited, and watched. Within half an hour Myth stepped into the lot and headed for her car. Ken jumped out and approached her.

“Hi,” she said nervously. “What's wrong?”

“You tell me.”

He filled her in on Gant's searching his apartment, which Myth quickly dismissed as an act of desperation. She was also unconcerned about the statement by Valez's widow.

“Hearsay,” she assured him. “Most of it is inadmissible. Anything else?”

“Yeah. How come I've never been introduced to Madeleine Walton?”

He wasn't sure what kind of reaction he had expected, but there was no gasp, no jerking of the head, not even an arched eyebrow. She looked no more disturbed than she would if he had asked for the time.

“Because Madeleine Walton doesn't exist anymore.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. How do you know about this?”

“I have my sources.”

“I need to know.”

“There are some things
I
need to know. Like who you really are. What you're hiding from. I'm not going to let you dick me around.”

“Is that what you think I'm doing?”

“I think it's a distinct possibility. Start talking.”

“Ken, not here. We can meet someplace else. Maybe in a couple of days—”

“Bullshit! Tell me right here, right now. Or I go to the police and spill everything.”

“You won't do that.”

“The shit's starting to come down on me hard, and I'm
not going to stand here without an umbrella. Tell me what I need to know right now, then we'll talk about what I will or will not do.”

She cast a nervous glance around. “I've been honest with you, Ken. I told you I'm not happy about the person I used to be. I—I killed a man. In self-defense. There was a scandal…. Some people thought it was premeditated.”

“But you were never charged.”

“You know about this too?”

“Yes.”

“Some reporters started dredging up my parents' death, speculating that maybe I killed them too. Can you believe that? I knew if ever I was going to make something of my life, I had to be someone else. So I left Madeleine Walton behind and became Myth Daniels.”

“Myth,” he said. “Appropriate name you chose for yourself.”

“None of the top law firms would have hired a woman with my past. That's one of the reasons I struck out on my own. I was constantly afraid I'd be discovered.”

“And now you have been.”

“How did you find this out?”

“I think I've had about enough. I want off this ride.”

“Before you make up your mind…we should give some more attention to that idea you had.”

“What idea was that?”

“Looking for the money.”

Myth raked her hair back, flipping it over her shoulder. “Enough time has gone by that I think it's all right. I have some ideas.”

Now
she had some ideas. When he started to back away, she began to come closer. “Let's hear them,” he said.

“I need time to come up with a plan. Can we meet in a few days?”

Part of him wanted to tell her to go to hell. But only part of him.

He nodded. “When?”

“I'll call and let you know. We'll have to be careful though. You're still getting a lot of attention from the police.”

“Bumping off customers
can't
be good for business.”

The receptionist turned off her television as Ken walked in. She was the only one in the building who dared mention it to him, though he knew it was on everybody's lips.

“Neither is a receptionist who watches TV on the job.”

“If you had more clients coming through, I wouldn't have to. It gets boring around here. Except when the cops come and interrogate me.”

“They can interrogate all they want. It doesn't mean I did it.”

“Don't say that. I
like
thinking that you did it. And so does everyone else.”

“Why?”

“It gives you a little style. It shows you have more initiative than we gave you credit for. And it also gives us something to talk about. Something besides the copier that still doesn't work.”

“I'm glad I can oblige.”

“Watch out for Downey though. He's looking for a reason to kick you out.”

“So what else is new? Anyway, I'm paid up through next month.”

“This isn't about money. He thinks you're degrading the character of the building.”

“Is that why he leases offices to a phone sex service on the first floor?”

“We call it a
telemarketing
firm. Besides, Downey's their biggest customer.”

Ken smiled and walked back to his office. There was a message on the machine from Margot. She rarely called him during work hours, so it might be important.

He dialed her work number and she answered. “Margot Aronson.”

“Shrug off the suit mode. It's me.”

She laughed. “Easier said than done. Where did you get this hunk of metal you wanted analyzed?”

He sat up straight. “You got the results back?”

“It's an aluminum-based alloy that no one's ever seen before. How did you get it?”