The Blackmail Club (8 page)

Her voice rose and the cadence of her speech again quickened. “I’m scared. Terrified is more like it”

Jack gripped her forearm, held firm, and smiled. “Let’s find out if you’re being watched. The man who will come is an expert. No one will think he is anything but a repairman. Do you have a neighbor you’re friendly with?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Find a way to tell your neighbor you’re having trouble with your dishwasher. Put a rack on your drainboard and put in a few clean, wet dishes. Let it be known you’re expecting a repairman. It’ll be fine. Just do it like that.”

“Okay, Mr. McCall. Sarah says you’re the best. Send your repairman. I’ll be alone.”

Jack watched Agnes Fuller head for the elevator to go up to the ground floor. From the back she looked like two hundred pounds of cashews sewn into a one hundred-pound sack. He rushed up the parking ramp in time to see her cross Pennsylvania Avenue, walk one block farther away, and get into a dark coupe like the one that had abruptly driven away from Sarah Andujar’s home. At that distance he could not clearly see the man or read the license plate.

As he walked back down the ramp, Nora pulled into the underground lot driving her Mustang with the new brakes. Going up in the elevator Nora reminded him about Mary Lou Sanchez. “She started work this morning. And don’t forget our open house Friday. I need you here no later than six.”

“We’re going to do that?”

“I told you to get back to me the next morning after we went to Sarah’s. You didn’t, so I kept moving it forward. Friday. Six. Be here.”

Mary Lou Sanchez looked to be about five-seven and not a pound more than a hundred and ten, with short black hair fashioned in a boyish cut. She hopped to her feet.

“Hello, Mary Lou,” Jack said. “Welcome to MI.” After a brief chat, they left Mary Lou at the receptionist desk and headed back toward their case room. Nora stopped off at the kitchen and picked up two cans of ginger ale. She closed the door and slid one can across the table.

Jack popped the top, took a drink, and told Nora about the unexpected visit from Agnes Fuller. As he finished, he heard Chief Mandrake’s voice and headed up front to find him realigning a crooked chair in the lobby.

“Hi, Chief. I hope you’re planning to come to our open house on Friday.”

“Wouldn’t miss it. I just came by to take Mary Lou home after her first day. I’m sure she’s told you she has a big test Monday morning, so she won’t be able to attend.”

“I’ve got to pound the books,” Mary Lou said, with a shrug. “I wish I could come, from what Nora’s told me it’ll be a blast.”

“We’ll miss you,” Jack said, “but of course we understand.”

The chief stepped closer. “Have you identified the stranger in the dumpster?”

“We’re not trying. We have no client or case involving him. Naturally, we’re curious. Have your guys found anything?”

The chief shook his head while helping his goddaughter with her coat. “The victim has no fingerprints on file with us. We’re waiting for an answer from the FBI fingerprint center. I’ll have Sergeant Suggs call you as soon as we hear. Of course, that will be confidential.”

Jack waved off the comment. “Anything you ever discuss with us will be confidential unless you tell us it is not.” Then Jack turned to Mary Lou. “Good first day. I understand you are coming in for a few hours Monday afternoon, after your test. I’ll see you then. Good luck on your exam.”

Jack locked the front door and rejoined Nora in the case room. She started talking before he sat down. “Here’s a spreadsheet of Dr. Andujar’s appointments for the past year.” She pushed it into the table space between them. “His laptop referred to his patients only by file numbers.”

“Wasn’t there a legend matching the patients’ names with those numbers?”

“Negative. And don’t forget our open house Friday night.”

“You’ve already reminded me, several times.”

“But you haven’t responded. I need you here by six.”

“I won’t forget our open house.”

Nora smiled, “by six.”

“Yes, by six, Friday. Satisfied? Now let’s get back to work. Maybe Agnes Fuller knows the codes. I’ll call her after Drummy debugs her house.”

Nora answered the ringing phone and held it out. “It’s Max.”

“My team’s not fully assembled,” Max said into Jack’s ear, “but I’ve activated the stakeout. Donny Andujar came out once about an hour ago to walk an older, sophisticated-looking man to his car. I didn’t recognize him, but I got a picture.”

The rest of Jack and Nora’s week was filled with gathering copies of the police reports and the medical examiner’s autopsy protocol, digging through Chris’s laptop, contacting the people in his address book, and speaking to the Andujars’ neighbors in Arlington and in the apartment building they had rented in DC. All necessary steps. All wasted time. They also came up with a few new ideas.

Chapter 12

Jack arrived at MI’s open house promptly at six to see Nora in a clingy blue dress brought to life by the blossoms and narrows of her body. To the extent a woman’s appearance was currency, Nora’s scoop-necked dress flashed a healthy portion of her bankroll.

“It’s midnight azure,” she said. But, as was true for many men, Jack’s color vocabulary only included light blue and dark blue.

“Is Max coming?”

“No,” Nora said. “He hasn’t filled his crew yet so he’s on the Donny stakeout.”

“That’s a shame,” Jack said. “He’s a character. I like him.”

Police Chief Mandrake arrived a few minutes later. He had brought along Patrick Molloy, the mayor of DC. Nora greeted them at the door and called to Jack. “Come meet Mayor Molloy.”

After twenty years as a covert operative for the U.S. intelligence community, Jack was more chameleon than peacock, but he obeyed Nora’s summons. The mayor had a build like Santa Claus, including the squishy, red-veined nose. Time had furrowed his forehead but not touched his greenish-gray eyes or their youthful-looking lids. The politician’s acumen spoke for itself. He was a two-term Irish mayor in DC, not Boston.

Jack shook hands with the mayor, and asked, “Join me in a Scotch, straight, on shaved ice with a twist of lemon?” Nora had somehow learned that was Molloy’s favorite drink. When His Honor nodded, Jack steered him in a wide turn toward the bartender set up in their conference room.

“You go schmooze with your other guests, Jack. I’ll get our drinks.” Molloy headed for the bar with two other guests carrying empty glasses trailing in his wake.

Most of the guests not elbowing near the bar were gathering at the rear of their eighteen-hundred-square-foot office. Rachel and Nora had furnished the back area with cherry wood tables and overstuffed seating to give the feel of a living room.

“Thanks for bringing Mayor Molloy,” Jack said to Chief Mandrake. “We had invited him but got no confirmation from his office. I owe you one.”

“I’ll hold your IOU,” Mandrake said, while grinning from under bushy eyebrows that gave the impression caterpillars were nesting on his forehead.

“It’s my guess you know everyone here, Chief, so I’ll leave you to mingle. The bar is to your left and hors d’oeuvres are near the back wall. Enjoy.”

Mayor Molloy handed Jack a scotch and water, then headed across the room toward two congressmen whose synchronized wattles indicated an intense verbal battle was underway.

Eric Dunn, the writer of the nationally syndicated column
Dunn in D.C.
, strolled over with a cold Corona in his left hand, and what Chris Andujar used to call a shit-eating grin on his face. “Remember me?” he asked.

Jack hadn’t been sure the journalist would come after he had used Dunn’s name to suggest that anyone, even Dunn himself, could be a killer. That was during The Third Coincidence case Jack had handled the prior year while still employed by the government.

“I hope you’re not still angry at me?” Jack asked.

“I was really ticked at the time, but the next week eleven more newspapers picked up my column and two political talk shows invited me on as a guest. All of which graduated you to hero status.”

While spearing a Swedish meatball, Jack watched Art Tyson, a man with brown eyes surrounded by dirty whites. He had a face like one of those karate guys who impressed others by trying to break cement blocks with his forehead, and kept losing. Jack glanced at the bartender who held up three fingers; it was Tyson’s third double. The bulky Tyson walked away from the bar in his rumpled light-blue seersucker, with his fresh drink in hand, and went face up with Mayor Molloy. A moment later, the mayor was shaking his head no—an emphatic no.

Jack walked over to Nora. “What’s the skinny on your friend Tyson?”

“Arthur Tyson is no friend of mine.” Her mouth twisted as if she had bitten into something bitter. “He quit the force a few years back after having been suspended several times for either drinking on the job or the use of excessive force. Now he’s a PI specializing in cases involving cheating husbands.” Her upper lip rose like she wanted say yuck. “The story is, not all his compensation is monetary. The man’s an ape.”

Art Tyson leaned into the bar and ordered another. Jack was close enough this time to hear him say double scotch rocks; he was also close enough to tell Tyson’s suit reeked of cigar smoke. When he turned, his shirt, between its struggling buttons, gave the other guests more than a subtle peek at his belly hair. He stumbled and nearly fell on his way over to corner Troy Engels, one of the CIA’s introverted and amoral geniuses. Engels had been the deputy director in charge of some of Jack’s quiet ops.

Tyson’s behavior was drawing stares. Jack had put down his drink and moved toward Tyson when Chief Mandrake stepped close. “Let me. I know how to handle Arthur Tyson.”

Mandrake gently gripped the gruff man’s elbow. “Mr. Engels, please excuse Arthur. I need his opinion on something.” The chief’s hand dented Tyson’s doughy back as he began moving him toward the door.

“Welcome to our noble profession, Mr. McCall,” Tyson said in a loud voice gurgling with phlegm. “Call me. I’ll tip you off to the ins and outs of being a DC snoop-dick.”

“My driver will take Mr. Tyson home,” Mandrake said. “He’ll come back tomorrow for his car.”

The chief again nudged Tyson toward the door. The man’s head flopped to one side spilling liquid from the corner of his mouth. Tyson swiped at it with the back of his hand.

Jack knew that Sam Spade would have just jammed Tyson’s hat on his head and booted him out the door. In Sam’s day these things had been simpler.

Nora was standing beside Jack when Mandrake finally got Tyson out of their office. Jack breathed in the fresh scent from her silky hair. “Keep mingling, Senor,” she said before surreptitiously squeezing his tush and walking away. She looked back and smiled.

Jack forced his eyes off Nora’s butt and strolled over to the hawk-nosed Troy Engels standing alone near the window. For a moment the two men stood quietly watching the river of cars flowing past the building.

“You miss the ops in my department?” Engels asked.

“No.”

“Some people do deserve to die, Jack. You must believe that the world would be better off today had someone taken out Adolph Hitler or Saddam Hussein before those monsters destroyed their countries and damaged the rest of the world.”

“I agree in concept, but the rub is who gets to choose the targets and the qualifying infractions?”

“Nothing’s perfect, Jack.”

The top dogs in the intelligence community who were opposed to Engels’s department called him the director of assassinations. Jack had spent many long, lonely nights thinking about Engels’s department and his own past role in their missions. He wanted to respond to this man who worked the buttons on most of the agency’s black ops, but this was neither the time nor the place.

“I’m sorry you had to deal with Tyson,” is all Jack said. “I should not have let him in.”

“P-p-please k-keep him away, J-j-jack.”

The spittle from Engels’s “p” hit Jack’s lips—scotch. He casually wiped his fingers across his lips. He had never before heard Engels stutter.

The last of the guests left two hours later; the catering service soon thereafter. Jack and Nora were alone.

She came to him. “Why don’t you come home with me? I make a great omelette.”

“Thanks, but I’m whipped. These kinds of events aren’t easy for me. You did a great job setting it all up and keeping things moving smoothly all night. But I think I need to head home. I’m hoping Saturday will be a sleep-in morning; I’ll talk to you sometime tomorrow.”

She hugged him and went out the door.

Jack flipped off the lights and looked around his empty office. His eyes finding the faint light wafting over from a few lit offices in the building across the street.

He grabbed a half-full liter of Maker’s Mark by the throat, took a long swig, and collapsed onto the couch in his office. It had been raining on and off since about noon, just as it had the night he and Rachel had finished furnishing the office.

That night he had taken a seat on this same leather couch, waiting while Rachel put the finishing touches on her own office. Instead, she had surprised him by changing into a short, tight dress, nylons and red heels.

He looked up and in his mind saw her leaning against his doorway, just as she had that night. Her lips curved into a delightfully wicked smile.

“Time for us to christen the place,” she had said, holding up a bottle of Dom Perignon, the wet from the ice bucket dripping off its bottom.

His memory watched her hips as she came toward him, and the desire revisited his core. She handed him the bottle and set the glasses on the table that fronted the couch, her wide stance stretching her black dress taut across her thighs.

Jack’s hands twitched as his mind relived tearing at the foil and twisting the wire to expose the cork. His eyes saw what they had seen that night.

Rachel’s arms had moved to the back of her neck where her dress fastened. It slipped around her hips and dropped to the floor. She again stood before him wearing only the red heels and a black teddy. A low growl escaped him. She had always had the uncanny ability to make him feel like no woman ever had, like she had been molded especially for him.