A Triple Thriller Fest (95 page)

A tired and mentally exhausted Martha opened the door to her apartment in Arlington Heights, overlooking the maze of roads called the “Mixing Bowl” by all the radio traffic announcers.  This had been the worst day in her life.  The emotional drain of watching Arthur Morrison die left Martha shocked and depleted.  It was hard for her to separate Arthur Morrison, the beloved computer science teacher, from Gregor Ivanovich Lechenkov, the despised enemy agent.

After locking the door, Martha turned on her personal PS/2 computer and checked her E-mail.  The blue screen indicated that she had mail.  Martha keyed in the code to open her mailbox.  There was only one new message.  It said:  “I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE.”

Martha stared at the ominous message.  Muttering to herself, “You perverted fuck, you can’t scare me,” Martha reached inside her handbag and took out her .40 caliber Glock 22 pistol.  With her gun in the ready position, Martha carefully checked out her small third-story apartment room by room, including the balcony off her living room.  Having satisfied that she was alone, Martha dialed the Hyatt Regency in Bethesda, Maryland, where Mike and Mildred had established their headquarters.

“Hi, Mildred,” said Martha as Mildred answered the telephone.

“Oh, hi, Martha.  How are you?  Long time no see,” answered Mildred, as she put down the burlwood pipe she had been admiring.

“Look’s like that slime ball Grayson is still lurking around.  He left a message on my E-mail.”

“What is E-mail, dear?” said Mildred.

“Sorry, E-mail stands for electronic mail.  Anyone who has your E-mail address can leave you a message.  It looks like Grayson found my address.”

“So what’s our next step?” said Mildred.

“We probably should find out what George and his group found for starters.”

“I’ll call him in the morning.  Try to get some sleep, dear,” said Mildred.

That night, as Martha prepared for bed, she made one more sweep of the tastefully decorated rooms, her .40 caliber Glock 22 pistol at the ready.  Her living room was neatly laid out with a moderately expensive set of matching sofa and armchair of white crushed velvet.  A black wood rocking chair sat in one corner of the living room, the gold crest of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology was impressed on the headrest of the chair.  On Martha’s parquet floor was a braided brown rug, given her by her mother.

In the dining area of the living room, instead of a dining table, Martha had opted for a computer work station made of oak hardwood.  Her IBM PS/2, Hayes Modem, and Epson 510 printer sat on the work station.  Martha’s bedroom was where her femininity showed.  Her single bed was covered in a frilly white comforter, matched by the lace curtains on the windows.  Her antique dresser and makeup table were constructed of solid oak.  The entire apartment glowed with Martha’s personality and her favorite perfume, Esteè Lauder White Linen.

Having satisfied herself that Grayson was not in her apartment and having once again checked the door and window locks, Martha undressed, glad to be free of the restraints of society, and stepped into her bath for a long hot, stress-relieving shower.  Her .40 caliber Glock 22 pistol sat in its holster, hanging on a towel hook within her easy reach.  The hot water splattered on her tired body, each drop washing away the sadness and terror of the day.

After her shower, Martha dried herself carefully and, wrapped in her large soft white towel, walked into her bedroom.  Dropping the towel on the white wall to wall carpet in front of the full length mirror on her closet door, Martha admired her lithe, athletic body, her terrific mane of strawberry blond hair, the accent of her hazel eyes that got greener when she was excited, her flawless skin, her firm full breasts, the flat stomach that was the product of countless sit ups, and her slim hips.  If Martha had any regret, it was that God had denied her fuller hips.  She turned once in the mirror checking her smooth back and well turned legs one more time.  Yes, she was beautiful, but with a soft sigh she turned from the mirror.

Still nude, Martha turned down the covers on her bed and climbed in, happy that this day was finally over.  She placed her Glock pistol under her lacy pillow, turned off her table light, and fell fast asleep.

Down in the parking lot of Martha’s apartment, the round-faced driver sighed as the lights went out in Martha’s third story apartment.  In the relative coolness of the summer night, the interior of the car was steamy.  He removed his fogged rimless eyeglasses and wiped them dry with his yellowed handkerchief.  He brought to his nostrils the silk panties that he had so carefully taken during his time in her apartment.  He had conducted his raid so stealthily that she would never miss this one item.  He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of Esteè Lauder White Linen.

His fantasies had run rampant as Martha’s shadow had moved about the lighted apartment and especially when she appeared at the windows, checking the locks.  He was happy that his message to her had concerned her; she was his.

His hand reached for the ignition key and turned it, starting the recently stolen Oldsmobile Cutlass.  Without turning on the lights, Grayson drove out of the parking lot.  Once on the main road, Grayson turned on the car lights and drove to the Starlight Motel in Roslyn, where he was currently staying.

0800 Hours: Thursday, July 1, 1993: CSAC Offices, Washington, D.C.

“So, our boy Ted has taken a liking to you,” said Smith in a weak attempt at humor.

“I can’t prove it, but I have this uneasy feeling that Grayson may have broken into my apartment.  God, that gives me the creeps,” Martha shuddered.  “What should we do?”

“A strange bird,” said Mildred, as she looked up briefly from her knitting.

“Martha, I’m going to post some agents to guard your apartment,” said Adams, who now felt sorry that he had involved her in this tragic mess.

The three were in a conference room in CSAC’s Tenley Circle headquarters in Washington.  The other people in the conference room were Mildred, Bateson, and Joyce Ellington.  Smith had invited Bateson and Joyce to the meeting because he had a plan to catch the elusive Mr. Grayson.

“This guy is a sicko.  Bateson determined that Grayson is into calling singles party lines, deviant sex practices, and other weird stuff.  I think we might be able to trap this guy with a decoy.”

“What kind of decoy?” said Martha.

“We thought we could get you to pose for Hustler,” said Bateson as he cast an admiring eye over Martha’ shapely body.

Martha replied, “Watch it, creep!”

“Just joking.”

“Quit clowning around,” said Smith.  “I want this creep.  He’s responsible for too many dead CSAC people.”

A serious Bateson took up the discussion.  “Grayson is obsessed with a particular phone-in service, LUV LINES.  From his telephone bills, it seems that he spent an inordinate amount of time on the phone to this one service.  My proposal is that we monitor this service and when Grayson calls, try to set up a sting.”

“How do we do that?” said Mildred.

“You and Martha are the only ones who recognize Grayson’s voice.  I propose that the two of you monitor the phone-in line.  We’ll get a court order permitting us to do so.  Compulsive behavior like this usually is highly predictable.  Grayson normally calls in between the hours of nine and eleven in the evening.  I suggest we monitor the line during these hours.”

“What happens when he calls in?” inquired Martha.

“That’s when Joyce steps in.  Grayson might recognize your voices.  When you have determined that he’s joined the call, get Joyce on the line.  Her cover is that she’s a computer analyst at the Department of Transportation, new in town and anxious to meet other hackers.  We reckon our boy won’t be able to resist that.”

“Pretty slick,” said Martha.

“After the fish is hooked, it’s up to Joyce to reel him in.  We’ll set up a rendezvous and snag him.”

Mildred started to gather her things.  “When do we start?”

“Tonight,” said Smith.

2100 Hours: Saturday, July 3, 1993: CSAC Offices, Washington, D.C.

“Hi, this is Jean.  I’m twenty-six, brunette, five foot two and love to jog.”

“Hi, Jean.  This is Scott, six foot two and I jog every day.”

Covering the telephone, Martha said, “I sure hope Grayson gets on soon, I’m not sure I can take this too much longer.”

“Wait a minute, dear,” said Mildred.

“H-Hello, t-this is Ted.  I’m l-looking for someone w-who s-shares an interest in computers.”

“Get Joyce.”

Joyce came into the room, sat down, and picked up the handset.  “Hi, this is Joyce.  I just started work at DOT as a computer analyst.  I’m five feet tall, with long black hair.  I’m new in town and would like to meet some nice hackers.”

“H-Hi J-Joyce, I’m Ted.  I w-work as a computer analyst too.”

“You sound nice, Ted.  Are you single?”

“Y-Yes.  Y-you sound n-nice t-too.”

“The other computer people in my department are all married, and are no fun at all.  They’re such dweebs.  Where does a single hacker get to meet some interesting people?  Singles bars are so boring.”

“S-Say, I know a computer club that’s really great.  W-would y-you l-like t-to come?”

“Sure, will it be a problem?”

Grayson wiped his sweating brow, a big smile spread across his corpulent face, his right fist raised in jubilation.  “N-no, no.  I w-would b-be pleased to take you.  I’ll m-meet you at the corner of F-Fourteenth and H Street, Northwest, at nine thirty tomorrow tonight, okay?”

“It’s a little late, but okay.  I’ll see you then, Ted.”

Joyce put down the telephone and turned towards the others in the room with a great big grin.

“Okay, this is what we do,” said Smith.  “Martha and Tom will stake out the corner of Fourteenth and H Streets.  We need someone who can recognize Grayson.  Mildred, you and Adams will be in a follow car.  If Grayson starts to drive away, nail him.  Joyce, we’re going to wire you for sound.  Do you feel up to this?  We could nail him without you, you know.”

“Come on, George.  I’m a big girl,” said Joyce.

2130 Hours: Sunday, July 4, 1993: Fourteenth and H Streets, N.W., Washington, D.C.

Grayson, showered and in fresh clothes, walked along Fourteenth Street going north.  He was in heaven.  Someone wanted to meet him.

As Grayson walked north, a car turned left from Fourteenth Street on to H Street.  As the headlights of the car swung with the turn, the light swept the cars parked on the north side of H Street, particularly the nondescript tan sedan parked on Fourteenth Street at the corner of Fourteenth and H Street.

What was that? thought Grayson, as the light of the turning car illuminated the beautiful mass of strawberry blond hair belonging to the driver of the sedan.

“Shit!” he muttered as he slipped quietly into the shadow of a nearby office building’s doorway.

0800 Hours: Monday, July 5, 1993: CSAC Offices, Washington, D.C.

“Shit! Stood up by a cretin.  There goes my reputation,” lamented Joyce.

“What happened?” said Smith.

“Don’t know, boss.  We waited until midnight and Grayson never showed,” said Bateson.

“Anything at all happen?”

“Yeah, three different motorists from Virginia stopped and asked if I wanted to party,” said Joyce, smiling.

“Joyce, they thought you were a teenage hooker,” said Bateson, quietly.

“Oh,” said Joyce, blushing.

1900 Hours: Monday, July 5, 1993: Arlington Heights Apartments, Arlington, Virginia

Returning to her apartment, Martha was as depressed as she had ever been.  She was sure that they would have caught Grayson last night, but somehow he had gotten away.  Was it something I had failed to do, she wondered.

Martha carefully checked the door to her apartment, something she had started to do regularly.  It looked okay so she unlocked the door and stepped in.  Turning on the light and locking the dead bolt security lock to her door; Martha took off her jacket and started to unbutton her blouse, thinking how nice a long hot shower would feel.  By the time she reached her bedroom door, she had her blouse and skirt off and was dressed only in her bra and panties.  As she entered her bedroom, she reached behind her back to unhook her bra, and her firm breasts fell free.

A large hand grabbed her by the mouth, and the point of a knife pricked the firm soft skin of her back. 

“Y-You thought y-you c-could play w-with m-my affections, d-didn’t you!”

“Ted, let’s talk about this.  All we want to do is help you.”

“W-What do y-you think I am, stupid?”

“Come on, Ted.  Isn’t there anything I could do to persuade you that we just want to help?” said Martha in her sweetest voice.

“N-no, you have to die for what you did!”  He pushed Martha out of her bedroom into the living room.  “You can’t f-fuck around with me like that.”

Grayson dragged the struggling Martha around the living room and came up with his plan.  “It’s going to be an accident; you’ll fall off your balcony.”

Grayson opened the curtains to Martha’s balcony and slid open the glass door.  He pushed Martha to the railing of her apartment balcony.

“What the fuck!” said Special Agent Joseph Garcia.  He bolted out of his car, simultaneously drawing his .40 caliber Glock 22 Pistol.  At the same time, his partner, Special Agent Tonya Jefferson jumped out of her side of the car and was running toward the apartment building, gun drawn.

Pinned against the railing of the balcony, Martha fought with the foul-smelling Grayson, struggling to get the knife.  Grayson kept trying to hoist the slim FBI agent over the railing to the hard concrete three stories below.

Garcia tried to get a clear shot of Grayson as Tonya raced upstairs to try to get into the apartment.  The struggling couple moved too quickly for him to squeeze off a good shot.

At the same time Martha struggled with Grayson to prevent him from throwing her over the railing, she fought for control of the knife.  Grayson kept the knife at her throat, Martha grabbed his wrist and tried to turn the knife toward him, but he was too strong.