Undercover Genius (19 page)

“I think I’m asking for a job transfer,” he muttered. “Do
you know she flung a
stapler
at a brute
with a
gun
? Who does that?”

I opened a drawer and found paper booties to protect his
bandage. “We do. Any weapon at hand rather than be held hostage. Family motto
and sound tactical strategy. Even the police recommend that teachers fling
books or anything at hand if a gunman threatens. I’ll pay for a taxi to take
you back to your car. Can you drive with that foot?”

“I’m afraid to look at my car,” he grumbled. “What’s with
the bat signal?”

I was getting tired of being asked that, probably because I
didn’t have a good answer. I just kept making them up. “Batman apparently
wanted us to know which thug was our arsonist.”

“The guy with a gas can that we saw wasn’t wearing a suit
like the gunmen,” Sean said, pulling on his booty. “Neither was the man they
hauled from the window.”

Duly noted — gunmen wore suits to hide their holsters.
Arsonists wore inflammables? “Nick’s down there looking for him now,” I told
him. “If you want to be in on the fun, I’ll help you down there.”

He actually looked interested in hunting an arsonist. His
dark curls were starting to dry without benefit of whatever he usually used to
control them. His cheap shirt looked a little the worse for its drenching, and
his jeans were still wet. He had to be uncomfortable, and he still wanted the
story. I appreciated perseverance in a man.

“I’ve got to hobble downstairs anyway, why not?” he asked, standing.

“I hope they gave you a lot of good painkillers,” I
muttered. “I’m not tall like Patra, and I make a very bad walking stick.”

“It’s just my toe. I can walk on my heel. How are you
planning on getting through the emergency room?”

I smiled, and he actually had the sense to back off a step.

I’m devious, and he knew it.

Nick was chatting up an intern when we reached the
emergency waiting room. He didn’t even lift an eyebrow when he saw my surgical
cap and scrubs. With my long black braid pinned inside, I was next to
invisible.

Carrying a clipboard I’d appropriated, I nodded greeting.
“Mr. Nicholas, your friend will need some help. If you’ll come this way,
please.” Leading Sean on his booty, I headed straight down the hall as if I
belonged there. I didn’t bother to see if Nick followed. I knew he would.

If he’d been setting up a date, he was probably scowling,
but I was into authority mode and marched on without checking. I waited until I
found an empty corridor before halting to let them catch up. “Where’s our arsonist?”

Sean leaned against the wall to rest his foot, still regarding
my baggy green disguise with distaste. More accustomed to my methods, Nick
merely nodded to the next intersection. “A cop just arrived to ask questions.
Admissions has already been in, but from what I can tell, he was too groggy to
give information. I think they’ve rifled his wallet for next of kin and
insurance, but they’ll be back shortly with paperwork.”

“Okay, come along and show me the room and just follow my
lead.” This was a decent hospital, with private examining rooms instead of open
beds. I spotted the cop as soon as we turned the corner.

“I’ll be right with you, Mr. Nicholas, just as soon as I
check on this patient,” I said loudly enough that the cop could hear us
chatting. “Why don’t you and your friend go get some coffee?”

I nodded at the cop and opened the door of the examining
room without consulting him. Behind me, Nick was asking the officer if he’d
like some coffee, too. Knowing Nick, he’d already determined the fellow’s
preference in milk and sugar and all three would investigate the cafeteria. I
couldn’t count on being left undisturbed for long, though.

The patient didn’t look big enough to be a thug. He was wiry
and short with a receding hairline and a big nose. He was faking sleep. Deal
with half a dozen sneaky kids and you learn the difference. I’d intended to be
polite and pretend I was actually an admitting nurse, but if he was going to be
stupid…

I found his clothes and began searching his pockets. Why ask
when I could see for myself? His wallet was good leather and had protected the
contents from the deluge of sprinklers and hoses. A driver’s license to one Don
Toreador, a fake name if I’d ever heard one. I photoed the address and the rest
of his cards. A prescription for Viagra. Cute. A cheap photo of a half naked
woman with
Call me
on the back. Real
sleaze we had here.

He had a Blue Cross insurance card — bingo! R&P Inc
was listed as the employer.

“Dr. Smythe has been in to check on you, Mr. Toreador,” I
lied blithely. “We told him we’d let him know when you’re awake. Are you awake
yet?”

“He gonna get me out of here?” the beanbrain growled, not
bothering to open his eyes.

“I don’t think that’s up to him. I just told him I’d let you
know. I can send the policeman out to talk to him, if you like.”

That got him opening his eyes. I liked them better closed,
but I had my mask on.

“Who the devil are you?” he demanded.

I laid his wallet on the table. “Got it in one. I’m the
devil, and I suggest you take a long sabbatical and rethink your occupation. I
can give you the names of people who will be happy to question you about Smitty
and your involvement in Bill Bloom’s death should you care to ease your
conscience and make a clean getaway.”

“Why should I?” he growled, looking justifiably wary.

“Because I’m about to identify you as the arsonist who set
fire to the office and attempted to murder two reporters. And then I’ll tell Smitty
you sang like a canary. But if you’d rather I didn’t, you could tell me what
you know, and I’ll never be heard from again.”

“Bullshit.” But he looked worried.

And I’d just confirmed his guilt and possible connection to
R&P. “I calculate we may have three minutes before someone comes in. Talk
or I go my merry way.”

“I don’t know nothing. I get orders and follow them.” He
tugged at the IV, then coughed as he breathed too hard on his oxygen.

“And your orders today were?”

“Same as every day since the Bloom guy died. Follow anyone
who came for the boxes, destroy the papers, bring the person in for
questioning. That’s all I know. Give me my wallet.”

“One of your buddies shot at the person you followed. Was
that order ‘Bring them in, dead or alive?’”

“Don’t think so. Harry’s got a temper. But I’m just the
paper guy. We were supposed to find the papers and computers in Bloom’s apartment
but we got run out before we could do more than scarf the computer.”

In other words, we didn’t have Bill’s killer here, just a
low-level thief.

“And who did you give the computer to?”

“Harry took care of that,” he said, still fiddling with the
tubes keeping him tied to the bed.

“Is Smitty your main employer or are there others?”

He was starting to look kind of pale under his weathered
tan. “Look, people disappear who work for my employer. Smitty’s just a friend
of my employer. He helps us, we help him. Ain’t nuttin’ illegal in that.”

“Pull another one,” I said with an undignified snort. I
heard voices in the hall. My time here was done. I wished I knew more about
interrogation, but I was better at running away. “You have any names for your
employer?”

“I get paid cash, okay? Give me my wallet.” He apparently
heard the voices too. “I got kids. I gotta feed them somehow. Papers ain’t
special. There’s a lot of us. They call us corporate spies. We don’t hurt
nobody.”

“Oh, cripes, and you believe in Santa Claus, don’t you? It
says R&P on your insurance card. How did you get that?”

“We all got ’em. Smitty’s company helps the indigent like
me.”

I really wanted to hit him, but for all I knew, he actually
believed that. I didn’t have time to question more and didn’t want to go to
jail for low level scum. “Look, here’s a number to call when the walls start
closing in.” I gave him my Linda card with the voice mail number. “You’re
working with a dangerous crowd. They killed their own lawyer. They’ll kill you,
too. Call me and I’ll find a way to get you out when you’re ready. Your kids
would rather have you alive and unemployed, I assure you.”

He looked pretty nervous when I left. He had a right to be.
I was beginning to suspect that half this town was controlled by Top Hat, and
that included the R&P. I just couldn’t prove anything. Conspiracies were so
very last century. I wanted to be wrong.

But it didn’t hurt to use Top Hat’s example to terrorize the
jerk after he and his kind had terrorized Patra.
Harry
. I’d have to remember that name. Bullies with guns were fair
game in my book.

Nick was chatting up a stern administrator type with a
clipboard when I emerged. Sean and the policeman were sipping coffee. I nodded
at the administrator. “Mr. Toreador is awake now. You can go in.”

Then I sauntered off as if I worked there.

I could blend in almost anywhere. I just never really
belonged.

* * *

I gave Sean just enough information to persuade him to
leave in a taxi and do his own digging. Nick and I took the Metro home.

We found Patra and Mallard in the cellar kitchen, drying
paper on a clothesline strung just under the low ceiling. They were ironing the
more interesting bits.

“Look!” Patra cried as soon as we entered. “Invoices to
R&P for services rendered three years ago regarding Broderick Media! And
here’s Bill’s index number referencing his files — from his computer,
maybe? Didn’t some of his CD’s have numbers like these?” She gestured at one of
the papers.

“We can look. But we have to remain objective and not rush
to conclusions. As far as we are aware, Bill was running a legitimate business
analyzing speech patterns, not a spy agency. R&P could have just been
testing someone’s speech-making talents. Without Bill’s computer, we’re up a
creek.” I helped myself to one of the lovely canapés Mallard had been
preparing, probably for Graham. “Ummm, mango and salmon, well done.”

Mallard glowered instead of beaming. He produced another
paper and waved it in my face as I licked my fingers.

My eyes widened. I grabbed a napkin and used it to hold the
paper.

Nick peered over my shoulder. He whistled.

It was a print-out of a series of emails between Bill and
someone at R&P with the email address
CS1%@RP.org.
Bill liked his back-ups. Ironic that it was old-fashioned paper that had
survived. RP.org? Righteous and Proud?

The contents of the
audio you provided contains politically sensitive material,
Bill had
carefully noted.
I am returning it in its
entirety. You will not be charged for my examination.

The reply time had been within minutes of Bill’s refusal.
For the sake of your country, we must have
the identity of the speakers. If we cannot trust you, who can we trust?

Bill’s reply was almost twenty-four hours later, to the
minute. I was beginning to recognize the caution. Had he called his mother?
Started asking questions about CS1%? Talked to some of his liberal friends in
the media?

From my research, I knew Bill had dropped out of college and
set up his own business four years ago. These emails had been from over five
years ago, before he’d moved out, when he had been living with his mother, the
flag-waving upholder of the Righteous and Proud. I supposed the R&P had had
reason to believe he was one of them.

It was pretty arrogant for the writer to associate himself
with the 1% that his crowd theoretically didn’t belong to, but I didn’t own a
corner on the irony market.

I have copied enough
of the voices to begin an analysis,
Bill’s return mail replied
. I do not wish to have the rest of the
material in my office. I am deleting the full audio file
.

There were a few more brief emails negotiating the deal. And
then the final email from Bill:
The
voices on this recording match that of the VP of the US, Senator Paul Rose, and
Sir Archibald Broderick. A fourth person as yet unidentified appears to be on a
speaker phone and not present. His voice is not matched in any of my files.

In Bill’s handwriting at the bottom of the page: “#1143
manipulation of media.” He added no further comment on the content of the
discussion that had him deleting the file.

Paul Rose and
Broderick
. Rose was the conservative candidate running for president, the
apparent brains behind Top Hat, the wealthy shadow group who had almost
certainly prodded Reggie into killing our grandfather. Rose and Broderick —
speaking to the vice president of the United States.

Damn, I needed to know what had been on that recording.

Poor Bill had been seriously in over his head. If Broderick
or Rose knew he’d heard that conversation, he’d been in serious danger from day
one. And now I had to wonder about the morals of a VP of the US — as soon
as we figured out when this was and which VP. The emails were five years ago.
That didn’t mean the audio file was.

“How much do you want to wager that Bill didn’t delete the audio
file?” I asked the room at large.

Patra was running for my office before I finished speaking.

Before I could follow, the food processor spoke.

“I expect my dinner on time despite this fascinating
digression into a topic everyone already knows about.”

“Of course,
mein Führe
r.” I patted the processor. “And when
we find Bill’s killer, you can say you knew that, too, just the way EG does.”

I didn’t linger for a response. Graham knew how to find me
if he wanted. I think our game was as much sexual frustration as psychological
warfare.

I shrugged at Mallard in regret. “Thanks for the help. We’ll
get out of the way and let you know what we find.”