Moving Target, page 19
part #9 of Ali Reynolds Series
Sister Anselm’s problem was with Lance’s adamant refusal to involve the police. His belief that there was a law enforcement element sounded like the ravings of an overly active imagination, but what if he was right? She was sure B. Simpson and his associates were fully prepared to work with Lance on whatever difficulties he was facing, but without Lance’s cooperation and assent, Sister Anselm couldn’t go to High Noon any more than she could go to the police. Her vow of patient confidentiality forbade it. There was no wiggle room. Her primary obligation was her patient’s welfare. What was she to do, she wondered, if it turned out that Lance’s welfare and his wishes were in direct conflict?
At other times, when faced with some serious dilemma, Sister Anselm had always been able to look to Bishop Gillespie for counsel and advice. This time she felt unable to do so. Instead, she plucked her rosary beads out of her pocket. It was Sister Anselm’s firm belief that any time you didn’t know which way to turn was a good time to turn to prayer, and before another hour passed, she had her answer.
Much later, when the first nurse came into the room to check Lance’s vitals, Sister Anselm left them alone to go to the restroom. On the way, she stopped short at the trash container where she had tossed the discarded flowers. Even as she was digging the bouquet out of the can, she was telling herself she was nothing but a paranoid old woman, but she did it anyway. Once she had retrieved the flowers, vase and all, she took them into the restroom and locked the door behind her.
She placed the flowers on the counter and studied them. They didn’t look inherently evil, and despite having been tossed in the trash, the red roses and spidery white mums were in surprisingly good shape. One flower at a time, Sister Anselm removed the blooms from the water-soaked spongelike brick that took up most of the space in the vase. That was where she found it. A tiny microphone in a green plastic waterproof envelope had been tucked in among the stems.
Even though it was exactly what she had been looking for, Sister Anselm was shocked by her discovery. Had Lance not insisted that the flowers be removed from his room, the bug would have allowed the eavesdroppers to be privy to every word said in Lance’s presence.
What should she do about it? Put it down on the floor and crush it under her heel? No, she decided, the noise from that might indicate to someone listening that the bug’s presence had been discovered. She examined the tiny flute-shaped plastic container that had held the bug in place in the bouquet. The plastic container indicated there had been a need to protect the device from moisture. With that in mind, Sister Anselm plugged the sink and filled it with hot water. Then she dropped the mike into the water and gave it a good long soak. Once it was dry, just to be on the safe side and in case it was working, she didn’t put it in her pocket. Instead, she took it downstairs to her locker and dropped it into the purse she left stored there during the day. She hadn’t been able to see, much less read, any identifying numbers on the device, but she suspected they were there, and she hoped they would lead back to whoever was behind this.
Feeling quite pleased with herself, Sister Anselm squared her shoulders and returned to her patient. It was almost time to put the rest of her plan into action.
When Ali woke up the next morning, her whole body hurt. The seat belt had left a web of bruises. Out in the sitting room, Leland had ordered a breakfast tray with coffee, orange juice, and toast. He was trying valiantly to be his usual chipper self, but his haggard look as he passed her a cup of coffee told a different tale. “I’d say neither one of us got a good night’s sleep.”
Ali nodded. “B. thinks he’s figured out why I was run off the road. While I was resting in that stolen Volvo, the guy who was supposedly helping me cloned my phone. For the time being, any communications on my electronic devices have to be considered compromised. I wanted to tell Marjorie Elkins about what happened yesterday and thank her for her help, but under the circumstances, I don’t dare send her an e-mail. I prefer to go see her in person.”
“If you don’t mind,” Leland said, “I’d like to accompany you on that trip. Regardless of how the results come out, I owe Detective Elkins a debt of gratitude.”
An hour later, they took a cab from the hotel to the police station, where Leland had far better luck with the receptionist than Ali had had earlier. In the squad room, Ali led Leland to Marjorie’s corner desk. “Well, well,” she said, looking up with a smile as they approached. “I hear you had an adventurous night last night. I heard all about it at this morning’s briefing. I appreciated that you made no mention of your visit to Banshee Group.”
“Yes,” Ali said. “A sin of omission, I’m afraid. I told them I was seeing a friend in Oxford and let it go at that.”
“Except for the stolen car, it would be easy to consider the incident nothing other than an ordinary traffic accident,” Marjorie said. “What do you think?”
“That it wasn’t an accident,” Ali said.
“Deliberate then,” Marjorie said, “but to what purpose.”
“Our assumption is that the accident was staged in order to gain access to my phone.”
“Your phone?”
Ali nodded. “We think the guy in the stolen car, the one who supposedly stopped to help me, took advantage of the situation to clone my phone.”
“Why would that be? Do you believe this alleged attack had something to do with Mr. Brooks’s situation, or was it due to something else?”
There was a certain wariness in Marjorie’s tone that told Ali they weren’t on as good terms as they had been the night before.
“Something else,” Ali said. “Something going on in the States.”
“Since it’s apparently spilled over into my jurisdiction, would you care to tell me what that is?” Marjorie asked. “I was just doing an Internet search on you, Ms. Reynolds, something I probably should have done before I went out on a limb and gave you that sample. You appear to live in interesting times. Both of you do.”
Marjorie shoved several computer-generated printouts across the desk. The last one dealt with the shoot-out in northern Arizona, the one in which Leland had saved Ali’s life. “So I’m asking,” Marjorie continued, “since my neck may be on the line here, what the hell are you up to, and what’s on your phone?”
“There’s a kid in Texas,” Ali said. “His name is Lance Tucker. He was in the process of developing some amazing new software when he pulled a stunt that got him in trouble with the law. He got sent to jail. Two weeks ago, somebody tried to kill him.”
“What’s your connection to all this?”
“My boyfriend’s—” Ali stopped and corrected herself. “My fiancé’s company is interested in protecting the kid from further harm and maybe, eventually, hiring him in order to have access to Lance’s innovative software.”
“And the company in question would be High Noon Enterprises?” Marjorie asked. “The cyber security firm footing the bill for Mr. Brooks’s DNA testing?”
Ali nodded. “We think the people behind last night’s incident, a start-up cyber security company, are also looking to gain access to Mr. Tucker’s software.”
“I need the name of that rival company,” Marjorie said.
Ali paused before she answered, but only for a moment. “UTI,” she said. “That stands for United Tracking Incorporated.”
Marjorie stared at her computer for a moment, then typed something into it. She waited as if for a search engine’s response. When it came, she sighed, picked up another piece of paper, and passed it over to Ali. “Here,” she said, “Meet Edward Fullerton.”
Staring back at Ali was a mug shot. She recognized the image at once. “That’s the guy from the Volvo!” she exclaimed.
Marjorie nodded. “I thought as much,” she said.
“But this is a mug shot,” Ali said. “Who is he? Is he already locked up somewhere?”
“That’s an old mug shot,” Marjorie countered. “And no, he’s not currently locked up anywhere so far as I know.”
“How did you get this?”
“I called Kate,” Marjorie answered. “She had her building’s security people go through their film from yesterday. Right around noon, they spotted an unidentified man tinkering with what appears to be the back bumper of your Land Rover. He arrived and left the Science Park’s car park, driving—you guessed it—the stolen Volvo. I had the security guy send me the clip. I extracted a photo of the man’s face, processed it through several levels of image enhancement, ran the resulting picture through our facial recognition software, and there you have him, Mr. Fullerton himself, a guy who, over the past twenty years, has accumulated a history of maybe a dozen car thefts. He also has a younger brother named Jonathan, who aspires to follow in Edward’s footsteps.” Marjorie passed along another sheet of paper. The photo on it was a close likeness to the first, although the man in this photo appeared somewhat younger.
“Meet Edward’s most likely accomplice,” Marjorie said.
“What are you going to do about this?” Ali asked.
“I can’t very well do anything, now can I?” Marjorie Elkins sounded more than slightly provoked. “For one thing, it’s not my case. If I bring up any of this with my superiors, questions will be asked, not only about my connections to Kate and to Banshee Group, but to you. In other words, all I’m doing at the moment is giving you the two names. I suspect that high-powered fiancé of yours will find a way to make the necessary connections without my having to lift a finger.” There was a pause during which Marjorie Elkins gave Ali an appraising look. “What did Kate say about your sample?” she asked.
“That even though it was old and degraded, she thought it might work. She’s put one of her best people on it. Thank you.”
“Good,” Marjorie said. “You’re welcome, but I need you for a favor as well.”
“What’s that?”
“If you happen to find out anything more about Mr. Brooks’s father’s murder, leave me out of it, please.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ali said. “We’ll be only too glad to.”
Minutes later, Marjorie ushered them out to the lobby and left them there. The determined manner in which she walked away made it clear that she was washing her hands of the entire situation.
“Being put out on the street like that was unexpected,” Leland murmured. “I never had a chance to thank her properly.”
“Just as well,” Ali said. “The less we have to do with her, the better off she’ll be. Let’s go back to the hotel and send what she gave us to B.”
Out on the street, it took a while to flag down a cab. It was raining, a steady drip, which meant that the temperature had warmed up considerably from the day before.
In the Highcliff’s business center, Ali used the hotel fax machine to send B. and Stuart copies of the mug shots as well as the accompanying information. Using Leland’s e-mail account, they passed along everything Marjorie Elkins had given them.
Out of habit, Ali had slipped her phone in her jacket pocket. When it rang a few moments later, it startled her. Seeing that it was B. on the line, she answered somewhat warily.
“Good morning,” he said. “How are you feeling this morning?”
So this is how it will be, Ali thought. On the phone, we’ll stick to the weather and our health.
“Not too bad,” she said.
“Your package just showed up,” he said. “Thanks. It’s exactly what I needed.”
In other words, B. had the photos. By now he probably already had assigned people to start a data-mining process on the two Fullerton brothers. If there were any obvious connections between them and UTI, Ali was sure High Noon would uncover them.
They chatted for a few more minutes—inane stuff about the wedding, about when B. planned to leave Zurich, about any number of other things. It sounded so stilted and phony, Ali was sure that anyone listening in was bound to see right through it. When a second call came in, she was relieved to switch over in time to discover that her replacement rental car had been delivered to the hotel. She turned to Leland. “What say we go for a ride before someone has a chance to tamper with it.”
Leland nodded. “Now that you mention it, there is somewhere I’d like to go.”
“Where’s that?”
“To see Thomas Blackfield,” he said. “We’ll be going back to London tomorrow. From what you told me, I believe I owe him an apology. I’d like to put things right before I go.”
“You know where he lives?”
Leland nodded. “Yes, in Bourne Close, above the Pig and Whistle.”
“Do you want me to drop you off and pick you up?”
“No,” Leland said. “You said you’d have my back. Since you’ve been privy to this whole sordid situation, I’d rather have you with me than to go see him alone. I’ll call ahead and make sure it’s all right if we stop by.”
It was only a little past eleven when they arrived at the pub and lucked into a parking place right out front. A collection of wooden benches and tables were stacked and chained together along the outside of the building. In warmer weather, perhaps it was possible to dine outside, but not today.
The interior of the Pig and Whistle was a low-ceilinged affair that, even in the nonsmoking present, reeked of previous generations of smokers. A gas log fireplace burned at the far end of the room. Thomas Blackfield sat in the booth closest to the fire with a pint of ale on the table in front of him.
As they approached the booth, Leland was the first to speak. “I’m sorry,” he said, sliding into the opposing booth. “Sorry for what my brother put you through; sorry for thinking ill about you all these years. Clearly, I didn’t know the full story.”
The barmaid arrived almost before Ali slid into the booth behind Leland. He ordered a pint of ale. Ali stuck with coffee.
“I can recommend the Cornish pasties,” Thomas said. “I live upstairs, and I’ve been smelling them baking all morning.”
When the barmaid brought their drinks, they ordered pasties all around. As Leland took his first sip of ale, Thomas reached into the vest pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I brought this with me last night,” he said. “I meant to give it to you, to back up my story, but then I never got a chance to tell you.”
“I believe Ali here told me most of it,” Leland said. “That Langston had everyone in town buying some tale about my being a traitor; that even our parents believed him and wrote me out of the will as a consequence; that Langston beat the crap out of you and put you in the hospital; that you talked to my father and told him Langston was a liar. Thank you for that, by the way, for going to bat for me all those years ago.”
Thomas tapped the paper with his finger but made no effort to move it. “It was a long time ago,” he said. “The wonderful thing about being relics like us is that as far as most of the people on the planet are concerned—and even folks here in town—that era is ancient history.”
Leland nodded.
“Your father’s solicitor was the firm of James, James, and Miller, correct?”
Leland shook his head in wonder. “I had forgotten that completely, but yes. He was always proud to be affiliated with one of the oldest firms in town.”
“It was disbanded in the early seventies,” Thomas said. “The James brothers were twins and died within days of each other in the early sixties. By the early seventies, Miller was seriously ill. There were no children interested in taking over the firm, so it died on the vine and was disbanded.”
“Too bad,” Leland said. “From what I knew of them, they were all good men.”
“They were that,” Thomas agreed.
“I can’t imagine what they thought when my father disowned me, but he would have gone through them,” Leland said. “He trusted them and wouldn’t have used anyone else.”
Thomas nodded. “That’s what I thought, too. Ali told you about my going to the print shop to talk to your father?”
“Yes, she said you thought you had brought him around to thinking more favorably of me.”
“I still do,” Thomas said. “As I said, Kevin Miller died in the early seventies, but for years his widow kept his office just as he’d left it, complete with an antique partners’ desk, leather-bound appointment books, a collection of ancient and very valuable fountain pens, blotting pads, law books, even a functioning radio console from the thirties. After Mrs. Miller died in the late nineties, she left the whole of her estate, including her long-dead husband’s office, to the Bournemouth Historical Society. The first time someone from there ventured inside, she said she felt as though she had stepped into a time capsule, and she had. They dismantled the room, down to the paneling and wainscoting, and moved the whole kit and kaboodle to the museum, where it boasts a display room all its own.”
“What does any of this have to do with my father?” Leland asked.
“I’m coming to that,” Thomas said. “You see, I belong to the historical society. Linda spent years serving on the board of directors. So when the display opened, I was granted special permission to spend some time in the room on my own. I wasn’t sure if this would be there, but I believe it offers firm proof that your father had changed his mind. As soon as I found it, I took the book to the office and copied the applicable page. This is it.”
He paused for a moment and then pushed the piece of paper in Leland’s direction.
As Leland unfolded it, Ali craned her neck to see what it was. It appeared to be a page taken from an old-fashioned oversize appointment book. The eight-by-eleven copy covered only part of the page, starting at eleven A.M. Each entry showed a name and a notation of purpose. Property sale; property dispute. The third entry showed the name Jonah Brooks. Next to the name was a simple two-word notation: Revise will.
“That was from Stewart James’s appointment book for 1954,” Thomas explained. “That page is from October 13, three days after your father died. A month earlier, on September 16, weeks after you left town, there’s another listing for Jonah Brooks with the same notation. I believe the first appointment was when he wrote you out of his will. I believe the second appointment, the one he died without keeping, was one in which he intended to disavow the first one.”
