Rising Phoenix (43 page)

“So he’s probably not just some crazy—and it looks like you were wrong about the strychnine poisoning being a copycat.”

“It looks like we were wrong,” Laura corrected in a slightly annoyed tone. “We’ve got agents digging into his background and known acquaintances right now.”

“I didn’t catch the morning paper. What’s the press got?”

“Wild speculation, mostly. They don’t have his name, obviously, and they’re running theories from suicide, to the FBI killing him, to one of his own getting him …” Her voice trailed off.

“Come on, what else?”

Laura looked down at the table. “You’re taking a lot of criticism for letting Nelson get shot.”

“Yeah, I seem to be developing kind of a love/hate thing with the press.”

“I don’t know how you can joke about this, Mark. The thing with Nelson wasn’t even your idea and now you’re going to be left holding the bag while everyone runs for cover.”

Beamon nodded thoughtfully. “It’s just politics, Laura. I hope you’re taking notes. Always make sure you’ve scoped out a comfortable chair before the music stops.”

“Well, you’re setting one hell of an example.”

Beamon laughed. “This is one of those ’do as I say and not as I do’ situations. You’ll find there are a lot of those where I’m concerned.”

Laura leaned back in her chair and relaxed a little. “Well, I hope you know that I’m behind you, Mark.”

“No, you’re not. You’ll run for cover too if you have to.”

An expression of deep hurt crossed Laura’s face. “How can you say …”

Beamon held up his hands, silencing her. “I know
you’re willing to go down with me in this thing, Laura, and that means a lot. But there’s no point to it. Besides, I’m counting on you being Director someday and giving me a big promotion.”

Laura forced a smile. “And maybe I just will.”

Beamon pushed his chair back on two legs and balanced precariously with his feet on the edge of the table. “Enough of this political crap. Chasing criminals is supposed to be fun. Are you ready for our field trip?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean? I mean, let’s get out there, have a greasy breakfast at Denny’s, and do detective stuff. You and me—the whole day. It’ll be just like Starsky and Hutch.” He dropped the front of the chair back to the floor and stood.

“Mark, I can’t just leave …”

He waved his hand dismissively. “The Bureau can survive without you in the office for one day, Laura. Delegate. We’re leaving in a half hour.”

He slugged down the last of his coffee and headed for the door. Laura scrambled out ahead of him to try to get a day’s worth of work done in thirty minutes.

“Don’t get me wrong, Laura. Eggs fried at a mom and pop diner have a certain subtlety that just can’t be achieved in a chain restaurant.” Beamon was gesturing wildly with his right hand, paying little attention to his left, which was steering the car. A toothpick hung loosely from his lips. “But to me, Denny’s had the best quality/price/quantity ratio.”

Laura was feeling sick from the Grand Slam breakfast
lodged in her stomach and Beamon’s wild driving. His dissertation on the history of the greasy Southern breakfast wasn’t helping any, either. She decided to change the subject.

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

“Baltimore.”

“Baltimore. Okay. Why?”

“I told you already—to do detective stuff.” He dug a wad of yellow paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to her.

She unfolded the pages. They were from the phone book. The word “Theaters” was in the top right-hand corner of the first page.

“We’re going to see a movie?”

He gave her an exaggerated look of disgust. “No, we’re not going to see a goddam movie. Flip the page.”

She turned it over. The heading THEATRICAL MAKEUP was highlighted in green.

“We’ve theorized that the guy in Poland and the guy at the bank were one and the same and that he was wearing sophisticated makeup. A wig, fake beard, that kind of stuff, right? Now, if he is from Baltimore, it stands to reason that he got the disguises around there. So, all we have to do is find a shopkeeper who remembers a short, thin guy buying those particular items about two months ago. Show him the driver’s license pictures we’re gonna get from the MVA, and budda bing. We’re done.”

“Why Baltimore?” Laura asked, concentrating on keeping her voice even.
Why hadn’t she thought of that?

“Well, what do we know about this guy? We know
he’s not from D.C. or Saint Louis, ’cause both those cities were implicated with the cashier’s checks—the FedEx place was in D.C., and the bank was in Saint Louis. Now we find out he has Maryland plates. D.C.’s an easy drive from Baltimore, and you can make it to Saint Louis in a day—I looked it up. Also, our anonymous informant called from a pay phone near Baltimore. My gut’s never failed me in almost twenty years—and it’s screaming Baltimore.”

“Are you sure it’s not the three eggs, bacon, ham, hash browns, and biscuits and gravy?”

Beamon chuckled. “Stop—you’re making me hungry.”

“What about somewhere else in Maryland—say Rockville? It fits the facts, too.”

Beamon shrugged. “Yeah, you could be right. If we don’t get what we want today, we’ll get some guys to expand the search.”

Laura leaned forward and flipped on the radio. She had grown accustomed to having the news blaring in her ear twenty-four hours a day. “It’s a long shot…”

“Hey, at least it got us out of the office.”

Laura juggled her legal pad and the large map of Baltimore that they had picked up at a gas station on the way there. Map reading was just not her forte.

“Turn right here,” she ordered at the last minute. Beamon turned the wheel hard, squealing the tires.

“Jesus, Laura. A little advance warning would be nice.”

“Why don’t you let me drive and you navigate,” she asked hopefully. The words ’suicide seat’ had taken on real meaning in the last couple of hours.

“Nah. Reading maps in the car makes me sick.”

They were on their last costume shop in the Baltimore area. No luck so far, though Laura had a list of names to follow up on the next day. People who may have been working on the dates in question, but either weren’t in today or had changed jobs.

“There it is.” She pointed across Beamon’s hose and out the drivers side window. He wheeled the car around unexpectedly, making a U-turn in the middle of the street, and pulled up in front of the shop. Laura gripped the dash.

“Everybody out,” Beamon announced unnecessarily. Laura had the door opened and was hopping from the car before it had entirely stopped.

“Hi, I’m Mark Beamon from the FBI and this is my associate, Laura Vilechi.” There was no need to flash his credentials, the man behind the counter recognized him as soon as he said his name.

“Wow, nice to meet you, Mr. Beamon. I’ve seen you on television.” He nodded a greeting to Laura. “What brings you to my store?”

“This is your place?” Beamon asked, carefully examining a luxurious blond wig on a white Styrofoam head.

“Yes, sir.”

Beamon nodded and wandered off to look around.

Seeing that Beamon was beginning to lose interest in this investigative avenue, Laura decided to start questioning the shopkeeper without him. “We thought you might have some information that we need.”

“Sure, anything I can do to help.”

She smiled engagingly and sat down in an antique barbers chair in the center of the room. “What we’re looking for is a man approximately five foot eight or less, thin, between thirty-five and forty-five, who might have come in here about two months ago and purchased, at the least, a long gray wig and beard and a long brown wig and beard, as well as makeup to perhaps make his features look different and darken his skin. He probably wouldn’t have known much about using the stuff—might have asked for some advice …”

The man leaned against the counter behind him, a thoughtful look on his face.

“Is this about the CDFS?”

She nodded.

“Does he have short dark hair—kind of a crew cut?”

“Maybe, we’re not sure.”

“Yeah, I remember a guy like that. Wanted only the best. Must have spent a small fortune.”

Beamon, who until a minute ago had seemed completely oblivious to the conversation, was suddenly at the man’s side.

“Excuse me, Mr… .”

“Reason. But call me Chris.”

“Chris. You say you might remember this guy?”

“Yeah, sure. He kind of stuck in my mind, you know. Most of my business is kinda regular—so it’s pretty unusual for a guy I’ve never seen to come in and make a big purchase like that. He also didn’t really seem like the acting type.”

“Did you ask him what he was going to use it for?” Laura asked.

Reasor thought for a moment. “Now that you mention it, I don’t think I did. He wasn’t really very friendly—hard to warm up to. He was in here a long time, too—didn’t know the first thing about makeup.”

“Chris, would you mind coming back to D.C. with us for the evening? We’ll be happy to put you up in a nice hotel and compensate you for the time your shop’s closed. I’d like to have you get together with one of our sketch artists.”

“Hell, yes, I’ll go. Those CDFS guys are crazy. Let me go grab my coat.”

Beamon watched the store owner hurry to the back of the store. When he was out of sight, Beamon turned and gave Laura a hard spin in the barber chair. She gripped the handles tightly and laughed. “Looks like we might just save your butt after all, Mark.”

Alejandro Perez hurried through the plush gardens surrounding Luis Colombar’s estate, nodding to the guards as he passed them. Spring was fully upon them, and the cool evenings had turned sticky. The sun had just set on the horizon and its light was bouncing off the humid air with a spectacular effect. The sunset, combined with the quiet beauty of the garden this time of year, cast a false peace. Perez knew better.

He left the well-tended brick walkway, turning onto a narrow dirt trail. Through the trees he could see the glimmering lights of a greenhouse in the distance.

He stepped through its door, quickly closing it behind him so as not to release the warm air into the quickly cooling Colombian night. He felt his brow
break out in a sweat from a combination of the heat and Colombar’s tone when he had summoned him.

“Alejandro. I’m over here.”

Perez caught a glimpse of his boss behind a table covered with tall and colorful flowers. He walked quickly across the wet concrete, noticing a strange and foul odor that gained strength as he approached the table. He wondered why Colombar would keep flowers that smelled so noxious, even if they were beautiful to look at. “I came as quickly as I could, Luis,” he said, trying to look slightly out of breath.

“I suppose you haven’t yet seen the package that I received today.” Colombar wasn’t looking at him, but was concentrating on the bright pink bulb in front of him.

“What package?”

Colombar gestured toward the back of the greenhouse with his shears. Perez looked at him strangely, then set off in the direction his boss had pointed. On a table in the back, next to a group of half-f sacks of fertilizer and soil, sat a box with a Federal Express sticker on the top. The tape had been torn off, but the flaps were closed. The odor continued to grow.

Perez reached out and pulled back the flaps. He gasped, the smell of the rotting head choking him. He pushed the flaps closed and stumbled backward, bumping into Colombar, who had crept up silently behind him.

“Read the card,” he invited, pointing back to the box.

Perez swallowed hard, and moving forward, reopened the box. There was a blood-smeared envelope
lying across the head’s mouth. One yellow eye stared up at him as he snatched it and retreated to the other side of the greenhouse.

“I hoped that you might translate the note for me, Alejandro. As you know, my English is less than perfect.”

Perez considered softening the language a bit, but thought better of it. Colombar’s English was undoubtedly good enough to have read the note. The question was why Colombar wanted to hear it from his mouth?

He translated the note verbatim.

Colombar leaned against an empty table, motionless except for his right hand that twirled his shears ominously. “Do you know who that was?”

Perez answered quietly, trying to hide his nervousness. “I can only assume that it is one of the men that you sent after John Hobart.”

“Our little plan didn’t work very well, did it?” Colombar observed.

Our little plan?

Perez mopped the sweat from his forehead, thinking before answering. He decided against correcting his boss’s faulty memory. “I guess not.”

It seemed to be what Colombar wanted to hear. He turned and went back to working on the sick bulb. “I want you to go find this John Hobart. When
you do, call me, and I will take care of the arrangements.”

Perez winced. “Luis, this is just the reaction our Mr. Hobart was trying to provoke. We must inform the FBI. They are much better equipped to find him than I am. Especially now that he knows we’re looking.”