Old Poison (9 page)

He looked into my face and shrugged. “It’s
one of those things you wish you had done differently, but . .
.”

He quit talking and ate a few bites, then
added, “You’re lucky Camas just thinks you’re incompetent. Think
he’s got me figured for his prime suspect. After all, she was
killed practically at my house. In fact, that may be the tangent he
took off on instead of contacting you. I hear he has been asking a
lot of very personal questions regarding my love life.”

“Well, that’s typical cop mentality for–” I
blushed. “Sorry.”

He laughed. “No offense taken. Some
policemen don’t look further than the nearest relative or first
person connected to the scene. Maybe now that he knows who she was,
he’ll back off on me.”

I studied him for a moment, then confessed,
“There are a few details I sort of forgot to tell Agent Camas. I
don’t normally hold out on law enforcement, but I had no real
information and, ah, . . .”

He smiled. “There may be a few things that
escaped my memory too.” He looked nervously at the stack of mail
piled on one side of the table, then looked at my face for a long
moment. After an uncomfortably long silence he pulled out a pencil,
tore a scrap of paper from a piece of junk mail, and began writing.
When he finished he turned the paper around and there, in the neat
box-letter style many policemen use in their written reports, were
the words: HIGH POCKETS.

I was stunned.

Seeing my expression, he said, “You know
what this means, don’t you?”

In answer, I took the scrap of paper, folded
it, and stuffed it in my bra. “It’s from an old World War II movie.
The heroine was a spy who slipped notes in her bra. High Pockets
was her code name. You said Evelyn didn’t talk to you. How did you
know?”

“When I come home at night I dump the day’s
mail here in a pile. About once a week or so I sort through it, pay
bills, answer letters, and so forth. A few days after her death I
was going through my mail and I found this buried in the pile.” He
dug down to the bottom of the pile and pulled out a white envelope
with no address on it. Inside were two pieces of paper. He read me
the first one.

“If something happens to me, I think a woman
may come here and inquire after me. If she does, please give her
this note. Please show it to no one else. You will know the right
person because she will know the meaning of the words High
Pockets.”

I took the note. “That is Evelyn’s
hand-writing. At least it looks like her hand-written speech.”

“By the time I found this, it was clear that
Camas was trying hard to make me his suspect. So I was not inclined
to take him a note written by a dead woman and try to explain how
it had been in my house for several days. Now I’m glad I saved it.
Maybe it will make sense to you. It’s a puzzle that has been
driving me nuts.” He handed me the second note and I was startled
to see the familiar words.

“
It is my private joke that the safe drop
is in the old astrological gardens at the Nautical University. In
the burrocity, scientific knowledge has been withheld from the
people, so my pursuers will not understand the significance of the
great granite spheres which chart the stars and planets. But
someone among the Hidden Ones may know enough to get my joke. I
leave my last information buried beneath the sphere that represents
Atland, thus I am the first to get to the new planet.”

* * * * *

On the drive back to Flagstaff, I checked my
cell phone for messages and found a short but disturbing message
from Sam. It said simply, “Diana Hunter needs an extended vacation
in Arizona. Leave her there, and don’t go to her apartment.”

At the airport I bought new tickets for cash
using a phony driver’s license under my current alias. My laptop
could be carried aboard, but since I had the Walther, the suitcase
had to be checked. The itinerary I was able to put together meant
long waits to catch available flights in both Flagstaff and
Phoenix. The trip took longer than driving home, but it was
necessary to brush out my tracks. It also meant a second night in a
motel in Flagstaff, but after the day I’d had, I needed the rest.
As my dear ol’ daddy used to say, “If you have time to spare, go by
air.” On the long trip home I tried to sort out all the pieces of
the puzzle. First I placed a set of imaginary parentheses around
all the mumbo jumbo about Mars and Red 19, not eliminating it from
my equation, just setting it off as an independent variable. I
would solve for verifiable fact first.

Borson had set me up to seek Red 19. By
following that lead I’d found Evelyn. Could his real goal have been
to have me locate Evelyn? Unknown.

Were those hour-long talks really part of
the selection process or were they just intended to gain my trust?
Unknown. Why was I chosen? I hoped it wasn’t because I was the most
gullible. Evelyn was attacked, frightened, and decided to run away
rather than follow her itinerary. Within a week of our meeting she
was murdered in the same way as Antia in the
Martian Diary
.
Who besides Borson, Evelyn, and I would know that detail?
Unknown.

No ID was left on the body, and her
fingerprints were removed to prevent or delay identification. Was
my card left in her bra because the killer didn’t find it, or so
the FBI would call me? Why would Borson want to delay ID? Did he?
Did he kill her?

What had Evelyn done in that week? Who had
she gone to see in Arizona? What was the motive for murdering her?
All unknown.

Why did the FBI wait so long to call me, and
who was watching my place?

Enough! Those were all useless questions.
What real leads did I have that I could pursue? When Evelyn had run
off without filing a complaint, there seemed little use in
following up on the boat used in the kidnap attempt. Now, checking
the CF number was high on my list. Sam was working on information
on Borson. Maybe he would have a good lead or two. Evelyn said
three of her colleagues in Costa Rica had been killed. I would have
to get online and see what I could learn about the murder of
environmental activists in Costa Rica. There were also the three
people I met at the environmental conference in Long Beach:
Guillermo Jesus Montegro y Monteblan, and Ken and Judith Hoffman.
Why did they disappear so quickly?

At John Wayne Airport, I waited bleary-eyed
for my one piece of luggage. Renting a car under my pseudonym, I
left my easily identifiable 57 T-Bird sitting in the expensive
airport parking lot. Oh well, if Borson was going to shower me with
cash, I might as well put it to good use. Sam could have someone
pick it up later. I headed for the Yellow Umbrella Hotel in Bluff
Beach.

This old hotel had been quite a Hollywood
retreat in the 1920s and 1930s. All the elegant suites, complete
with kitchens and wet bars, were terraced down the bluff so each
room had its own patio overlooking the ocean. Of course, a lot of
things have changed since those days. The rooms are no longer
elegant; in fact, they stink of dirty carpet, stained upholstery,
and musty, moldy walls. However, the old place still offers two
things that made it a desirable retreat in the old days. Each room
still has its own ocean-view patio, and the privacy of its clients
is still guaranteed. No eyebrow is raised if Mr. and Mrs. Smith
register, and no ID is required. No one gets past the security
gates to visit any guest until the guest approves the visit. If a
hasty escape is needed, the path from the apartments leads to a
private beach and waiting boat. It was the perfect place to set up
operations and go after answers and Evelyn’s killer.

* * * * *

I registered under my alias, Champs
O’Shaughnessy and deposited my limited luggage in the penthouse
suite on the top floor of the Yellow Umbrella. From there I walked
two blocks to a mom and pop store and carried home sandwich makings
and a bottle of Grants. Fifteen minutes later, with a sandwich in
one hand and a glass nearby, I called Sam. I had no idea how Borson
was getting to me, and I had decided that my first step would be to
make sure I wasn’t walking around with an electronic bug.

J. Edgar answered Sam’s phone. Putting on my
best East Texas drawl I said, “Well, hello there, darlin’. This is
Champs O’Shaughnessy just in from the great state of Texas. Is your
boss there? I have a hurry up need to have a word with him.”

Sam picked up. “Hello, Champs. I been
wondering when you would blow into town. Where are you?”

“Oh, I’m havin’ myself a little holiday here
at the beach. Staying in that hideaway where we met the sheik and
his bride. You remember?”

“Sure.”

“You also remember that they had a little
electrical problem you helped them with. S’pose you could help me
with it too?”

“I’ll be right over.”

It would take Sam about fifteen minutes to
drive from his classic old California bungalow in San Pedro to my
temporary quarters in Bluff Beach. While I waited, I turned on the
laptop, pulled up the Borson report, checked the boat CF number,
and put in my second call.

“DMV. Good afternoon, this is Tamara. How
may I help you?”

“Hi, Tamara, this is Diana Hunter. I would
like to run registration on one CF number, please.” As she typed, I
supplied the CF number, my account ID, and my password.

“The registered owner is Offshore Deep
Driller, Inc. The legal owner is Blue Morpho Global Investments.
There is a Department of Justice report as of 29 October. Do you
receive address information on this account, Ms. Hunter?”

“Not this time. No process service needed.
You said a DOJ report? So you are saying that this boat was
reported stolen on the 29th of October, right?”

“Yes.”

“Does the DOJ do an investigation on that,
or do they just maintain a state index as reported by local
enforcement?”

“I’m sorry, I really don’t know. You would
have to talk with the DOJ on that.”

“Okay, thanks.”

I dialed the 800 number I had for the
Department of Justice and got one of those interminable message
machine menus. Waiting none-too-patiently, I finally was allowed to
press zero to talk to a staff member. The phone rang and I got
another recording telling me that their staff was available from
nine a.m. to noon and one p.m. to four. I looked at my watch,
12:40. Shit! Twenty minutes was too long to wait so I called the
Sheriff’s Department, Harbor Patrol, to see if they knew how boat
theft reports were handled. I got an operator message that said the
area code had changed. Damn! With mounting frustration I tried the
new area code and got hold of a deputy who hadn’t a clue what I was
talking about. He didn’t even know the DOJ got stolen vehicle
reports. I apologized for bothering him and said I would call the
DOJ. Damn, damn! I slammed down the receiver and sat staring at my
watch and steaming.

I reread the registration information,
looking for another angle. Blue Morpho Global Investments had to be
connected to Blue Morpho Petroleum, Inc. I was staring at the
phone, debating my next move, when it rang.

“Hello.”

“This is the front desk, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy.
Are you expecting a gentleman named Sam?”

“Yes, please, send him right up.”

Sam came in carrying a large satchel with
his debugging equipment and went to work without a word, not only
checking all my possessions, but the entire room. “You’re clean,
ma’ dear. Now we can relax and chat.”

“Thanks, Sam. Why did you warn me off going
to my apartment? Did you find a bug there?”

“Yes, I did. Probably found it before your
plane took off for Arizona on Friday. But that’s not why I told you
to stay away. There’s somebody watching your building. I’ve been
trying to ID the two guys who trade off watch but don’t have
anything on them yet. They’re definitely not pros. On Friday
afternoon I brought your stuff out right under their noses and they
never knew it. I’ve got Yeabot, your PC, and filing cabinet at my
place. You’re all set up for operation, complete with a secure
phone line. You can move in tomorrow.”

He paused and I could tell from his
expression that more bad news was coming.

“Before I got back over there Saturday, they
managed to break in and pretty well trash the place. It was
strictly amateur night. They hacked around the locks with a fire
axe, for Pete’s sake.”

There was another ominous pause, and I
braced myself for the real news.

“At least we can be fairly certain it wasn’t
your friend Borson. He would have known everything he could want to
know from his video-tape.”

“What! What video-tape?”

He gave me a self-satisfied grin. “Borson
must have some connections in the business because he had a piece
of top-secret, state-of-the-art hardware installed in your
television. I had trouble even finding someone who knew me well
enough to tell me what it was. My past associates call it a Big
Brother chip. You remember in the book
1984
how the
televisions watched the people like a security camera?”

“Yes, don’t tell me . . . ”

“Uh huh. The set didn’t even need to be on.
Borson got a twenty-four-hour-a-day video, with sound. Of course
he’ll know that I found it. Would have seen me debugging the place;
so we lost the advantage there, and he’ll know about me and any
other people you have had in your apartment, and about Yeabot.”

I closed my eyes and shook my head as I
thought about the damage control that would be necessary on this
one.

“But, it’s not all bad news. I did figure
out how he was tapping into your computer. Clever damn program. In
your first emails with him he installed a small program that
allowed him to dial up your modem, send future messages and plant
them in your C-drive. I am still analyzing the program to see what
else it does, but I cleaned that all out of your computer and added
a program that will recognize any similar attempts as a virus.”