Playing A Losing Game, Page 2

  Chapter Fifty Three

  Sitting on her bed, Helen examined her gun. It was small, lightweight, made almost entirely of non-metallic composites. It looked new, but when she put the barrel to her nose she could smell the powder. She pointed the gun at her reflection in the dresser mirror across the room. She remembered how it felt to fire it. It kicked hard for such a small gun.

  "It's small," Howard had said, "easy to carry. And the non-metallic construction will get it past any ordinary metal detector." He took her to the target range on the third floor to try it out. There was a target range right there in the building! At thirty feet she had put the entire clip - nine shots - inside the inner ring, two of them touching the bulls eye.

  Howard was impressed, and praised her shooting. She glowed with pleasure at the memory.

  He also gave her two boxes of bullets. Only .22 caliber, but high powered, Howard told her, with hollow points that expanded nicely when they hit. She opened one box and loaded the spare clip. Nine shots in the gun and nine shots in the extra clip. That ought to be enough for the CIA agent and his ape of a girlfriend.

  She held the gun in her lap and looked in the mirror again. In this light and at a distance she could still be seventeen, sitting on her bed in the old house outside Baker City, getting ready to join the other cheerleaders for the long bus ride to the big game in Klamath Falls. She held up the gun and grinned at her reflection. Oh, if the boys and girls could see her now.

  It's for all of you I'm doing this, she thought, you, and Mom and Dad and Uncle Bud. Maybe especially Uncle Bud, lying in a grave in Willamette Cemetery out in Oregon, with his name neatly engraved on that black wall just a few miles from where she sat. She didn't remember Uncle Bud - he had been killed in Vietnam when she was still a baby. But her father had talked about Uncle Bud a lot, and about how he regretted the gimpy knee that kept him from going with Bud into the Army.

  Helen got off the bed and moved over to the mirror. Up close, she sure as hell didn't look seventeen any more. She tilted her head and examined the mark left by her attacker's knife. Just a tiny scab under her jaw, not much at all. Her face burned with shame as she remembered her screaming panic. Oh, she thought, to have that ski-masked bitch right here in the sights. But revenge wasn't the answer. The cause was the answer, turning the country aside from its mad, decadent course.

  Did Howard suspect she was involved with Terrell's, um, demise? Well, who the hell cares, there's nothing he can do about it. Anyway, he gave her the gun, and bullets, and offered her Gunnar's help. What allies! If they just didn't quit, they were sure to win.

  The grandfather clock in the dining room bonged twelve times. Midnight. The witching hour. Alan should be home soon, home from the office, home from working late, night after night. She wondered again, as she had before, if he was seeing someone else. But no, she smiled, sweet, driven, workaholic Alan wasn't seeing anything but the company. Every thought, every dream, every dollar went into that damn company. Well, she had her dreams, too, and they were a lot bigger than an electrical contracting business.

  She leaned close to the mirror. Definite lines around the eyes. Maybe that new moisturizer they're pushing at Burberry's. Not much time for that kind of crap any more. Still...she rubbed tentatively at a tiny wrinkle. Oh, well, time for bed. No telling when Alan would be in. The truth was, she realized, that Alan's single minded attention to success was the best thing that could be happening right now. Still, it had been a long time since - much - had happened between them. She cupped her breasts in her hands and sighed.

  She hid the gun in the space between the box springs and the frame of the bed. She took a long, foamy bath, crawled naked into bed and went to sleep.

  She woke up when Alan came home, felt him climb in beside her, heard him sigh, felt him relax. She touched his back, but he didn't respond. At first she drew back, but then she remembered her evening and thought of the gun under the bed.

  Ignoring his sleepy protests, she fumbled with the snaps on his pajamas. She kissed him on the neck and stroked his penis. Alan groaned, but hardened at her touch. She climbed on top and eased him into her. Oh, sweetheart, she thought, your cock always was more interested than you were. She clutched his shoulders and moved forward and back, slowly and gently at first, then faster. Alan woke up then, and moved with her. His hands clutched her waist and then her breasts. He came first, as usual, but she was close behind, gasping and shaking. She settled on his chest after that, and cried.

  "What's the matter, honey?" Alan stroked her hair and sounded more tired than concerned.

  Helen rolled off and kissed him on the cheek. "Ah, nothing," she said. "I've just been working too hard."

 

  Chapter Fifty Four

  Bobby looked out the window of Frank's suite at the Sheraton. He could see the Capitol dome to the left. "I ruined another good pair of pants last night, Frank. This job is playing hell with my wardrobe. And I don't have time to go shopping. And," he turned to show Frank, "I'm not getting enough sleep. Look, I've got bags under my eyes."

  "And," Frank said dryly, "you came damn close to getting yourself killed last night."

  Bobby grabbed a Pepsi from the refrigerator and dropped onto the couch. "Well, yeah, that too. Maybe that's why I've got bags under my eyes. Maybe acute fear is bad for the complexion. Or maybe looming poverty. This trip is starting to cost me real money: ruined clothes, car rental, business lunches, shit like that."

  "I'm sorry," Frank said, "but right now. there's not a thing I can do." He gestured at Bobby's briefcase. "Did you write everything up?"

  "It's in my computer. Get yours out and I'll hook them up." He pulled out his computer and unfolded the screen and keyboard as Frank did the same with his. Bobby stretched a cable between the two computers, snapped it into place, and banged on his keyboard a few times. "There, just take a minute. I'm telling you, Frank, this is hard on me. I was up 'till two writing all this."

  "I'm going to report to the President, and I want to be sure it's right. Now, take it from the top." Frank tapped his computer and peered at the screen. "For god's sake, Bobby, haven't you ever heard of a spell checker?"

  "I was in a hurry. Look, Frank, what we know is there, but what we know is mostly questions. Was John Holtzman's death actually murder? And if it was murder, did it have anything to do with the Omniac conversion job? Did Helen Holtzman have anything to do with either the death or the conversion job? And did Helen Holtzman have anything to do with Terrell Dennerman's so-called suicide? But if so, why? Why kill her father-in-law? And why kill her co-worker?" Bobby got to his feet and stalked around the room, his arms waving.

  Frank leaned back and smiled.

  "Obviously," Bobby raved, " Helen and Dennerman were connected, and Chuck Halloran and Dennerman were connected, and now Helen and Dennerman and this Howard Green and his buddy Gunnar are all connected."

  Frank's smile disappeared when Bobby mentioned Chuck Halloran. The outcry over the forced resignation of the popular assistant director of the FBI was still battering the President's party in Congress.

  "The President," Frank said, "will ask me this: what the hell does all this have to do with losing the Game? You're chasing people all over town, and every day we get our butts kicked some more."

  "Christ on a crutch, I don't know how it all ties together, or if it all ties together. That's what I was just saying." Arms waving furiously, Bobby walked into a lamp, sending it crashing to the floor. "Dammit!"

  "Ok, Ok, take it easy. I know you're doing what you can, but what has this got to do with Omniac?"

  Bobby slammed himself onto the couch in front of his computer. "I think this building I found last night ties in," he said as he scanned his report again. "Heavy duty communications installation...high capacity uplink...a big, air conditioned computer room, which means a big computer...
having to wait for parts, which could be coming from far away...Japan, maybe. We were already sure they were getting to Omniac somehow. Maybe this sleazy computer set-up is where Omniac's information is going, or this is how it's getting out of the country. But how are they getting the data away from Omniac and what are they doing with the information once they get it? And what's it all got to do with Helen Holtzman? And who the devil is Howard Green? He looks like somebody's uncle and sounds like a used-car salesman, but the way Gunnar used his name...and Gunnar! Brrr."

  "Time's running out," Frank said flatly.

  "Ok, Frank, but I've got to have some answers. What is that building? I'm not sure about the address, but if you send a helicopter over around Logan Circle, they can spot it no problem. And Howard Green, who is he?" Bobby stopped talking. Frank frowned and shook his head.

  "No can do, Bobby. You're on your own," Frank sighed. "In some ways, being White House Chief of Staff is amazing. I say 'let thus-and-so be done' and lo, it is done. I say 'let thus-and-so be not done' and I'll be damned if it doesn't stop. But everyone notices what I want done and what I don't want done, and everyone talks and speculates and rumors fly. Why do you think I go to friends and relatives for all this shit, Bobby? I can't blow my damn nose without the staff and the reporters and the Congressional aides and God knows who-all hearing about it and wondering just exactly what do I mean by that. And if I gave you money and it got out," Frank shook his head again, "our asses would all be slung."

  "But, Frank, I know, you said before, you can't trust anybody right now, but there must be someone." Bobby looked so anxious and dejected, Frank had to smile.

  "Look, Bobby, you're a cop, right?" Frank held up his hand. "And even if you're not a cop, you've got a real, live cop helping you, and you're working in a real, live big-city police department. So work it out. Just remember that answering all these questions doesn't mean shit if you can't stop the leak, or whatever it is, that's losing us the Game."

  Chapter Fifty Five

  The man was obviously a Texan through and through. Exceptionally tall, his Stetson and cowboy boots set off an expensive, western cut suit. His brassy blond companion was also tall, heavily made up and wearing a dress that made the most of her ample figure. As all of them wore dark glasses against the glare of the June sun, the pilot of the sightseeing helicopter ogled her neckline and paid little attention to the rest of the couple.

  "Just a relaxin' little trip around the city," the Texan said, "I figure this is the quickest way to get a look at all them points of interest. Ain't that right, honey?"

  "Oh, yeah," the blond squealed, "I just love helicopter rides."

  "I can't get very low, and I can't get too close to the White House," the pilot said, still concentrating most of his attention on the cleavage, "usually, people like to fly over the Antietam battlefield, or down the Potomac."

  "No problem, son," the Texan boomed, "we've got binoculars. Just git us as close to the monuments as you can."

  The pilot noticed that the Texan held out cash. Cash, untraceable and undeclarable. "Yessir," he said quickly, "that's two hundred dollars for half an hour."

  "Sounds just about right, don't it honey?"

  "Yeah," the blond shrilled again, "I just love helicopter rides."

  They lifted off from Washington National, gained the required altitude, circled over Arlington and came at the city from the northwest. Once in the air, the couple quieted down and peered through the powerful binoculars they both carried. The pilot spared what attention he could from flying for the blond's short skirt, and gave no thought at all to the couple's behavior. They paid no attention to the distant view of the Mall and the White House, but looked down at the northern part of the city.

  "Can we swing just a tad more south, son," the Texan asked at one point.

  "Only a little, sir, can't get too close to the White House."

  "Well, do what you can." The Texan turned back to the view. The pilot eased a few hundred yards south and returned to his view.

  The blond pulled out a camera with a telephoto lens and shot a roll of film.

  "All right, son, we've had our trip, time to head back, ain't it?"

  "Yessir," the pilot answered, and swung the chopper back the way they had come.

  "Gee, that was fun," the blond warbled, "thanks, honey. And thank you, handsome," she cooed to the pilot.

  The pilot clutched his fee and the fifty dollar tip and watched the blond walk away. He couldn't have described the man or the details of the trip, but he remembered certain things about the blond for several days.

  Chapter Fifty Six

  "I will never," Alexa said as she yanked off the wig and threw it into the back of her van, "never, ever, let you talk me into anything like that again. Did you see the way he looked at me?"

  "He had dark glasses on," Bobby said mildly.

  "I could tell. He was almost burning holes in the glasses, the lech. We're lucky he didn't smash us up."

  "It worked great. He never noticed our sight seeing, and I'd bet money that he couldn't pick either of us out of a lineup. Unless you bent over, of course."

  "You just shut the hell up." Alexa crossed the Potomac into Georgetown and stopped at a one hour film developer. "I'm going home and change," she said, "you wait here."

  "There's no reason to wait," Bobby protested, "I'll go with you."

  "You will not. Out. I'll be back in an hour."

  Bobby dropped off the film and sat in a bar for an hour, drinking Cuervo Gold and beer and thinking sexist thoughts.

  Alexa was waiting at the developer. "Where were you?" she demanded.

  "Over there, having a drink."

  "Without me? I could use a drink too, cobber."

  "Christ on a crutch, Alexa, you went home to change, remember? And left me here to watch this damn film develop. And don't call me 'cobber', I don't like that damned Australian slang."

  Bobby picked up the film and headed for the bar. Alexa was being unreasonable and he felt like sulking. Alexa followed silently. After picking up drinks at the bar, they found a table by a window and Bobby spread out the pictures.

  "You thought it was a good idea to dress like that," he said abruptly, "you agreed it might distract the pilot."

  "You're right," Alexa sighed, "I didn't like it once it happened. He was so obvious." And you don't even care, she thought, then said, "C'mon, you're supposed to be a fun drunk. Let's look at the pictures."

  "There it is," Bobby said at once, "it looks like an old apartment house."

  "It's big," Alexa said, "it covers the whole block."

  "You get into the courtyard from this side, through a tunnel like a garage with no back wall," Bobby said as he moved his finger around on the picture.

  "Here's a good one of the west side of the courtyard," Alexa said, "and these are...."

  "Microwave dishes," Bobby said, "three of them, all the same size, and all oriented in the same direction. I only saw one in the dark the other night." A barmaid came by and he finished his drink and ordered another. Alexa stood pat.

  "What does this mean."

  "It means, m'dear, that three signals are - or can be - beamed to some satellite floating in geosynchronous orbit out there in space. Once up there, the signals can be bounced from satellite to satellite all over the world."

  "To accomplish exactly what?" Alexa decided to be the designated driver. Bobby was starting to slur a bit.

  "Yes, exactly what. Good question." Bobby sipped his drink and considered the possibilities. "Three dishes, three signals. Why three? Why not two, or four?"

  "Why not three?"

  "It's not a power of two and most computer stuff happens in powers of two, two, four eight, sixteen and so on," Bobby rambled.

  "Let's get you home," Alexa said, "you can think about it tomorrow, after you recover from your hangover."

  "Home? After
all we've been through today, you're taking me home?"

  "Too right - there's more of that Australian slang. Maybe the masquerade was my idea, but I've still had enough of men for today. Come on."

 

  Chapter Fifty Seven

  Another computer room dream, white and blue with red gashes of rust that turn to blood and drip sloppily across the display screens. Alarm bells metamorphose into the telephone's chime. The sleeper wakes.

  "Ah, shit," he says, "I feel awful. Wha's'at? The phone?" He stumbles across the room, picks up the phone. "H'lo. Who? Oh, uh, hi, Marilyn. No, no problem, I should be up anyway."

  He listens, anxiety twisting his face. "Uh, well, I have found out a little, nothing certain. An hour? Ohh, make it two, Ok? It'll be lunch time. You know where the old post office is? In the restaurant on the mezzanine at 11:45. Yeah, 'bye."

  He throws himself on the bed, but then realizes that as hangovers go, this one is not one of his best. In order: four aspirin, a large glass of tomato juice, a hot shower, a frustrating search through his dwindling wardrobe, a long walk to the restaurant.

  Bobby felt better by the time he got to the post office; not on top of the world, but better. Well enough to worry over what he should tell Marilyn. The whole truth? Which was what? He couldn't talk about Omniac in any detail, and he sure as hell wasn't going to tell Marilyn her daughter-in-law may have been involved in John's death.

  Marilyn was waiting in the bar, a mostly empty double something in front of her.

  "Hi," she said as Bobby sat down beside her. She had dark circles under her eyes and her skin was rough and blotchy.

  "How you doing?" Bobby asked.

  "Ok, well not totally Ok, but I'll be alright." Marilyn finished her drink and signaled the bartender. Bobby ordered straight tomato juice.

  Sipping her drink, Marilyn led the way to a table.

  "So what have you got?" she asked.

  "Not much. That's why I haven't called you. All I have are guesses, and some stuff I can't talk about."

  "Guesses? About John?"

  "Among other things. My guess about John is that you were right; he was murdered."

  "But why?" Marilyn wailed. Her eyes started to fill with tears.

  Oh, god, here we go, Bobby thought.

  "Something to do with Omniac and the Game," he said to Marilyn. "There are powerful people in this country opposed to the Game, and I think John got crossways with them."

  "How?"

  "I'm not sure." That wasn't a lie, all he had was guesswork; there was no way to be sure.

  "Why can't you talk about it?" Marilyn was an emotional wreck and had been hitting the bottle hard for weeks, but she could still carry the conversational ball.

  "Uh, I just can't, that's all."

  "Why not, dammit? I want to know what's going on." Marilyn's tears turned to anger.

  "Keep your voice down," Bobby hissed.

  "I want to know what happened," Marilyn said stubbornly, but she lowered her voice.

  "I don't know what happened."

  "Did John, did John," her lip was quivering again, "did he do something w-wrong?"

  "I don't know, I don't know. Marilyn, all I know, I mean think, is that John was hurt by some heavy-duty bad guys. When I know more and I can talk about it, I'll tell you." Bobby was breathing hard by the end of the speech.

  "What should I do?" Tears were running freely down Marilyn's face, dripping off her nose into her glass. She made no effort to wipe them away, just dabbed weakly at her nose.

  "Keep quiet. If I'm guessing right, this is dangerous." Bobby wondered if he should warn Marilyn against talking to Helen. That would open the door to more questions. "Don't talk to anyone about this," he finally said.

  Marilyn actually put her face in her hands and sobbed. Other patrons glanced over and then looked quickly away. Bobby burned with embarrassment. After several painful minutes she lifted her head.

  "I think John got mixed up with some criminals," she said, "that's how we got so much money so fast. Most of it's gone, by the way. I've got the house up for sale. I can't afford the payments." Bobby expected another flood, but instead Marilyn stood, turned and walked out the door without looking back. Bobby threw money on the table and hurried after her.

  "Are you Ok?" he called.

  Marilyn kept walking. "I'm fine," she said, "go away."