Broken English

CHAPTER 7: TUESDAY

8:43 AM, Monterey

         "But what will the prosecutor do, that's the ultimate question. I mean, he's got enough to move on right now, doesn't he?"
         "Yes, Leon, and he wants to, too. I convinced him to wait for a short time in the interest of finding a larger plot she might be a part of, but that's the only thing that moved him."
         "He has to give us time."
         "I don't think the media will allow it," Zamora replied. "We have a pillar of the community murdered by a housewife who, on the face of it, looks psycho. I really think this trial will be played out as the State of California versus a nutjob, and those people are going to be clamoring for blood."
         "We'll have to do something to buy more time."
         "What we'll wind up having to do is work faster."
         Zamora was interrupted by the ringing of her phone.
         "Monterey Police, Lieutenant Zamora... one moment, please. It's for you," she said, passing the phone to Kitfox. "Your office."
         "Kitfox."
         "Good morning, Leon," Dixon's voice hit his ear. "You didn't call last night."
         "I worked late, sir. You were gone by the time I finished."
         "Then call me at home, damn it! When I stick my neck out to support one of your harebrained schemes, I expect some reciprocation."
         "I'm sorry, sir. I'll keep it in mind."
         "You do that. Now, what did you find out?"
         "Nothing specific, just things that raise more questions."
         "Like what?"
         "Motive. There is none. The local prosecutor wants to move right away, and as it stands, Darnall's a shoo-in for an insanity defense."
         "Well, Leon, maybe insanity is the appropriate defense. This sort of stuff does happen, you know."
         "I understand, sir, but that just doesn't look right from here."
         "Yeah, so you've said. How are you going to prove it?"
         "By tying these crimes together. The victim in Reno—"
         "Eugene Shaw."
         "Right. He was a professor of economics, wasn't he?"
         "Yeah. Economic theory, actually. Nothing that applied to the real world. More like formulas that propped everything up."
         "Interesting. I'll need to know a couple of things about him."
         "Such as?"
         "Such as, did he know, either personally or professionally, Robert Durant, and did he have any involvement with the PacRim Conference down here? That's set for this weekend, and Durant was a big player."
         "Done. What are you going to do?"
         "Look into this PacRim thing. It's supposed to lead to a big economic shakeup for Monterey, and it's possible that it might have harmed Darnall's family to the point where it could be viewed as a motive."
         "Good, Leon, you're sounding like a cop now. How about Darnall, is she still claiming amnesia?"
         "Yes. Nothing new there."
         "Has she been tested?"
         "Not yet. Her counsel and the prosecutor are still haggling over who's going to do it. I think counsel is stalling for time. He's hoping we'll come up with something that will help him."
         "Well, maybe you will. You go ahead and get started. Let me talk to that cop you're working with."
         "She's a lieutenant, sir. Inez Zamora."
         "I don't care if she's the Archbishop of Carmel. Put her on."
         "He wants to speak to you," Kitfox said, passing her the phone.
         "Lieutenant Zamora... Yes, Agent Kitfox has been of great assistance to us already. We never would have connected the two crimes without his insight... Well, certainly it's possible, even likely, but if there is something bigger than one loco housewife here, don't we all want to know about it?... I'll have my secretary fax it this morning... Yes, Agent Dixon, I'll remind him daily... same to you, sir... have a nice day."
         "Well?" Kitfox said as she hung up.
         "He wants our case material. Sounds like you're here for the duration."
         "Excellent."
         "He also wants me to remind you to call in daily reports. I don't think he wants you getting off course."
         "No? Well, everyone has wants."

9:29 AM, Salinas

         Ikhilevich finished setting up the scrambler his client had provided him with barely a minute left. He had been surprised by the complexity, and stymied by a part that had stubbornly refused to click into place, but he was finished.
         Precisely at 9:30 the phone rang. He waited three rings while the scrambler synchronized with its counterpart, the only one in the world it could talk to. When the ready light finally came on, he picked up the handset.
         "Ikhilevich."
         "Good afternoon, Uschi, or should I say good morning? It's good to find you ready."
         "It is good to find you usinG proper channel. Are there any changes?"
         "Hang on, old buddy. That's why we have these meetings. How is everything looking on your end?"
         "Everything here is fine, old buddy. My people are in place and awaitinG my signal. The test runs went perfectly, the police are looking for crazy serial killers, and by the time anyone begins to figure out what is going on, the job will be completed, I will be gone, and there will be nothing to connect me to you, nor indeed, to the killings in any way."
         "You sound pretty confident, then."
         "Confidence comes from thorough preparation and knowing that nothing can be thrown at you that you have not prepared and practiced for in advance. I learned that from your navy SEALs."
         "Hell of a group, those SEALs. Now, if you study the Imperial Japanese Navy, they'll teach you all about the dangers of overconfidence."
         "You want me to be less confident, then, on the eve of the operation?"
         "I want you to be careful, Uschi, that's all. Allow for the possibility of things going wrong and be ready to correct them."
         "I told you, I have considered every contingency. We are ready to move, or would you maybe like my people to have doubts just before the operation?"
         "Uschi, no, of course not. I just want you to be careful and calculating, and so on top of things that nothing can trip you up."
         "Nothing will trip me up. My people will be waiting at convention like hungry spiders. Do not worry so much, old buddy. After all, you hired the best."
         "I'm aware of that, Uschi. We're still on track, then. I'll contact you tomorrow, same time, to make sure we remain on track. Talk to you then."
         With a click, the line went dead.
         Bastard!
         Ikhilevich hung up, thinking dark thoughts about the employer he had never seen. He took apart the scrambler piece by piece, and reassembled it inside out, transforming it into the sort of cheap travel clock that any man might bring with him on a trip to another city.

12:29 PM, Monterey

         Kathy Benson lay in the leg press machine in the hotel gymnasium, straining to find her limit. It was near. She held the padded bench beside her hips for leverage, palms slipping on the sweat-soaked leather. Veins stood out in her neck, her eyes were squeezed shut, and her face was contorted with effort. A deep groove scored the side of her thigh, and corded steel muscles stood out in sharp relief at the front as the weight stack moved slowly but smoothly along its guides. At the bottom of each stroke, she would stop and pant deeply, then lock her air inside and drive the weights aloft again with those powerful legs, driven by a determination she never knew she possessed.
         "Kathy, my God!" It was Medina, standing beside the machine mugging and exaggerated look of amazement. Not too exaggerated, though. "What is that, about three-fifty?"
         "Four," Benson gasped.
         "What are you trying to prove?" Medina asked as Benson began another stroke. She laid her hand just above the knee as Benson reached full extension; she could have struck a match on that granite surface.
         "Nothing," Benson replied as she settled back into her rest position. "Those are cycling muscles. Don't you know that girls with strong legs get the best..."
         Medina waited as Benson got a funny look on her face and said nothing else.
         "Get the best what?"
         "Nothing. Forget it. I've just got a headache today, and this helps it. What did you need?"
         "I just wanted to know if you have the schedule ready for the caterers yet."
         "First thing after lunch, hon." She sucked in her breath and began another stroke.
         "Okay, I'll drop by about two."
         Just before closing her eyes closed again, Benson caught a worried look taking shape on her friend's face as she left.

2:03 PM, Salinas

         In his own room in a different hotel, Uschi Ikhilevich was flexing muscles of an entirely different sort. His exercise machine was a telephone, and personal success was measured by the domination of one mind by another.
         "Hello?"
         "Armadillo underpants swimming in a pile."
         The long pause, then, "Yes."
         "Nicholas Ives?"
         "Yes." Flat monotone.
         "This is Capstone. Are you prepared to follow my instructions?"
         "Yes."
         "Good. You will pull out lining inside your medium suitcase. Inside you will find a ticket on Southwest Airlines to Monterey, California. The flight leaves at seven-thirty this evening. You will be on flight, and you will arrive in Monterey at ten-fifteen. Do you understand?"
         "Yes."
         "Good. when you arrive in Monterey, you will take taxi to the Monterey Marriott Hotel. Reservations are made for you. Do you understand?"
         "Yes."
         "Good. You will, as always, have no memory of this conversation, but your instructions will be clear and imperative, do you understand?"
         "Yes."
         "Good. You may carry on, Goodbye."
         Ikhilevich hung up the phone and took his personal organizer from the bed. He responded to its request for a password by typing Illyana, the name of his beloved, added an X beside the name Nicholas Ives, and moved the list down to display David Jackson. He reached for the phone again.

3:48 PM, Reno, Nevada

         Sergeant Douglas Sturgeon arrived early, as was his habit, in order to allow plenty of time for an orderly turnover from the man he was relieving. Most of Reno's petty crimes occurred on the day shift, pickpocketing, small items gone missing from hotel rooms, the occasional flimflamming of a tourist and the like. Night shift saw heavier stuff, muggings, burglaries, holdups, but that didn't mean day shift's crimes weren't important, and it was just good business to be informed should follow-up information come in at night.
         As Sturgeon walked past the front desk, the duty sergeant called him over and handed him a slip of paper.
         "A lieutenant from Monterey PD called for you. Wants to compare notes on the Shaw case."
         "The Shaw case?" He looked at the note as if he expected more information to appear on the paper. "Monterey doesn't have any connection with the Shaw case. Did he say what he wanted?"
         "She's a female. Apparently, they've had a similar case there, and they're checking for a connection. She's working with an FBI agent. That's his name under hers, and it's him that wants to talk to you."
         "Okay, thanks, Mitch. Guess I'll do this first."
He went past the locker room to his desk, got an outside line, and dialed the number. It was answered on the first ring.
         "Monterey Police Department, Lieutenant Zamora."
         "Lieutenant, this is Sergeant Doug Sturgeon, Reno PD. I have a message here to call this number and speak to an FBI Agent named Leon Kitfox."
         "Yes, Sergeant, he's eager to hear from you. I'll put him on."
         She clicked the phone onto hold so he wouldn't hear whatever they said, then, "This is Special Agent Kitfox. Thank you for calling, Sergeant."
         Eager, all right. Edgy. Desperate?
         "Doug Sturgeon, Reno Police. Sorry, I had to take a personal day yesterday. What may I assist you with, Special Agent?"
         "I need some information on your Shaw murder. I'm working with the Monterey Police on a homicide, and the reason I'm here at all is that we initially linked it to yours, specifically through the burger-flipper with the baseball bat."
         "Yes, the Shaw murder. And you think these are linked?"
         "Well, very tentatively. I'm working on the Durant murder here. Robert Durant, a respected bank manager, and a mover and shaker on some big economic conference scheduled to play out over this weekend. He was murdered by a housewife who wouldn't harm a fly, had no combat skills whatsoever, and yet she found it in herself to lie in wait for a man she didn't know and stab him over thirty times. As soon as the local police picked her up, she claimed to have amnesia. Can we agree that the similarities are striking?"
         "Son of a bitch!"
         "Excuse me?"
         "Shaw. Eugene Shaw was a professor of economic theory here at UNR. He was a big name in his field, and our small university here was more a hideaway for him than anything else. He could have done much better. And, yes, he was killed using excessive force by a person who wouldn't harm a fly, as you put it."
         "That much I know. That's what drew our attention in the first place. That's an iffy connection. The clincher for me is whether he was involved in that conference."
         "PacRim One?"
         "You know about it?"
         "Yeah. We obviously checked his calendar. It didn't mean anything to us, just another appointment. This changes everything."
         "Detective, you're a prince among policemen. Let give you my numbers. You have this one, of course. You can call the Holiday Inn here in Monterey, and if you can't get me in either place, call my San Franciso office. They'll take messages for me. Your name's Sturgeon, you said?"
         "Yes, Doug Sturgeon, extension six-four-four."
         "Got it. Here are mine."
         Sturgeon copied the numbers down, wondering what the hell his random act of violence was beginning to spiral into.
         "Got it," he said, copying the last number into his notebook. "I'll get back to you in minutes if anything comes up at this end. I'd appreciate it if you'd do the same."
         "That goes without saying, Detective, since I believe more strongly than ever that these two cases are linked."
         "That's great. Say, can I ask you something?"
         "Certainly."
         "What kind of name is Kitfox?"