Читать книгу The Black Squares Club - Joseph Cairo - Страница 5

For the fiscal year just ended, Sonn and Son Investigations grossed revenues of more than 80 million, an increase in the top line of fourteen percent. The big money was in Corporate Theft and Industrial Espionage, but the Computer Security business was growing fastest of all. The firm still handled Missing Persons and Domestic Surveillance, but they had become small potatoes. Sam had made a name for himself by taking on high profile cases, cultivating an image of a high tech-guru in a three-piece suit: he made the cover of People Magazine, appeared on Dwight Morgan and other television and radio talk shows, not to mention regular commentary on Tru TV. Hollywood loomed on the horizon. Money was rolling in, but his successes were not just predicated on his image—Sam produced.

At 32, Sam had the world at his feet. It was cash and carry at every clip joint, watering hole and five star restaurant in Manhattan. Sam rocketed into the spotlight of the New York scene with his money, good looks and charismatic smile. At every venue he visited, the door was held wide open for the Super Sleuth. There was only one notable exception, Top Flight Jet. Among the customers of Top Flight Jet, Sam was near the bottom of the pecking order. Although ninety-five percent of the time Sam could book a business flight with no more than 24 hours notice, vacation flights were another story. Top Flight only allocated four planes for pleasure runs. They were generally booked well in advance: the reservations cast in stone. Sam had been shut out a number of times. He tried to pull rank but to no avail; he was very annoyed with them, especially now—a high roller had pushed his way onto Sam’s flight. Apparently the rules were not applied with strict equanimity.

At the very least, Sam was curious as to who the son of a bitch was. After leaving Wesley’s boat, docked at the South Street Seaport, Frank drove Sam back for a quick stop at his office at 919 Madison. Esther had taken the Volvo. The corporate headquarters of Sonn and Son Investigations was a sprawling complex, occupying the entire ninth floor: more than ten thousand square feet including an impressive lobby decorated with sculptures by Ashley Davis, the classical cubist, and two original oil paintings by Devon Wood, depicting the infinite. Sam barely greeted Lilly Pearson, his secretary. But the petite five-foot, slim, light complexioned Harlem born young woman who he had hired only five years ago right out of community college would not be taken for granted. Sam anticipated the usual backlog of cases that would have to be dealt with; Lilly pounced on him before he could loosen his red and white silk polka dot Pierre Cardin slim-jim necktie, one of a dozen he just treated himself on at Brooks Brothers. “Sam, everyone’s in the conference room. You’d better get your butt in there.”

“Lilly, didn’t I teach you to say tush instead of butt?” he retorted, relishing teaching Lilly all sorts of Yiddish expressions.

He ventured into the conference room to find Rudy Errico, Executive Vice-President of Sonn and Son, leading a staff meeting. Arielle Cohen, head of the department of Industrial Espionage, Mike Overton, the new head of Accounting, Nick Tunney, head of Missing Persons and Dr. David Meyerson, head of Computer Security filled out the executive slate. Although Sam believed in delegating responsibility, he was nonetheless a control freak. He trusted Rudy completely, but felt pangs of jealousy every time he saw him in a position of authority. Rudy took over Sam’s old position when Solomon Sonn, Sam’s father, was murdered last year, the victim of an assassin’s bullet.

Sam couldn’t help himself; he was a micromanager demanding that all actions by his department heads receive his personal stamp of approval. Even while he was on vacation, he demanded that he be kept informed of all major decisions by e-mail. Sam had assigned Nick Tunney the task of running a background check on all the victims of the crossword murders. Nick was a former FBI agent and still had access to the FBI database. Sam was convinced that if there was a pattern to the murders, the FBI already had a beat on it. Sam filled Nick in on the renegade group known as the Pulers, referred to in the Principia Mathematica puzzle.

It was five past four when Sam arrived at the Top Flight Jet terminal at LaGuardia, nearly two full hours before the scheduled take-off. He checked in with the flight director, a short round-faced officious looking young man with three long strands of hair combed over his receding hairline who had discarded his sports jacket due to the unusually high temperature.

“Gonna do some heavy gambling, Mr. Sonn?” he asked respectfully.

“I like to consider myself a high roller,” Sam responded, “but I have some important work to catch up on before take-off. Could you have my baggage cleared through customs?”

“Sure, Mr. Sonn, I’ll take care of it.”

“Any word on who the other passengers are?” Sam asked.

“It came through the Chicago office. I really don’t know who they are.”

“I’m not complaining, but my girlfriend is giving me a hard time about it.”

“Then I’m glad we spoiled her plans. We’ve got enough turbulence up there without dealing with more from the passengers.” They both laughed.

Sam boarded the plane and set himself up in the rear compartment behind the bulkhead. It was set aside for use by business travelers. The passenger compartment was just in front of the bulkhead. He needed the time to read his e-mail and to review the police dossier on Eleanor Moreau. Sam glanced at his wristwatch. The limousine was scheduled to pick up Esther right about now, but he knew that there was no way in hell she’d be ready. Esther was never on time, not for anything or anybody. It was a safe bet that Esther would not arrive for at least an hour. Sam was hoping that the other party, whoever it was, would also be late. He settled back on an adjustable swivel chair in the ergonomically designed lounge, positioned himself near the window and deployed the portable desk. He placed his iPad in front of him, but didn’t open it. Instead, he reached into his briefcase, and pulled out the file on Eleanor Moreau.

Sam peeked out the window before diving into the file, just to make sure no one was coming. Sam always had a habit of looking over his shoulder. That’s when he caught sight of the white stretch limo approaching the plane. The Caddy came to a stop on the tarmac next to the Top Flight Jet. The driver jumped out and ran to open the trunk. He pulled out 12 pieces of luggage and handed it to the Red Cap. Then he rushed to the passenger door, opened it with a whoosh, and stood at attention. Sam was shocked when he saw her leave the limo. He recognized her immediately, but it took him a few seconds before putting the name to the face. It was none other than Qu Min Lee, the queen of porn.

Qu Min was a cult figure. She had learned her lessons well, from the master of media manipulation—the infamous Materna. According to Materna, the media loved contrasts: Qu Min applied similar logic to the porn business with the goal of legitimizing her profession by exemplifying her overall intelligence, wit and middle class upbringing. According to the story put out by her publicist, Qu Min was a victim of circumstance. Her father, a native of Taiwan, was a chemical engineer and professor at Cal Tech. Her French born mother was a concert cellist. By her junior year in high school, Qu Min was an accomplished violinist, having given a concert in Alice Tully Hall. On top of that she was a straight A student, with a very respectable score of 2350 on her SATs. But, her father beat her frequently and with savage ferocity; rumor had it that he abused her sexually as well. At 16, a junior in high school, Qu Min was forced to leave home.

A five-year sojourn into the realm of sleaze supported her through 12th grade and four years at Ohio State University. Prostitution, nude dancing, and phone sex paved the way for her degree in computer science. The story would have ended there, if Qu Min had settled for a traditional lifestyle. But Qu Min wasn’t going to work at a desk job for a hundred a day, when she was accustomed to making a thousand a night. An ad appearing in Trim Magazine looking for young women seeking a career in the movies brought her to the doorstep of Alan Pearl, a well known producer of X-rated flicks. He took an instant liking to Qu Min, recognizing in her, the key quality necessary to make it in adult movies— fiery passion. Nothing is more marketable in the porn business than the real thing. Qu Min had an unbridled desire to “make it” whatever the cost. It came through in her audition with Pearl. Pearl made Qu Min his personal Pygmalion. There was only one condition—she had to marry him. Pearl was going to make her a star and not cash in on her rise to fame.

Qu Min married the Pearl guy, as she liked to refer to him. But even before returning to his Malibu digs for their honeymoon, they made an unscheduled stop at the home of the renowned plastic surgeon, Evan Kolb. The three of them planned the construction of the most beautiful woman who ever lived: cheek job, nose job, eye job, lip job, chin job, hip job, tummy tuck, skin abrasion, cellulite removal, breast implant, and most unbelievably, vaginal reconstruction. In contrast to Esther, whose beauty was the legacy of centuries of natural selection, Qu Min’s was the product of an unholy alliance of art, science and industry. Qu Min provided the art, Kolb the science, and Pearl the cash.

Qu Min had her own unique concept of beauty and sexuality; it was her ability to sketch out precisely what she wanted that made the difference. It proved to be the perfect blueprint for Kolb. The outcome wasn’t always an unqualified success, but Qu Min was willing to submit to the knife as many times as needed to achieve the desired result. And in the end, she succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. Pearl produced more than 200 flicks featuring Qu Min. She had an exotic appeal that transcended her incredibly gorgeous face and body. She was genuinely turned on by people watching her perform sexual ballet as she referred to her performances, and that came across on the screen. Under the auspices of Lifestyle Distributions, the dominant force in the porn industry, Pearl and Qu Min stashed away a pile of money.

But in the end, Pearl succumbed to his prurient nature. He continued the practice of auditioning every wannabe who knocked at the door. Although Qu Min had an emotional dependence on Pearl, losing him was addition by subtraction. But without Pearl’s support, Qu Min had no desire to continue in “the business.” All she had left was her mystique, still a potent force, as evidenced by the thousands of hits per day on her Web page.

Sam was one of her admirers. He had returned to the loneliness of his apartment on many a night, to find himself searching for a Qu Min flick on Spice. He was seldom disappointed. She appeared almost every night. No one could move like Qu Min nor could anyone duplicate her inimitable style. She was an artist when it came to sex. Like millions of others, Sam fantasized about a trip to LA to meet her. But unlike the unwashed masses, Sam could have pulled it off. He knew his share of the rich and famous. But somehow, he never got around to it.

Standing on the tarmac, she was a vision. Her long black silky hair flew in her face. Sam’s heart raced as she curled her right arm above her head, delicately putting her hair back in place. Her every movement was pre-programmed to arouse. Sam was already bothered in anticipation of her boarding the plane. She was wearing a low-cut vermilion DKNY cotton top. The milling was unmistakable. It meticulously outlined her breasts. Around her neck hung a large ruby pendant, which sparkled when it caught the sun. Her jet-black her, and her collagen enhanced red lips provided a stunning contrast against the background of her light olive complexion. But it was the shape of her eyes that was most bedeviling—the signature feature of her beauty, their oriental outline had been reshaped by Kolb into the most exquisite curvature. She wore light blue contact lenses that matched her sapphire blue earrings.

As she approached the stairway to the jet, Sam could hardly breathe. He quickly composed himself. In the face of the greatest temptation imaginable, he was mentally prepared to turn away. But when Qu Min walked past the bulkhead into the cabin and the two of them made eye contact, Sam knew he was going to be tested. Sam had come face to face with a temptation that he could never have imagined.

“Hello,” she said in a seductively low voice. “I’m Qu Min Lee.”

“Sam Sonn. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Sam did not let on that he knew who she was.

“Are you traveling alone, Mr. Sonn?”

Sam almost wished he could say yes. “No. Someone will be joining me. And you?”

“My boyfriend, Buddy Radford. He should be arriving soon.”

“The horse trainer?” Sam asked.

“Yes, you probably are aware that his horse Armageddon won the Triple Crown last year,” she replied.

“The fellow with the white hair combed forward and the Richaud sun glasses?”

“That’s him. The sunglasses are his trademark. He even wears them indoors.”

Sam looked down at his folder, but only as a token gesture—Eleanor Moreau and the crossword murders had quickly moved down the ladder from the top to the bottom rung. Qu Min eased into her seat on the other side of the aisle. She wasn’t at all deterred by Sam’s feeble attempt to hide behind his work.

“What’s your line of work, Mr. Sonn?” she asked.

“I’m a private investigator,” Sam replied.

“You mean you take dirty pictures of husbands cheating on their wives?”

“I’ve done my share of that, but these days I concentrate more on the high- tech aspect of the business.”

“Sounds interesting, Mr. Sonn.”

“For the most part it’s routine, but at times it does get very interesting and exciting.”

“And you . . . ?” Sam was treading on thin ice.

Qu Min smiled. “Well right now I’m into computers. I’ve got my own Web page.”

“That’s a tough business,” Sam remarked.

“I had over two million hits last year alone.”

“Two million hits. Very impressive. What is it that you’re selling exactly?”

“I’ve starred in more than 200 pornographic films. I guess you could say I’m selling myself.”

Sam turned away from her, facing the front of the plane. “I’ll be honest,” he said. “I knew who you were as soon as I saw you on the tarmac. I’m a big fan. But do me a favor, don’t mention it to my girlfriend.” Sam didn’t want her to see him blush.

“No problem, Mr. Sonn, it will be our little secret. And since you’re being honest with me, I must confess that I recognized you from your appearances on Tru TV.”

“I’m flattered that you recognized me,” Sam said turning back to face her. “I assume you have people helping you with your Web page?”

“Actually, quite a few. But I’m also a computer nerd. I majored in Computer Science at Ohio State University.”

“You’re a Buckeye then.”

“I didn’t do much cheerleading, Mr. Sonn.”

“What operating system do you use?” Sam continued making small talk.

“Linux.”

“How’s your security?”

“Airtight,” she replied. “I’ve got some of the best hackers in the business on my payroll.”

“You seem to have things well in hand,” Sam said.

“Not always,” she replied. “Last month I had difficulty connecting my network to the Comcast Satellite System.”

“I suggest you use Space Bridge. It’s a fantastic product. The satellites always digitize in binary. Space Bridge converts Java bytecode to any machine language. You can download it from the Red Hat home page.”

“You sound like you’re really up on computers, Mr. Sonn.”

“I did my Master’s in data encryption algorithms at Columbia. But I’ve also done some hacking in my day.”

“You don’t look much like an introverted hacker type to me, Mr. Sonn.”

“Really? What do I look like?” Sam asked.

“You look strong, Mr. Sonn, but unhappy in love.”

“I told you I’m with someone. She’s wonderful.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Sonn, but that’s the way I read the tea leaves.”

“Okay, since we’re playing the analyze me game . . .?”

“Go ahead Mr. Sonn, I’ve been well scrutinized by the best of them.”

“I see a woman with a lot of skeletons in her closet.”

“What do I have to hide, Mr. Sonn?”

“You tell me. How does someone so bright, so gifted, so beautiful, end up as a porn queen?”

This couldn’t have been the first time someone asked Qu Min that question. She no doubt had ten different answers stashed under her hat. But she didn’t bother with a prefabricated reply. No way she was going to miss her opportunity to spew her venom. “Don’t ever ask me that again,” she replied, pointing her finger in Sam’s face.

Her tone was threatening, but Sam didn’t get rattled. In fact, he was somewhat flattered by her response. It implied that she actually gave a damn.

“Maybe we both shouldn’t be so honest after all,” Sam replied. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

“Yes, Mr. Sonn, maybe we should save the analyze me game for another day.” Qu Min backed off a little. Her expression implied that Sam was still on probation. She stood up for a second as she placed her traveling bag in the overhead compartment. Her beautiful black hair fell to the side. The sun reflected off of the large ruby she was wearing around her neck.

“That’s an interesting piece of jewelry,” Sam said.

“A present from Buddy. It’s from the Ng Temple in Shanghai. It adorned the forehead of the famous statue of Prince Ng, third monarch of the Ming Dynasty. There’s a legend that goes with it.”

“A legend?” Sam asked as he motioned for her to take the seat next to him.

She walked over to Sam and sat down. “Do you see this engraving?”

“Yes,” Sam replied, “it looks like Chinese characters.”

“Very good, Mr. Sonn.” Qu Min turned the gem to reflect the light. It projected the engraving on the wall of the plane. The symbol on the right symbolizes day, the one on the left, night. In the morning sun, the symbol for day shines bright while the symbol for night is dim. As the day grows short, the symbol for night becomes more intense while the symbol for day grows weak.”

“It sounds to me like the day is Yin and the night is Yang.”

“That’s exactly right, Mr. Sonn. Are you familiar with Oriental philosophies?”

“Only from my study of martial arts.”

“On the forehead of the statue, there’s another symbol which forms an inset for the stone. It’s the Chinese symbol for enlightenment.”

“When the ruby is missing from the forehead of the statue . . .” Sam began.

“Chaos,” Qu Min finished Sam’s statement. “And when the ruby is returned, a new level of consciousness. It’s an ongoing cycle.”

“And how is it that you happen to be wearing it? Doesn’t it make you nervous?”

“Not at all, Mr. Sonn.”

“Why not?”

She crossed her arms as she clutched the bottom of her blouse, lifting it above her head. As Sam had already deduced, she wasn’t wearing a bra. He was simultaneously frozen by her audacity and mesmerized by her beautiful set. Though he had seen them a hundred times on TV, there was no comparison to seeing them close up—real close. Her nipples were the size of golf balls; but even more remarkable was the meticulously laser-etched tattoo on the center of her chest. Her ruby came to rest in the middle of an hexagonal outline, on one side of which was the head of a dragon and on the other side an orchid with an exquisitely interlaced black and white design. There was writing directly above the hexagonal figure.

“I take it that the tattoo is a copy of the inset on the head of the statue?” Sam asked.

“Excellent deduction, Mr. Sonn. Apparently you are well deserving of your reputation,” Qu Min replied. Qu Min was not in a hurry to put her top back on.

“May I return the compliment? I don’t need to utilize my astute powers of observation to conclude that you are equally well deserving of your reputation.”

“Excuse me,” a woman's voice shouted from the bulkhead. Esther had arrived. “Have we met?”

Qu Min was not the least bit embarrassed; she was accustomed to being seen naked by men and women alike.

“Qu Min was just showing me her tattoo, Esther—for professional reasons.” Sam thought it best to offer some explanation. He grabbed Esther and kissed her, hoping that would defuse the anticipated short circuit. But Qu Min did not move a muscle to put her blouse back on. She continued to flaunt her wares, confident that Sam and perhaps, even Esther would sneak another look.

But after Esther untangled from Sam’s embrace she became aggressive. The two women stood toe to toe. They were evenly matched— in stature, in beauty and in passion. Sam felt that the hostility between them could easily lead to violence. And strangely, he felt a modicum of pity for Qu Min who now looked ridiculous.

“I suggest that you put this on and go back to your seat, Miss Lee,” Sam said inserting a note of sobriety into the proceedings as he handed her the blouse. Qu Min complied. Esther, however, was still fuming. Sam and Esther followed Qu Min to the aft side of the bulkhead. Sam and Esther sat two rows behind Qu Min.

“I don’t ever want to see you talking to that whore again,” she said to Sam. She made sure to speak just loud enough for Qu Min to hear.

“I didn’t expect you for another hour,” Sam said.

“It looks as though my timing was impeccable.”

“She’s traveling with . . .”

“Yes, I know. I just met Mr. Radford outside the plane. Buddy is very good looking and quite charming, you know?”

“Buddy? Sam repeated, “thinking that this duo had the potential to put a serious rift into their relationship.

As if on cue, Radford entered the cabin. Qu Min met him at the bulkhead. They kissed. Radford stowed his carry-on in the overhead compartment and took his seat. He didn’t take the trouble to introduce himself to Sam. He was remarkably poised and showed not the slightest uneasiness about being in the company of strangers.

Radford was the tour de force of the racing world. Not only was he a prominent trainer but his family were major breeders. Unlike Sam, who built his fortune on the up and up, Radford was not beyond stooping to questionable practices. Everyone in the business paid him homage, from the local nickel and dimers to the who’s who of Hollywood and Vine. He had horses entered in every big race at every major track in America. Much of his time was spent traveling from track to track, finding soft spots for his mounts in feature races. But his home base was Santa Anita Park in California, where he was the king of the Sport of Kings.

Like Sam, Radford was a risk taker, never reluctant to lay it all on the line. But unlike Sam, Radford was a con who had the power to twist the odds in his favor. His do or die wagers were never quite the acts of heroism he portrayed them to be. Notwithstanding, he was a first rate trainer of racehorses. His trademark was his vibrant white hair, barbered Roman style, and his mirrored sunglasses. He had very rigid Anglo-American features that seemed to be chiseled from stone. He was tall, ruddy complexioned, had a gentle but strong demeanor, and spoke in a low baritone. Sam could tell from his accent that he hailed from the heart of horse country—Kentucky.

“What did you and Mr. Radford speak about?” Sam whispered.

“He asked if I was traveling alone. Well actually, he didn’t put it that way,” Esther whispered back.

“Then how did he put it?” Sam asked again in a whisper.

“Well, he said I was too beautiful to be traveling alone.”

“Maybe we should switch partners somewhere along the line?” Sam teased, knowing he was playing with fire.

“I wouldn’t object,” she replied. Esther was still seething.

The shrill ring of Sam’s cell phone interrupted their conversation. It was Nick Tunney. Sam hoped he had some info on the Pulers.

“Are you in the air yet, Sam?” Nick asked.

“Not yet, we’re still on the runway.”

“I did some digging on that lead in the puzzle you cued me into—the Pulers. The Bureau has a thick file on them. In those days the Bureau kept close tabs on left wing environmental groups. An old buddy of mine faxed me over some interesting facts,” he said, pausing.

“Let’s hear it, Nick,” Sam said.

“ As you know, the Pulers protested the building of nuclear power plants in populated areas. They were started by a handful of sociology majors at the University of Chicago. The Pulers was the name of a newspaper they published and distributed around the country through sociology departments at other Universities. All of this followed the GPU disaster at Three Mile Island, so their demonstrations were well covered in the media. They did succeed in raising public consciousness. The FBI was determined to break them. They viewed the group as a threat to national security. Your friend Lentz was more than happy to paint a negative picture of them in the press. Lentz was a strong proponent of the Neo-Conservative political movement. There’s no doubt that members of the Pulers who may still be alive would likely be hostile towards Lentz.”

“Is there any possible connection between the Pulers and any of the other victims?”

“There are two other connections. Everton Lebraun, the first victim, was a member.”

“And the other,” Sam asked.

“Eleanor Moreau was also a member of the Pulers.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Her name is listed in the FBI files. She headed up a local chapter at LSU. Apparently they had protested the construction of the Nichols Point plant near the Mississippi delta. By the way, it was never built.”

“How about the files of the other victims?” Sam asked.

“Well there is an interesting twist to the Byteman murder. Actually, if the FBI knew he was the intended victim, they might not have moved to stop the murderer. The kid hacked every computer in the Pentagon. He was selling classified information to the highest bidder. The Russians bought the US Naval Code; the Israelis bought the recall codes for the B-1 bomber.”

“How come they didn’t arrest him?”

“They did. But they had to let him go. Not enough evidence to convict.”

“What about Lash Goebel? They must have been following him.”

“For sure. He had a file six inches thick. But nothing to connect him to the others. There was one interesting fact about him, however.”

“What’s that?”

“He was dying. Pancreatic cancer. I guess the killer did him a favor.”

“Keep digging Nick, I’ll get back to you.”

Sam flipped down the earpiece on his iPhone.

“So what’s the poop? C’mon let’s have it,” Esther nagged.

“After you left the Water Club, I dropped in on Tynan Wesley. It turned out to be a very informative visit.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, in the first place I believe our suspicions were confirmed about Lentz being victim number eight of the crossword murderer. The puzzle unquestionably identifies him.”

“How did you find out?” Esther asked.

“Wesley knew Lentz well from when he worked for Wesley at the American Standard. He positively identified Lentz as the victim in a flash.”

“You’re kidding,” Esther remarked.

“But as we speculated in the Water Club, what’s really bizarre is that Lentz himself must have realized that he was the intended victim. And he also must have known the time and place of his demise.”

“Then I still don’t understand . . . if Lentz knew he was the victim, why didn’t he tell you? Why didn’t he tell the police?”

“I’m not sure. Could be that Lentz thought he could stop the murderer on his own. He may have had some reason for wanting to keep the police out of it. Then there was something else that Wesley brought up.”

“What, Sam?”

“The killer mentioned the Pulers in the puzzle.”

“The Pulers? Sounds familiar.”

“It should. They were a left wing environmentalist group that headed a campaign against the building of nuclear power plants near large urban areas. They were based in Chicago at the time that Lentz was Op-Ed editor of the Chicago Sun Times. Apparently Lentz was a vocal critic of the group. He wrote a series of articles attacking them. What’s more intriguing is that most of the members of the group were killed in a mysterious house fire.”

“Sam, is it possible that a surviving member of the group is killing those who were responsible for setting the fire?”

“That’s an excellent theory, except for one thing. Nick checked the Bureau’s files and it turns out that two of the victims were Pulers. One of them was Everton Lebraun, the first victim, and the second was . . .”

“Eleanor Moreau,” Esther interjected.”

“That’s correct,” Sam replied.

“That has to be more than a coincidence, Sam.”

“If the same person who killed Lentz also killed Lebraun and Moreau, it has to be for a different reason.”

The jet began to taxi to the runway. Sam and Esther buckled their seat belts in anticipation of the takeoff.

“We’ll be taking off in just a few minutes, folks. I’m Captain O’Connor. My co-pilot is Captain Thomas. Your flight attendant is Jeannie Fenton. She’ll be back to see to your needs once we’re in the air. I’ll speak to you again when we’re ready to takeoff.” The plane moved to its position at the end of the runway, waiting for clearance. “Okay, folks, we’re clear for takeoff. Please be seated and fasten your seatbelts.”

The three jet engines roared while the plane held its position. The pilot pulled back on the throttle and they began to taxi down the runway. The Learjet picked up speed quickly and rose like a feather into the clear night sky. They reached cruising altitude in less than five minutes. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the captain said, “we’ve reached our cruising altitude of thirty-five thousand feet. We’ve got beautiful weather all the way across the Atlantic and a strong tail wind at our backs courtesy of the jet stream. We should reach Monaco in seven hours. I’ll be back to visit with you shortly.”

“That was a smooth takeoff, Esther,” Sam commented. “This is the latest model Learjet 43A, the engine purrs like my pussycat.”

“You mean that nasty Siamese cat that looks at me like I am invading his space every single time I visit you. That’s why we spend much time together in my place.”

“The engine may be quiet, but my ears are popping,” Esther replied.

“I’m sorry, I meant to give you a pair of these before we took off.” Sam pulled out a pair of pressure equalizers he had purchased at the drug store.

Esther took them from Sam and carefully read the back of the box. “According to the directions these have to be inserted before take-off,” she snapped, curling her eyebrows in an arch of scorn.

“Why don’t we both get some rest before you throw me out of the plane?” Sam answered, defensively, giving her a smile, with those steely blue eyes that always penetrated her armor.

Esther rested her head on Sam’s shoulder. They slept for about an hour before the flight attendant softly asked if they would like to order dinner. Sam had the filet mignon, Esther the Cajun bluefish. They polished off a full bottle of champagne. After dining, Esther excused herself and went to the ladies room. Sam took out the file on Eleanor Moreau, determined to finally read it.

Eleanor Moreau was born March 15, 1962, in Lafayette Louisiana. Her father was Stefan Chevalier, the wealthy wine merchant, and vintner of the wine that bears his name. She grew up in a bilingual home, French-English, located in the Hermitage district of Southern Louisiana, a suburb of New Orleans, noted for its courtly mansions that had survived the civil war. Eleanor was an excellent student and a fine student athlete, making second court on the Lafayette tennis team. But her passion was photography and politics. Though she had missed by over a decade, the radical 60s, she still managed to join several left-wing organizations at Louisiana State University. It was at a meeting of La Groupe Seconde, a French social democratic club where she met Eliot Moreau. Eliot, a political science major from Quebec, ardently advocated the secession of the Province from Canada. He spoke passionately at rallies and wrote a series of articles in the school newspaper justifying his separatist views. Eleanor would frequently photograph him at these rallies and the two struck up a relationship, which eventually led to their marriage after graduation.

Eliot attended law school at McGill University in Montreal, while Eleanor became a photographer for Scuff Magazine. Scuff covered the heavy metal bands and served up a healthy course of radicalism to its youthful constituency. Eleanor spent a good deal of time away from home following musicians on tour, attending biker conventions and demonstrations in favor of environmental causes. Politically, she and Eliot seemed to be drifting in opposite directions. Eliot abandoned his secessionist views in order to pursue a career in federal politics while Eleanor took up the banner of Greenpeace, a group dedicated to the preservation of whales. Whale riding presented a fascinating subject for her photography, which was picked up by every big news weekly in North America.

Eliot’s career hit the fast track when he was the chief architect of a trade agreement with the United States. He was quickly elected to Parliament and within ten years was swept into office as Prime Minister. By this time the marriage was one of convenience. Though Eleanor kept up the pretense of “first lady of Canada,” it wasn’t long before she hit the road again doing what she did best— rebel rousing and carousing. However, as wife of the prime minister she was fair game for the tabloids. It was well known that she was not averse to sleeping with the subjects of her photographs. She garnered sympathy in some circles, but for the most part she was criticized for dragging Canada through the mud. After her husband left office, she went through an amicable divorce, and settled in New York. She was working for Newsweek when the fateful letter bomb, sealed with gribilene, arrived at her apartment.

Sam was so totally absorbed in the details of the only too short life of Eleanor Moreau that he did not notice Esther return from the ladies’ room. When he looked up, he was more than a little taken aback. She was sitting across from Buddy Radford and Qu Min. The flight attendant flip-flopped the front two seats so that they were oriented toward the back of the plane facilitating the three-way conversation. They appeared to be engaged in a friendly if not spirited repartee. Two hours earlier, Sam had to physically restrain Esther from fighting with Qu Min. Now they appeared to be the best of friends. Perhaps the champagne had mitigated Esther’s ill feelings toward Qu Min, but he knew that Esther always held a grudge. Sam put the Moreau dossier back into his briefcase. He would finish reading it at another time. This was one party he wasn’t about to miss.

Sam got up from his seat and sat down next to Esther. Radford was in the midst of pontificating about his favorite subject: gambling.

“The best odds of all the table games in Monaco is craps. No place else in the world allows you to wager up to twenty times your bet, behind the line. They must pay off true odds on that bet. In other words, say your point is a four. If you bet a hundred dollars behind the line, you get paid off two to one odds provided you roll a four before you roll a seven.”

“It’s too complicated for me to follow. I was never very good in Math. Sam do you understand what Buddy is saying?”

“Yes, of course. He’s correct. If you bet a hundred dollars straight up on the four they pay off nine dollars for every five dollars wagered. If you bet one hundred dollars you win one hundred and eighty if the shooter rolls a four before the seven; but behind the line you would win two hundred dollars for the same bet. That’s a ten percent take versus no take at all so the strategy in craps is to lay it on big behind the line, especially if there is a hot shooter. Most big gamblers don’t bet heavy when the shooter first comes out; they bet big only after they know the point.”

“You seem to know your probabilities when it comes to craps,” Radford said to Sam.

“It’s my business to assess the probabilities. I’m sure that you must take probabilities into account when you enter a horse into a big race. You have to weigh the likelihood of the horse winning a share of the purse versus the entry fee. I know from your many successes that you must be an expert at weighing the odds. I must say that it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” Sam extended his hand. Radford grasped it powerfully. Sam figured that the strength in Radford’s grip was somehow related to horse training.

“I know you well from your TV appearances, Mr. Sonn. I’ve seen you often on Court TV. You offer a distinctly different point of view from the typical D.A. types that appear on the show.”

“I try to think like the jury would. I analyze each case from a logical perspective not a legal one.”

“It is your powers of deductive reasoning that comes through to the TV audience. You’re Sherlock Holmes reincarnated.”

“I’m flattered. Esther has become my Watson of late. She’s proven her mettle in a number of cases.”

“Sam’s exaggerating. I know very little about the business.”

“Come, come, Esther, you can’t underestimate a woman’s intuition when it comes to figuring out a whodunit,” Qu Min said.

“That’s very true, Miss Lee,” Sam affirmed. “She always sees things differently than I do. Her intuition is particularly good at the racetrack. I study the form and can’t pick a winner, while she looks over the jockeys and horses during the Post Parade and invariably comes up with the winner. Call it ESP or good horse sense; I can’t explain it. It’s uncanny.”

“Sam, I’ve come across one or two gamblers in my lifetime who have made similar claims. It’s extremely rare, but I do believe that some people have powers of ESP,” Buddy said.

“Nonsense,” Esther said, “I bet on the horse with the biggest tail.” They all laughed.

“I’m going to have to invite you both down to Santa Anita. I’d like to see your intuitive powers at work,” Radford said.

“I’ve never been out to Santa Anita. It must be a beautiful track,” Esther replied.

“It’s very beautiful, especially when you pick a few winners,” Qu Min said.

“Personally, I enjoy my four weeks in Saratoga. We won the Travers Stakes this year with Hieroglyph. He went gate to wire. He has a shot of being named Horse of the Year. After we get back from Monaco, he’s going into syndication. We’re pointing him toward the two million dollar Breeder’s Cup Classic in the fall. Maybe you and Esther would like to buy in?”

“It all depends how we fare in Monaco,” Sam answered.

“Just fade me when I’m shooting. I’m one hot roller. I once held the dice for forty-five minutes.”

“Sam, I’d love to have my picture taken in the winner’s circle,” Esther said. She was practically jumping out of her seat with enthusiasm.

“There’s no place like the winner’s circle. You feel like you’re on top of the world.” Qu Min asserted, “It’s better than sex.”

“We’ll I don’t know about that,” Radford said, “but it is the next best thing.”

“What do you think, Sam, is it better than sex?” Qu Min asked as she placed her hand on Sam’s leg.

“Nothing is better than sex,” Sam replied.