Читать книгу The Will Of The Wisp - Joseph Sr. Cairo - Страница 4

919 Madison Avenue: MTM Security Associates

“Rick back?” Berg asked Lilly Pearson, Mallory’s secretary.

“Not yet,” she told him.

“What’s he been up to lately? Anything I might be interested in knowing about?”

Lilly had the green light to tell Berg whatever he wanted to know, but she figured she’d torment him a bit. “Can’t say,” she replied.

Moe Berg, or “Ice,” as he was affectionately called by his friends, was the leading crime reporter on the New York beat. Wrote a daily column for the Herald Gazette, a conservative rag and scandal sheet owned by the Australian financier, Elbert Sidonia. Berg was an unqualified sleazebag, no bones about it; would sell out his own grandmother for a story. By his own reckoning, Gazette reporters were one step above child molesters on the food chain. And when Sidonia called all hands on deck, he’d pull out a well-notched hatchet from his desk drawer and place it next to his keyboard. Bleeding heart liberals his specialty. Knocked quite a few out of the box: blacks, gays, media pundits, not to mention Tammany shysters on the take. Below average height but perfectly packaged, he was cut from Ivy League cloth, Dartmouth variety, spoke eloquently with perfect diction and could, on occasion, turn a wily phrase in print. Wire-rimmed glasses with circular frames were his carefully crafted trademark. He had a drawn face with a pointy chin that was dominated by a broad, rounded forehead, flowing black hair that was dry and wavy, with a single immutable strand dangling tactfully above his left eyebrow. Attractive in the secular sense, meaning to some women, particularly those with a brain, his sharp purposeful stare befitted his age, early thirties—just a couple of years older than Mallory. It was him that had dubbed Mallory the Super Sleuth, and it was his vivid writing style that had propelled Mallory into the public spotlight.

“Can’t say or won’t say?”

“Okay, I’ll give you something. Ariel dropped the dime on some scientist at Bonhomme Biome, the company sequencing the ape genome.” Ariel Cohen, head of Industrial Espionage at MTM, was a tall, slinky blonde with a restructured nose and a well-documented chest. “Write her up and I’d wager she’d be most grateful,” Lilly quipped, with a smile.

“She dropped the dime, or was it Pincus?” Berg knew Irving Pincus was the resident genius in Industrial Espionage. A full professor of psychology at City College, Pincus designed the so-called honesty test that narrowed down the suspects then nailed them through projective drawings.

“What’s the difference?” Lilly wanted to know.

“None,” Berg admitted. “I’ll pass though. Nobody gives a hoot or a holler about an alphabet with only four letters. Can’t you give me a line on what Rick’s up to?”

“What makes you think he’s up to anything?” Lilly asked as if taking a peek at the cards in her poker hand.

Berg grasped both armrests of her tweed office chair and tilted it backwards. He lowered his head to just above her right ear. “Nice perfume,” he whispered salaciously.

“The Stallings kidnapping,” she blurted out. Berg had selected the right passkey.

“The kid who disappeared eight years ago?”

“The mother was in last week.”

”Now we got something, gorgeous.”

“That’s off the record till you check with Rick,” she added, post haste.

“Check with Rick about what?” came a voice from behind them. Mallory had entered via the garage elevator.

“The Stallings’ kidnapping,” Berg proclaimed. “You haven’t been holding out on me now, Rick, or have you?”

“Quite the contrary, Ice, I was just about to call you,” Mallory said, winking to Lilly. “How did the Bonhomme thing turn out?” he asked her.

“He confessed,” Lilly told him.

“That should amount to a handsome payday. Ariel must be quite pleased. Why don’t you write her up, Ice. I’d wager she’d be most grateful.”

“That’s what Lilly said. But I’ll pass if you don’t mind.”

“New cases?” he asked Lilly.

“We’re scrunched,” she replied.

“Scrunched?”

“Yeah, scrunched. That reminds me, Nick wants to see you,” she said, handing him a stack of mail.” She was referring to Nick Tunney, one of MTM’s principals.

Mallory grimaced. He was not exactly anxious to throw himself into the breach. Following the Black Squares Club case that had been resolved on national TV in a tête-à-tête with Tynan Wesley, conservative advocate and mastermind of the crossword murders, a flood of cases had descended on the firm. Esther Rozan, fifty-one percent owner of MTM Investigations, and Mallory’s on again off again fiancée was away for “treatments” at a spa in Tahoe. To make matters worse, Rudy Errico, MTM’s executive vice-president was likewise away, on his honeymoon. Rounding out the list of no-shows was David Meyerson, MTM’s partner in charge of the data encryption business. He held down a full-time teaching position at Columbia University, and didn’t concern himself with the nuts and bolts of running the business. Tunney wasn’t the least bit happy at having to do the job of three people.

“Sleep on the street last night?” Lilly asked, referring obliquely to Mallory’s three-day growth and unkempt appearance.

“Air Force reserve weekend,” Mallory replied. “Just got back.”

“Oh yeah, Air Force weekend. I forgot. Fly jets this time?”

“No, not this time . . . survival training.”

“Maybe you can apply for the TV program, Survivor.”

“Sorry, Lilly, but I can’t go without sex for more than a week.”

“Could have fooled me,” she replied sarcastically. “Oh, and Melissa Compton called.”

“She called, or her secretary?” Mallory wanted to know.

“Her secretary,” she replied, “Miss Compton would like to meet with you this afternoon regarding the Stallings kidnapping case.” Lilly imitated her candy-coated delivery. “I told her you were booked solid for the rest of the afternoon.”

“Melissa Compton,” Berg echoed like a jilted lover. “Maybe you’re getting too big for the Ice Man and the Herald.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Ice. She just unceremoniously threw me out of her office.”

“You went to see Melissa Compton looking like that?” Lilly asked incredulously. “No wonder she threw you out.”

“But she wants to come over here to see you,” Berg interjected. “That old Mallory charm at work?”

“Ice, you’re a paranoid egomaniac. But you happen to be my friend so I’m going to go against my better judgment and feed your ego.”

“Now you’re talking, Rickie m’boy! What you got for me?” Berg asked, raising his thick eyebrows to the ceiling.

“I’m going out to North Dakota to do some poking around. I’ve spoken to Burns at CTV about you taking over my spot next week. You interested?”

“Well . . . there’s a chance I might be available.”

“Oh, Christ,” Lilly interjected, sarcastically.

“Lilly, call Miss Compton back. Tell her to come over whenever she wants.”

“While the cat’s away . . .” Lilly quipped, referring to Esther.

“What’s that Lilly?”

“Nothing, Rick,” she said, turning away.

“And call Pincus. I want him over here this afternoon.”

“No need, Rick. He’s coming in this morning with the material you gave him.”

“I love a man who does his homework,” Mallory commented. “Dominick?”

“He’s due here in fifteen minutes.” Dominick was his barber. Burns at CTV recommended him.

“You’re unquestionably a man in need of a haircut and a shave,” Berg commented.

“Ice, you have a few minutes? Why don’t you come down to my office and give me your impressions of the Stallings case.”

“The Ice Man cometh,” Berg responded, laughing at his own pun.

Mallory stopped at Nick Tunney’s office and stood conspicuously in the doorway.

Tunney looked up from behind a stack of case folders. He was tall, peppered haired, mid-forties. An ex-FBI agent, his free-wheeling days were behind him. A conscientious sort, he knew the law enforcement business inside out, and his avuncular style afforded Mallory a comfortable cushion for bouncing off his highly speculative, sometimes off-beat theories. “Can I expect some help today?” he pleaded, without wasting time on a greeting or acknowledging the presence of the press.

“I can’t today,” Mallory replied.

“Why not? This is our detective agency isn’t it? I would think you might want to pitch in occasionally just to make it look good.”

“Nick, I’d like to help, but I’m really into this Stallings case. Melissa Compton is coming over this afternoon. And I still have to read the files you got for me from the FBI.”

“Fifty missing persons and six firms requesting psychological tests with undercover follow up. Your girlfriend decides to take a vacation at the busiest time of the year, right before the holidays, when rich men decide to leave their wives and the company comptroller runs off with the receipts. I’m overwhelmed,” Tunney pleaded.

“Alright. Calm down,” Mallory relented. “Give me some time to clean myself up and I’ll come in to help. By the way do you still know that Russian intelligence attaché,” Mallory asked.

“You mean Bobki?”

“Yeah, Bobki.”

“Bobki now has his own detective agency in Moscow.”

“Detective agency?”

“Well that’s what he calls it,” Tunney remarked. “More of a B to B than an agency. He sells old KGB files.”

“KGB files? He making any money at that?”

“Raking it in. His biggest customer is the United States government.”

“Touch base with him. Find out what he charges. I may have some business for him.”

“Sure, Rick.”

“Hello, Nick,” Berg said, not enjoying being totally ignored.

“Ice,” Tunney acknowledged him grudgingly. There was a long pause. Berg and Tunney had words in the past when Berg jumped the gun on the Lucas case, blowing the cover on two FBI agents that Lucas later murdered. “How’s the character assassination business?” Tunney asked, showing his disdain for the media and Berg, in particular.

“Never better,” Berg retorted. “You know the old line, Nick. No one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public.”

“Sorry, but I never heard that one.”

“H.L Mencken, I believe,” Berg informed him.

“I’ll file that away under things to forget.” He gave Berg a long hard stare then shifted his gaze down at the mound of paperwork on his desk.

Mallory and Berg continued down the long, gray-carpeted hallway to Mallory’s office.

“Can you keep yourself busy for a while?” Mallory asked, heading for the shower.

“I’ll manage,” Berg responded.

Berg parked himself on the plush silver Italian sofa in front of the white marble bust of Julius Caesar. He looked back, over his right shoulder at the Roman emperor. “Beware the Ides of March,” he mumbled. Mallory’s office was a veritable treasure trove of rare artifacts: vases, swords, sculpture, not to mention movie memorabilia. Behind the antique gold writing table was the back-lit De Boer smoked glass window with Spade and Archer embossed in copperplate gothic lettering; it was the actual window of Sam Spade’s office in the Maltese Falcon that Mallory had purchased at Sotheby’s for twenty grand. “Pure gold,” Berg commented to himself, referring Mallory’s collection.

He lifted himself off the couch and sauntered over to the bar. It was a little early, but you only live once, he thought. He turned over a pink depression tumbler, filled it with ice and poured in a 4oz can of Sacramento tomato juice, then covered it over with a full jigger of Stolichnaya. Placing the glass on a green onyx coaster that had the name George Jensen scripted across, he carried it over to the desk, retrieved the Stallings file and plopped down on the sofa. He placed the drink on the cocktail table with the precision of a watchmaker and cracked open the file.

A wad of photos: the crime scene, hours after the kidnapping; the Stallings boys; the next door neighbor who had been with them that fateful night; Dr. and Mrs. Stallings. There was also a composite drawing of the kidnapper—normal looking son of a bitch. Normal as normal could be. Full face, pixie ears, deeply set narrow eyes, light stiff brown hair, collegiate style. Oddest thing was that he was wearing a matching shirt and tie, brownish-burgundy. The shirt didn’t have a wrinkle, like he had just taken it out of the closet and the tie was fastidiously knotted. The three boys all commented on it. The creep looked like a camp counselor or religious school instructor. Berg just couldn’t figure it. Not your typical sexual deviant.

The seasoned crime reporter hoisted the Bloody Mary into the air as if toasting the New Year, and sipped off just enough to get that warm feeling. He’d forgotten to mix it; the alcohol seared his palate and seemed to pass instantaneously through his blood brain barrier. He nodded approvingly at the jolt. He twirled the concoction around a bit before re-depositing it on the coaster. He put the photos aside and folded back the plastic file cover, placing it over his crossed knees.

October 12, 2002. Dr. and Mrs. Stallings were away, attending a medical conference in Alliance, North Dakota, ten miles north of Dickinson, the nearest town to where they lived. They planned to return home later that evening. Mrs. Stallings called home at approximately 4P.M. to check on her three sons: Evan, 14; William, 13, and Robbie, 11. Their neighbor, Eric Lyman, Evan’s friend, was over: Mrs. Stallings had left a pot of franks and beans on the stove. She asked Evan to warm it up at dinnertime and dole it out to the crowd. Evan asked her permission to bike over to the video store in town to rent a game. Mrs. Stallings reluctantly agreed provided they started out immediately so they would get back before dark. Carnes Video was a 20 minute ride down Levlin Road, a winding two-lane offshoot of Route 4A. It passed through Pickens Bluff, then yielded to open prairie for about two miles, then a stretch of sand hills and prairie dunes before entering the suburbs of Dickinson. Carnes was located at a strip mall at the intersection of 4A. Levlin Road had a wide shoulder and was seldom traveled: a safe run the boys had made innumerable times. The trip going was uneventful. The wind was at their backs and traveling time was just under 20 minutes. They barely took notice of a black Mercury Cougar with muddied license plates parked along the shoulder where the bluff gave way to the open prairie. But coming back, a man with matching burgundy- brown shirt and tie got out of the car and hailed them down. He explained that he was lost, on his way to Chadren. He needed directions back to 385. “Go down Levlin Road to 4A North,” Evan Stallings told him.” The man was grateful. Offered him some money, which he politely refused. The wind was starting to kick up. Dust storms are brutal on the prairie. The man offered to put their bikes in his trunk and give them a ride home. Evan declined. “At least let me take one of you home,” he insisted. “ I’ll follow you down the road.” Without waiting for a response he opened his trunk and took hold of Robbie Stallings 36 inch Schwinn mountain bike. Robbie instinctively dismounted. Evan began to get edgy. “Robbie, you ride on my bike,” he told his brother. But the man would not be deterred. He stood between Robbie and his brother. “Now you ride on and I’ll be right behind,” he told Evan. There was nothing Evan could do. The man could easily have overpowered him. Robbie reluctantly got in on the passenger side. The man gently closed the door behind him. Evan started to ride, praying the black Mercury would follow. But his worst fears were realized, when, in the next instant, the car turned around and headed back toward Dickinson, and with an eerie, gut-wrenching screech tore out full-throttle down Levlin road. The three boys tried to follow, but within minutes the car was out of sight. That was the last anyone ever saw of Robbie Stallings and the man with the burgundy-brown shirt and tie. The boys called the police from a pay phone at Carnes Video, but it was too late; the police concluded that they vanished into the Black Hills of North Dakota or the Bear Lodge Mountains of Wyoming.

Mallory emerged from his shower wearing only his Nick Bronson underwear. His squared off shoulders, muscular arms and rippling chest were impressive: reminiscent of a Greek sculpture. “Dominick here yet?” he barked, over the intercom.

“He’s walking down to your office as we speak,” Lilly told him.

“Your impressions on the Stallings case?” he asked, looking up at Berg.

“Somehow I never pictured your average sexual deviant with mat-on-mat apparel. No, that was quite out of the ordinary.”

“I agree,” Mallory said.

“A uniform of some kind,” Berg speculated. “No doubt about it.”

Mallory was impressed. “Could be.”

Two knocks on the office door.

“Come in, Dominick.”

Dominic was a short, middle-aged man who stood no higher than five-two. Had a healthy paunch, a few well cared for strands of catgut like hair that spanned his shiny scalp, and a glowing pallor, no doubt the result of weekly facials at his own shop. He charged eighty for the house call, which Mallory rounded up to an even hundred with tip.

“Marone,” Dominic uttered in horror, commenting on the beard.

“All right, Dominic, you’ll have to earn your money this time,” Mallory replied. Come inside, Ice,” Mallory exhorted. Berg followed them into the bathroom.

“This is quite a bathroom,” Berg commented, as he took extended inventory. Next to the stall shower was a hot tub, to the right a sauna. “I’ll wager there’s no security camera in here,” he said.

“No comment,” Mallory responded.

In front of the double vanity was a sand-carved wall mirror that extended across the ceiling. A white bear rug partially covered the almond marble floor. Mallory settled in the authentic turn of the century barber chair. Berg took a seat on the powder blue wicker under the aqua and gold Mayan mosaic.

“What about the boy?” Mallory asked, as Dominick spread out the Irish linen apron and tied it behind his neck.

“It’s common knowledge that the boy was an Asperger child. But I don’t think in and of itself that had anything to do with his abduction. He was bright, talented in a number of areas, mathematics and music as I remember, as Asperger children frequently are, but not very well adjusted. You see Asperger children share one extremely formidable deficit that’s not easily overcome . . . they can’t read body language. It’s a serious roadblock, but one which may be overcome by intensive conditioning and supervised social interaction.”

“Ever meet the mother?” Mallory asked.

“Never. I’ve seen her on TV a couple of times.”

“What do you make of her?”

“Bright woman. Sincere. Articulate.”

“She claims to have a psychic link with her son.”

“I suppose that’s understandable.”

“You remember the case, Dominick?” Mallory asked.

“Which one?”

“The Stallings kidnapping. Twelve-year-old boy in North Dakota, eight years ago,” Mallory informed him.

“Yes, yes; the Compton woman on Tunnel Vision. Yes, I remember. No, the boy is dead. Morte. Who’s gonna kidnap a twelve-year-old boy? He do what he wanna do and that’s that.”

“What about the father?” Mallory asked, turning back to Berg.

“Fair haired, tall, thin Viking . . . an intellectual of sorts and a bit of an eccentric. They say he didn’t relate well to the boy, but that had nothing to do with it in my opinion. How many fathers don’t get along with their sons? He’d brought the family out there just two years earlier to establish his practice.”

“What kind of practice?” Mallory wanted to know.

“Ob-gyn, if memory serves me correctly.”

“Family man?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Dr. Stallings admitted to several extramarital affairs.”

“With patients?”

“Yeah. With patients,” Berg affirmed.

“Fucking doctors,” Mallory cursed.

“Rick, you can no talk while I shave. I’ll end up cutting your throat. Very messy,” Dominick said, piping in.

“Anyway, he was very forthcoming,” Berg continued. “Gave the names of all his liaisons to the FBI. They beat the bushes on it. Broke up quite a few marriages. But none of the husbands had the faintest idea what their wives were up to; that is until after the kidnapping.”

“Can I join the party?” A voice called out from behind the half-open bathroom door.

“Pincus, you pariah. How are things at the asylum?” Berg asked, with a finely measured degree of impudence.

“I should think you’d be an expert, Berg,” Pincus responded. “How’s your analyst treating you?

Berg rolled his eyes.

Pincus was shorter than average height. He sported long straight black hair that was fairly thick, combed back diagonally with a liberal coating of greasy hair tonic, had a fair complexion and a frail build. He wore an olive-drab sweater and jeans. Generally serene, stolid by nature, and on the surface, easy going, he had a disarming manner. However, when put under the slightest pressure, his eyes danced around like Mexican jumping beans, as if he were processing a thousand thoughts a second. He always wore a gold and white knit yarmulke that looked like it was tattooed to his scalp.

Mallory respected Pincus for a number of reasons. On the top of the list was the diminutive professor’s ability to analyze human behavior. His knowledge of his field was formidable. And Pincus applied his knowledge with painstaking precision. He mulled over his ideas for hours at a time, often revising them to get a fresh perspective. His capacity to predict human behavior was uncanny. At a critical juncture, his predictions could be depended upon.

But mainly, Mallory liked him for personal reasons. Despite his rugged facade, the Super Sleuth had a closet full of deeply seeded insecurities. Pincus helped him overcome his fear of flying in commercial airliners and despite his unusual mental prowess Mallory had difficulty concentrating on any one activity for more than thirty minutes at a time. And then, of course, there were his never-ending problems with Esther.

Pincus was more than happy to act as his personal psychologist, even though it was never an openly stated paradigm. Not to mention the fact that Pincus was genuinely interested in sorting out the irreverent lifestyles of Mallory and Esther. Especially Esther. Pincus, like most men, was drawn to her beauty. It wasn’t that he coveted her necessarily. He was a married man with a large family. Nor did he possess the physical attributes required of a viable suitor for the likes of Esther. But Pincus nonetheless fantasized that he could get inside of Esther’s head and win her over. It wasn’t exactly uncharted territory; it had been done before. All he needed to do was to learn enough about her psychological deficits, worm his way into her confidence and engineer a transference: a Rasputin thing. It was a fantasy that rode him to sleep on many a dreamless night.

“Give me your impressions, Irving,” Mallory entreated. “In the first place, do you think that the boy is still alive?”

“Not a chance, Rick. I’m in agreement with the FBI psychologists; the boy was abused and murdered within the first 24 hours of his abduction. The killer fits snugly into the power-assertive category. He stalked them like a hunter does his prey. There was never any doubt that he was after Robbie Stallings from the start, the youngest of the group. The killer was likely the recipient of some kind of trauma in his youth—probably a member of a large family who had been abused by either his father or older brother. The magnitude of degradation was so great his subconscious could never successfully repress the episode. His conscious mind assisted by imposing a psychopathic pattern of behavior; an extremely prototypical pattern, I’m afraid. The initial trauma is re-enacted, a phenomenon known as imprinting, followed by a series of ritualistic acts that sublimate the guilt⎯often the victim is tortured. The killer then returns to his normal routine until the trauma re-emerges.”

“More murders,” Berg interjected.

“Precisely,” Pincus affirmed. “ Sooner or later the storm clouds gather again and the process repeats itself.”

“So you’re saying that Robbie Stallings was the victim of a serial killer?” Mallory asked.

“Yes. That is my opinion.”

“Then I shouldn’t pursue the case. It would only serve to strengthen Mrs. Stallings hope that her son is still alive. Not to mention the public perception that I would be taking advantage of her for the sake of publicity.”

“No, quite the contrary. I think you should pursue it,” Pincus responded.

“Why’s that, Irving?” Mallory wanted to know.

“A couple of reasons. The first is that I am willing to wager against long odds that your perusal of the situation will at least shed some new light on how it went down. I don’t know how you’ll do it, but I know you will. There’s a psychopathic killer at large; who knows how many unsolved murders he may be responsible for. Unfettered, he will likely strike again and again. Perhaps you might succeed in bringing him to justice.”

“And what’s the second reason?”

“From a psychological perspective, the mother is searching for some kind of closure, some way to live the rest of her life. The last eight years have been a living hell for the woman. If you can give her something tangible . . . something she can grab hold of . . . it would put her mind at ease. When it’s all over she’ll have the feeling that she’s done everything that was possible.”

“She claims to have a psychic link with her son.”

“You believe that? She’s distraught, disoriented and distracted. She’s conforming to a syndrome called schizophrenia scalia, a kind of reverse Stockholm syndrome.”

“Stockholm syndrome?” Mallory repeated.

“Yes. A number of hostages taken at a bank robbery in Stockholm about fifty years ago came out of the situation sympathetic to their captors. Their behavior had been so conditioned by their harrowing experience, they had effectively been brainwashed. In contrast, schizophrenia scalia is a behavior pattern in which the absence of a loved one that has been kidnapped, forces an individual to construct a reality in which they envision the loved one as safe and sound. If unchecked, the condition can lead to a full-fledged case of schizophrenia. Most likely, that is what has happened with the Stallings woman. Her inability to let go of her son has forced her to eschew psychoanalysis and the appropriate drugs that would allow her to come to terms with reality. She no doubt goes into seclusion and believes she’s conversing with him on a daily basis. In the meantime she’s falling further and further into the clutches of her mental illness. “Mr. Berg,” Pincus said, turning toward Berg while addressing him formally, “I implore you not to write a story on this subject . . . I implore you for Mrs. Stallings sake. It would only serve to extend her paranoid obsessions and schizophrenic delusions.”

“Ice won’t go with the story until I provide him with facts,” Mallory interjected categorically.

“No, I wouldn’t do that,” Berg concurred. “Notwithstanding what you might think of me doctor, I regard myself as a professional.”

It was Pincus’s turn to roll his eyes.