“Remember when I directed his attention to the bird out his window? Except there was no bird?”
“Ye-es.”
“That’s when I slipped the transmitter under his desk.”
“No!”
She beamed. “Wouldn’t you say resourcefulness is my dominant characteristic?”
“I’d say insanity is your dominant characteristic. What if he finds it?”
“Shush.” She turned up the volume and adjusted the antenna till she got the best reception. There was a pronounced knocking noise, then a softer shuffling sound. “He’s pacing,” she interpreted. “Thinking. Pounding on his desk. Trying to decide what to do next.”
Ben took her by the shoulders. “Christina, this is eavesdropping.”
“I suppose that would technically be correct.”
“It’s like wiretapping. It’s an invasion of privacy.”
“I don’t see anything wrong with listening in here and there to gather useful information.”
“You and Richard Nixon. Look, this is probably illegal. Almost certainly immoral.”
“And necessary.”
“Christina—”
“Ben, listen to me. Did you think Whitman was telling us the truth?”
“Well—”
“No. Of course not. He knows much more about this than he’s willing to say.
“But—”
“Ben, zip it up and listen. If he is involved in this, the fact that we came to his office and spilled what we know is bound to make him worry. Maybe enough to do something stupid.”
“I still don’t think—”
“Shhh.” The shuffling noise coming over the monitor had ended. For a few moments, they heard nothing but the hissing of the air-conditioning. Then they heard several rapid-fire clicking noises. About a minute later, the phone rang.
“Whitman.” Given the circumstances, the reception was excellent. They could hear every word he spoke into the phone. “Where are you?” A short pause. “Good. Stay that way. No, I don’t want you anywhere you can be seen. Especially not here. That’s right, that’s what I said, so you do it, you sorry son of a bitch. Don’t give me any crap. I pay you the money, you do what I say.”
Ben and Christina exchanged a meaningful look. Christina nudged up the volume on the receiver.
“Good. That’s better. Now listen to me. The first thing I want you to do is get your goddamn hair cut. Better yet, dyed. Shave the crappy beard. And get rid of those idiotic fatigues, for God’s sake. Burn ’em.”
More static. More air-conditioning noise.
“You want to know why? I’ll tell you why. Because you were spotted, you stupid pea-brained stooge. Haven’t you read the papers?”
Another long silence. They could hear a faint twitter of the voice on the opposite end of the line, not nearly loud enough to distinguish the words.
“Listen to me, jerk-off. You need to get rid of anything that could link us to that neighbor’s ID. Yeah, clothes, too. What about the camera, and all those pictures you took? You what? What?”
The receiver exploded with noise. A smashing, then a clattering to the floor. “Threw the phone across the room,” Christina whispered. Ben nodded.
Several seconds passed before Whitman spoke again. His voice was low, and the thin, even tone did not disguise the threat that lay behind every word. “Listen to me. You get it back.” Pause. “Don’t make any excuses. Get it back.” Whitman cut the voice on the other end off. “You get it back or I’ll break your fucking neck! Understand?”
His shout reverberated through the baby monitor receiver. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other. Now I’ll tell you something else. I want you to meet me. Tonight. Don’t give me any excuses, you just meet me. That’s right. Midnight. Yeah, I know where O’Brien Park is. Fine. I’ll meet you there. And bring the goddamn camera!”
The phone smashed down into its cradle. Six fast stomps, followed by a slam.
“He’s out of there.” Christina turned off the monitor. “I hope he stays gone for a while. I need to get that transmitter back.”
Ben crooked open the stall door and surveyed the scene. “We need to get out of here and call Mike. He’ll want to be at this midnight rendezvous.”
“Think, Ben. Mike is a policeman. Policemen work for the prosecution.”
“But this is Mike—”
“And Mike is a good cop, but he still works for the prosecution. We need someone who works for us. Someone we can put on the stand.”
“Well, I don’t think it should be us. Do you know where O’Brien Park is? It’s one of the worst thug hangouts on the North Side.”
“Sounds like something Loving might enjoy.”
“That’s a crazy idea.” Ben began to smile. “Crazy in a wonderful sort of way.”
‘Well,” Christina replied, “insanity is my dominant characteristic.”
Ben’s lips turned upward at the edges. “It’s one of them.”
“One? What’s the other?”
Ben stroked her chin. “Guts.”
Chapter 27
DEANNA PARKED HER CAR in the driveway and walked to the front door. She stopped to get the mail, sliding it into the bag they had given her at the drugstore. She’d read it later. She had more pressing business now.
She ran through all the possible approaches again in her mind. “I’m only doing this because I’m your mother and I love you.” Possible—but so trite it turned her stomach. “I’m sorry, Martha, but you’re my child and I have to protect you.” Nah. No teenager wants to be protected. “Martha, you’re an adult now, and being an adult entails not only privileges but responsibilities.” Well, it did have a certain flattering appeal, but Deanna suspected that it wouldn’t get her far in the long run, and the consequences of declaring that Martha had new privileges could be disastrous.
Damnation. What was the point? Whatever approach she chose, she knew they’d be off the script the first time Martha opened her mouth. Face the facts, she told herself. You’re stalling. And who could blame her? She didn’t know what would happen, but the one thing she was absolutely sure of was that it would be unpleasant.
She braced herself, took several deep breaths, and stepped inside the house. “Martha! I’m home!”
No response. And after all, what did she expect? “That’s lovely, Mom. Good to see you.” Not likely.
“Martha, I want to speak to you,” she shouted to a closed bedroom door. She’d give the girl a minute to respond peaceably before she commenced hostilities.
The minute passed. Determined not to lose her resolve, Deanna walked down the hallway. As she approached, she heard Martha talking into the Princess phone in her room.
“I can’t find it,” she was saying. Her words were perfectly understandable through the door. “I did. I looked everywhere. I don’t know what happened to it. It isn’t here anymore.”
It didn’t take three guesses to figure out to whom she was talking. Damn. Should’ve had that thing disconnected a long time ago.
“I will. I promise. What—” There was a pause, then a gasping sound. An instant later, Deanna heard the call hastily being disconnected.
“Martha?” There was a flurry and rustle. Deanna gave her a few moments, then opened Martha’s door. “I said I wanted to talk to you.”
Martha was sprawled across her bed reading an R. L. Stine book. “I heard.”
“It wasn’t optional.”
“I’m reading.”
“Not anymore.” Deanna lifted the book out of Martha’s hands and closed it. “We have to talk.”
Martha folded her arms defiantly across her chest. “We don’t have anything to talk about.”
“I think we do. I found the camera under your bed.”
Martha’s lips parted. She appeared astonished. Apparently, the possibility had never occurred to her. “But it was in my room.”