Death Watch (11 page)

B
illy Peppers sat beneath a tree with an open Bible on his lap. The sky was clear and blue, the grass was green. A beautiful sight even though Billy was surrounded by death.

His angel shoe box beside him, he read while keeping an eye on the Santa Monica Boulevard entrance to Hollywood Memorial Park Cemetery. In the distance he could see the Hollywood sign in the hills. Behind him was the historic Paramount Studios back lot.

Billy was waiting for a beige Volvo to pass through the gates.

He read:

But mark this: There will be terrible times in the last days. People will be lovers of themselves, lovers of money, boastful, proud, abusive, disobedient to their parents, ungrateful, unholy, without love, unforgiving, slanderous, without self-control, brutal, not lovers of the good, treacherous, rash, conceited, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God
—
having a form of godliness but denying its power.

He heard a car approaching. He looked up. A dark blue Bonneville.

The reporter from KSMJ was late. He’d emailed her to meet him here an hour ago. He’d wait another thirty minutes. She might have been delayed. After all, she was an important person with a lot of responsibilities. But then, so was he. At least it was pretty here.

Billy placed his Bible in the shoe box, careful not to bend or wrinkle any of his angel pictures. He took out his favorite ceramic piece and held it. The angelic figurine didn’t seem out of place here, not like it did in the trashy alleys. Maybe it was because this place was frequented so often by angels.

Oh-oh. Trouble.

The driver of the Pontiac Bonneville had gotten out of his car. He was talking to two groundskeepers. The driver was pointing at Billy and talking. The groundskeepers did some head nodding, then came walking toward him.

It always amazed Billy how people could ignore paper and plastic trash in streets and alleys, but couldn’t pass by a man in ragged clothes and not try to do something about it.

Billie knew the drill. He gathered up his box. He’d save them the trouble and leave.

Something interrupted him.

“Chicago?” he exclaimed. “How am I supposed to get to Chicago?”

The two groundskeepers slowed, eyeing him like he was crazy.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t go,” Billy said.

“Then go, already,” one of the workers said.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Billy said. “Can’t you see I’m busy? I’ll be with you in a minute.”

The groundskeepers exchanged glances.

“Impossible!” Billy said to the air. “It’d take me a couple days at least.”

“Listen, buddy,” one worker said.

“Fly?” Billy shouted. “In case you haven’t noticed, not everyone in this conversation has wings!”

“Hey, buddy! “the worker shouted. “I don’t know what you’re on, but we don’t want any trouble here.”

“I said I’d be with you in a minute,” Billy replied. Then, picking up his first conversation: “All right, I’ll get there. Are you going to tell me why I’m going to Chicago?”

Billy threw up a hand in frustration.

“That’s enough, fella!” the worker shouted.

Billy didn’t hear him. Pressing past the groundskeepers he said, “Sorry, guys. Can’t talk now. I have to get to Chicago.”

T
he first thing out of the receptionist’s mouth when Sydney arrived back at the station was a clipped, “Helen wants to see you.” The message wasn’t totally unexpected.

She knocked on Helen’s door and entered.

“What happened?” Helen said the instant she entered.

Sydney took a deep breath. It would be a mistake to presume Helen’s friendship, such as it was. The woman was a professional; Sydney’s job was to get the story.

“The poor girl thought the death watch notice was part of the game show experience. When I told her the truth, she took it hard. She was in no condition to give an interview. She’s pregnant and frightened.”

“No condition to give an interview? Since when is that a requirement for a news story? We cover people immersed in tragedy every day, pregnant and otherwise.”

Sydney made no effort to reply.

“And what are we going to fill that fifteen seconds with?”

It was a rhetorical question. At least Sydney hoped it was a rhetorical question.

“Cheryl is still going on the show. Then she plans to return to Evanston, Illinois. She wants to induce labor and have the baby before her time runs out. Let me follow up on it. There’s still a story here.”

Helen punched a button on her phone. “Get Cori in here,” she said to her assistant on the other end.

“There’s a problem,” Sydney continued. “It’s doubtful the airlines will let her fly considering how far along she is.”

“Irrelevant. They won’t let her on the plane once they find out she’s received a death watch notice.”

Cori Zinn and Josh Leven entered the office.

“About that,” Sydney said. “Cheryl wants to keep her death watch notice quiet. She doesn’t want people to know about it until after she’s been on the game show. I told her we’d honor her wishes.”

Helen slapped her pen down on the desk.

“You’re a reporter, not a social worker,” she snapped. “Your job is to get the story, not to cater to everyone’s wishes!”

Sydney could feel Cori’s pleasure over witnessing this scene. Josh looked like he didn’t want to be here.

“You’ve lost your objectivity,” Helen said, “and your focus, which is understandable if what I suspect is true.”

The conversation had just taken a left turn, which made Cori and Josh’s presence all the more mysterious.

“Cori came to me earlier today,” Helen said. With a nod she indicated that Cori should take it from here.

“We know about your death watch notice,” Cori said.

“What?” Sydney cried.

“This morning I received a confirmation call,” Cori said. “Josh was with me at the time. The caller identified you as the recipient of a death watch notice.”

Cori Zinn turned to Josh. He backed her up with a slight nod.

“This is ridiculous,” Sydney said. “I haven’t received a death watch notice.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to take you off this assignment, Sydney,” Helen said.

“Helen, on my honor, I have not received a death watch notice!”

“Have you checked your home mailbox lately?” Cori said. “Maybe it’s there. You’re familiar with the pattern. A written notice followed by a confirmation.”

“Along with a verbal confirmation to the victim,” Sydney added. “I haven’t received a verbal confirmation either.”

She was fighting for her life here. Sydney could guess why Cori Zinn was doing this to her, but Josh?

“Take the rest of the day off, Sydney,” Helen said. “Get your affairs in order. Cori, you’re now officially on the death watch story.”

That was it! That’s what Cori wanted! She’d orchestrated this whole thing to wrestle away the death watch story from her. And she’d gotten Josh to go along with it. What had she promised him? It had to be good.

“Josh, help me out here, “Sydney pleaded. “Tell the truth. How do you know who Cori was talking to?”

“Sorry, Syd,” Josh said apologetically.

“Let’s see how the next forty-eight hours goes,” Helen said. “If this is all a mistake, we’ll know soon enough.”

“Helen, don’t do this!” Sydney pleaded.

“I won’t have an employee of mine running around with a Death Watch hanging over her head. The liability to the station is too great. Go home, Sydney.”

This was ridiculous. Cori Zinn was capable of dirty politics, but this was beneath even her.

There was a single rap on Helen’s door. Hunz Vonner poked his head in the door.

“There you are,” he said, looking at Sydney. “Helen, can I steal her away?”

“Sydney St. James is on a temporary leave of absence,” Helen said. “You’ll be working with Cori from here on out.”

For a moment it appeared Hunz would accept Helen’s decision without question. Then he said, “Is it disciplinary?”

“Personal,” Helen said.

“They think I’ve received a death watch notice,” Sydney said.

Hunz Vonner studied her with eyes that narrowed to slits. “Have you?”

“No.”

“Good enough for me,” Hunz said. “Let’s go.”

Sydney looked to Helen. After a long moment, the assignment editor reluctantly nodded her consent.

Cori Zinn’s protests could be heard through the closed door as Sydney and Hunz left.

O
n the way to the FBI field office on Wilshire Boulevard, Sydney’s hands shook, but overall she was feeling good about sticking up for herself in Helen’s office. It wasn’t like her to do that. Having been taught all her life to respect authority, she usually acquiesced. This time, she fought, and she was glad she did. If she hadn’t, she’d be on the Hollywood Freeway right now heading home.

Still, she wished she’d said more. She wished she’d told Cori to her face she was a liar. She wished she could have said something to convince Helen to believe her. She wished she’d expressed her disappointment to Josh, shaming him into telling the truth. That was one conversation she would most definitely revisit.

When she and Hunz reached the field office, this time instead of having her circle the block, he had her accompany him inside. She took this as a positive sign. Maybe he was beginning to think of her as a coreporter instead of a Barbie-doll chauffeur.

They were issued badges at security, then ushered into a ten-by-ten office with barren walls painted sea-foam green. It was a sickening neutral color that had been splashed on the walls of every government building in Southern California. Apparently someone at cost control had made a killing on a shipload of the stuff. No wonder. Anybody with a shred of taste would never pay good money for this color.

Agent Victor Fernandez stood to greet them. “Have a seat.”

He offered them two plastic folding chairs, then perched in front of them on the edge of a desk stacked high with paperwork.
Fernandez himself looked as disheveled as his desk—his unimaginative blue-and-red-striped tie was pulled loose, his sleeves were sloppily rolled up to his elbows, and his salt-and-pepper gray hair was mussed.

Hunz introduced Sydney as a reporter at KSMJ. He didn’t give her name.

“I’ll make it short and sweet,” Fernandez said. “We’ve been following up on your Russian mafia theory and have located General Baranov on Barbados. He owns a villa on the island, which pretty much serves as a transshipping point for narcotics bound for Europe and the US.”

“Have you made contact?” Hunz inched forward in his seat.

Fernandez crossed his arms. They were thick and hairy. “It’s not exactly the kind of villa Jehovah’s Witnesses would call on, if you know what I mean. We’re working in cooperation with the Royal Barbados Police through the Barbados consulate here in LA. They’ll attempt to make contact soon.”

“Soon. You mean in a matter of hours?” Hunz asked.

The agent’s eyes squinted with suspicion.

Hunz seemed to read his expression. “Every hour people are dying. The sooner we nab this renegade, the more lives we can save.”

Fernandez nodded. “Four to six hours.”

“What about Kiselev?” Hunz said. “Any leads on a lab connected to Baranov that is capable of nanotechnology research?”

“Nothing yet.”

“You’ll call me as soon as you hear anything?”

“I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Agent Fernandez, the sooner this information gets out to the public, the better. Think internationally. The middle of the night here is daytime in Europe.”

Sydney was impressed with Hunz Vonner’s style. He had a way of pressing without coming across as annoying.

“I’ll call you as soon as I hear something,” Fernandez said.

S
o now we wait,” Sydney said, back in the car. The key was in the ignition. She hadn’t turned it.

“We press forward,” Hunz said. “What else have you got?”

Not much. She’d spent most of the morning at the hotel consoling Cheryl McCormick. After that, Cori Zinn had waylaid her in Helen’s office.

She reached into the backseat and grabbed the folded printouts she’d shoved into her purse. “This is a list of death watch victims from the Homeland Security Web site. There are a few personal details, but not much. No record of immunizations or flu shots.”

Hunz scanned the names. “They could be using a different delivery method for the nanobots.” Apparently he hadn’t spent all morning eating croissants with Sol Rosenthal. He’d done some investigating on his own.

He flipped a page. The one with Lyle Vandeveer’s name on it. If the reminder of the previous night had any effect on him, he didn’t show it.

“Cheryl McCormick,” he said, coming to her name. Sydney had highlighted it.

“Visiting LA from Illinois,” Sydney said. “She’s a contestant on a game show. Wonder
Wheel.
Ever hear of it?”

“No. Illinois. Is it far from here?”

“Halfway across the continent. I’ve sort of taken her under my wing,” Sydney said. “She’s asked me to be there with her tonight.”

Hunz looked up. That wasn’t something he wanted to hear. “Another hand-holding evening?”

Sydney’s anger flared. She did her best not to let it show. “Cheryl is recently widowed, has a three-year-old daughter, and is pregnant. She’s due in a month.”

“A pregnant woman with a death watch notice flew halfway across the continent to go on some kind of game show?”

“She was handed the death watch notice when she checked into the hotel. She’s a widow and needs the money.”

“The notice was waiting for her when she arrived?”

“That’s right.”

“How far in advance are these appearances scheduled?”

Sydney brightened. “You see, that’s the thing! She was a phone-in contestant the night before and won some money. That qualified her along with other phone-in contestants to appear on the show. The first qualifier to arrive at the designated hotel becomes a contestant. She grabbed up her stuff, didn’t tell anyone, and flew to Los Angeles on a red-eye.”

“A red-eye?”

“A middle-of-the-night flight.”

“The game show people knew she was coming?”

“Not until she arrived.”

“Interesting.”

“That’s what I thought!” Sydney said.

“Still"—Hunz shook his head—"this McCormick girl’s a waste of time.”

“For Pete’s sake!” Sydney shouted. She tried to hold it back. Couldn’t. “Just because she doesn’t fit your theory, doesn’t mean she’s a waste of time! You know, for some people these death watch notices are more than just a news story. These are human beings we’re talking about. Show a little compassion.”

Hunz sat back, obviously surprised by her outburst. But he didn’t dwell on it long. “What’s this?” he asked. He held up the email printout from Billy Peppers, the one instructing Sydney to meet him at Hollywood Memorial Park Cemetery.

“He claims to know who is behind Death Watch,” Sydney said.

“What do you know about him?”

Sydney sighed. She couldn’t shift emotional gears as fast as Hunz Vonner. “He lives on the street. Cori Zinn did a spotlight news story on the number of homeless people with mental problems. She interviewed him. He preaches on street corners. Says he talks to angels.”

“You’ve met him?”

“I’ve never met him.”

“So you didn’t keep this appointment.”

“An appointment is agreed upon between two people. I never agreed to meet him.” Sydney was feeling defensive. “I told you, I was with Cheryl McCormick.”

“Let’s go talk to him.”

“Now?”

Hunz was buckling his seat belt.

“He asked me to meet him hours ago.”

“You said he lives on the street. He might still be there. It’s not as though he has other pressing business.”

Sydney started the car. “Cheryl McCormick is a waste of time, but a mentally deranged transient isn’t?”

“We won’t know that until we talk to him,” Hunz said. Then he added, “If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that to be successful in this business, you have to be a bloodhound. Relentless. You have to track down every lead. Ninety percent of them waste your time. And sometimes, if you get lucky, your best information comes from the least likely sources. We know Cheryl’s story; now let’s go get the angel-talker’s story.”