Mortal Allies (26 page)

I went through everything. I took the pictures off the walls, unscrewed the lightbulbs, checked under the bed, searched my clothes in the closet. I found two more bugs, but there could’ve been dozens more.

When had they done it? Had they known from my reservation which room I’d get and planted them before I arrived? Or had they broken in afterward? Maybe one of the maids did the dirty work.

So how much damage was done? Had I said or listened to anything that would harm my client? Nothing overly alarming popped out, but if you put everything together, you could draw some fairly strong conclusions about where I was trying to go with the defense. But then that was different from where Katherine and her crew were trying to go, so maybe it wasn’t all that damaging.

On the other hand, maybe I wasn’t the only member of the defense team being bugged. And if I were the prosecutor and could get inside the head of the defense team, I’d have a field day. A guy with Eddie Golden’s murderous dexterity would do even better.

I wanted to call Katherine and warn her, but the damn phone was trashed on the side table. I raced up to the HOMOS building, walked briskly through the main office, and stuck my head inside Katherine’s office.

For once she wasn’t chatting on the phone, because there were three civilians hunched over her desk. They were studying a big map. They all looked perfectly normal, but the mood in the room seemed conspirational, so I assumed they were from the big contingent of protesters pouring into Seoul.

I politely said, “Excuse me, Katherine, we need to have a word. In private, if you please.”

She shot me an exasperated look that quickly changed to a resigned look, then said to her friends, “Could you all please excuse us a moment?”

To which I replied, “We need to have this talk outside.”

No doubt she anticipated I wanted to either apologize for my earlier transgressions or launch another blistering attack on her. She followed me into the parking lot and over to the big oak tree where she’d so recently given that splendid interview that had done so much to advance my career.

“We’ve got a new problem,” I told her.

She hrummphed once or twice, like she was clearing her throat, although the fact that she was simultaneously rolling her eyes gave it a wholly different implication. “What’s our new problem, Drummond?”

“I found bugs in my telephone and around my room. They’re fairly sophisticated, because they’re real tiny.”

It took her a moment to fully swallow this news. She stared at me. Then she began taking her characteristically small, measured paces.

“Who put them there?”

This was where it was going to get tricky, because I wasn’t supposed to tell her about my secret liaisons with Buzz Mercer and his spooky gang. Were it anybody but her, with her penchant for flying into indignant fits and chatting up every reporter in sight, I might’ve ignored the rules. But this was Miss Blabbermouth.

“I haven’t a clue,” I somewhat lied. “But I’d guess it’s either the South Koreans or our own government.”

“What if we have these electronic devices analyzed? Will that tell us?”

“Probably not. Anyone sophisticated enough to use them makes sure they’re untraceable.”

She stopped pacing and gave me a discerning look. “Have you said anything on the phone that could be a problem?”

“I don’t think so, but you never know.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, resuming her walk as she tried to discern the full context of this new twist.

“Katherine,” I said, interrupting her thinking, “if they’ve done up my room, maybe they’ve done yours and the others as well. They may even have wired the hair parlor.”

This was the point when her composure took a radical turn for the worse, because if the prosecution had access to every conversation we’d ever had, well, then our client was screwed. Picture being in a poker game where you can see through every card on the table; then triple the implications.

She cursed a few times in a real unladylike way and stomped her tiny feet like a pouting child. “Shit, I can’t believe this.”

“Believe it.”

“This means a mistrial!” she finally declared.

“I don’t think so.”

“I’ve never heard of such a gross violation of legal ethics. You read about this kind of thing in novels, but I’ve never heard of it in real life.”

To which I very intelligently said, “Yes, well . . .”

“You can’t honestly think we can avoid a mistrial, can you?”

“Well,” I said, in my most conciliatory tone, since it was actually a surprisingly dumb question from someone with her legal acumen.

“Well what, Drummond?”

“How do you get a mistrial for a trial that hasn’t even begun?”

She began ticking off her angry little fingers. “Okay, you get the venue changed. You get the prosecutorial team disqualified. You get their bar licenses revoked. You lodge a motion to have the charges dismissed.”

“And if it turns out it was only my hotel room?”

“You’re a member of the defense team.”

“And if I can’t testify I said anything that compromises our case?”

“I don’t care. The fact they’ve been listening is all we need to file a motion.”

“No, you need evidence that ties the listening devices straight to the prosecution. You got that evidence, Katherine? I didn’t think so. Besides, our odds of getting a change of venue in this case are about zero. So what would we accomplish?”

Since everything I’d said was true, for once Katherine was out of arguments.

I said, “Look, I’ll arrange to get our rooms swept every day. Imelda knows how to handle it.”

“All right. But if she finds any more bugs — and I mean one single bug — I’m blowing the whistle. Have her report directly to me.”

“Okay, fine. There’s one other thing you and I have to talk over.”

“What’s that?”

I put on my most afflicted, woe-is-me expression. “Aren’t I sharing things with you?”

“Yes,” she admitted.

“Aren’t I being helpful and open? Like this little thing?”

“Well, yes,” she said, completely unaware, of course, about the separate investigation I was so diligently conducting.

“I interviewed Bales this morning. He said you interviewed him, too. A week ago. How come I didn’t know about it?”

“Oh that,” she said, with an innocent pout. “I just never mentioned it. There’s just so damned much on my mind. I forgot. Sorry.”

I wasn’t buying it. Carlson has a memory like a computer hard drive. It loses nothing. It overlooks nothing. And it’s immune to viruses, power failures, and assorted other natural and unnatural disasters. She didn’t get to be little Miss Always First in the Class on low brain juice.

“So it was a simple oversight?” I suggested.

“Yes, a simple oversight. That’s all it was.”

“I mean, you’d already studied the autopsy results. You’d already interviewed Bales. Is there anything else you’ve already done I should know about?”

“Like what?”

If it was anybody but her I would’ve taken that question at face value. “Anything?” I said, with a menacing look.

Her expression became suddenly thoughtful, as though she were rummaging through her memory banks for anything worth noting.

“Katherine?” I said, going on a hunch.

“What?”

“Tell me about Keith.”

“What do you want to know about Keith?”

“I’m just wondering why he got picked. Was he a target of opportunity? Or was he doing something that caused him to be targeted?”

Again she went into her contemplative mode. “Off the top of my head, I can’t think of anything.”

“No?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Because if I were to find out you were holding out on me, I’d probably get real pissed off.”

Those green eyes searched my face. “Do you have some reason to doubt me?”

I had a thousand reasons to doubt her. A million reasons. Hell, I couldn’t think of a single reason to trust anything she said. But in the interest of our newfound partnership, I thought it best to confine this discussion to the subject at hand.

“Only that in the embassy Keith claimed his specialty was suing the government. But he accompanied you in your interview with Bales, didn’t he?”

“He was along, yes,” she conceded. “But don’t give it any significance. He has a good legal mind so I wanted him along.”

“But you must admit it’s curious that an attorney whose specialty is civil suits is collecting evidence in a murder investigation.”

She smiled. “My specialty is civil rights narrowed down to homosexual suits. Look what I’m doing.”

And I had to admit she had a very good point. Anyway, I needed to go get some things done, like arrange for Imelda to have all our rooms and offices swept for bugs.

I
went through the same rigmarole to get in to see Whitehall, only I went alone. His obstinate silence had me stymied. It struck me that if we met alone, he might become more loquacious. His being gay, maybe women made him nervous or tight-lipped.

At least that’s what I told myself. The truth was, I figured I could get an inside edge on Carlson by building a better relationship with her client. I can be very sly that way.

I even snuck in some treats in my briefcase — three Big Macs and a six-pack of Molson.

The big Korean with oxlike shoulders did the routine of leading me to the cell and getting the door open. I told him I expected to be with the prisoner about an hour and invited him to lock us in together and then go do whatever big thugs do when their services aren’t in any great demand. He smiled, but it wasn’t a real fraternal smile, and I wondered if he was going to reappear when my hour was over.

Whitehall was giving me a curious once-over as the cell door banged shut and was locked behind me. “You’re alone?”

“That’s right, Tommy. I think it’s time we get better acquainted.”

He stood up and walked over, to shake my hand I thought at first, but he stood stiffly in front of me. “Welcome to my world” was all he said, and although my eyes weren’t yet adjusted to the dimness, I thought I saw a slight smile. His world was claustrophobic, especially when you cram two full-grown men into such a tiny, coffinlike space. It was intimate, though, which met with my designs.

“I brought gifts,” I informed him, setting down my briefcase, flipping the locks, and reaching in to pull out two of the Big Macs. The smell immediately permeated the cramped space. The burgers were cold, but they were still the most American of meals, and after a week of rice and water, I knew they would have the desired effect. I handed him the first two and he simply stood for a moment squeezing and sniffing them, like he just couldn’t believe they were the real article.

Then the wrappers were ripped off and he began gobbling them like an angry gargoyle, with gnashing teeth and grunts for swallows.

“Slow down,” I warned. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”

“Screw it,” he replied, not slowing down the least bit.

“Hey, I’ve got another little surprise,” I proudly informed him, withdrawing two cans of beer and opening the tops.

They made that lovely
pshht
, and “Jesus” was all he murmured before he grabbed one and slammed it up to his lips. Half the contents disappeared in a single gulp.

I patiently watched him finish it, as well as the second Big Mac, before I fell into the corner. He licked his fingers for a few seconds to get that final bit of flavor, then collapsed onto his sleeping mat. I handed him another beer.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“It sucks,” he admitted, belching from the effect of drinking a full beer in only two sips.

I couldn’t resist. “Worse than West Point even?”

He gave me a self-conscious, embarrassed expression. “I guess that sounded pretty stupid?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

We quietly sipped from our beers and stared at the walls.

I finally looked over at him. “You gettin’ any exercise?”

“One hour a day I go out into the courtyard and jog in a circle. They take me out at ten o’clock at night when the other prisoners are asleep. It’s for my own safety, they say. Other than that, I spend most of my days doing push-ups and sit-ups in here. It kills the time.”

I chuckled. “Christ, you’ll turn into a beast.”

“Yeah?” he said. “Watch this.”

He stood up, kicked off his sandals, put his feet against one wall, fell forward and placed his hands against the other wall, then began scaling the cell, using his hands and feet. He moved quickly, gracefully, like a cat. He made it all the way to the ceiling, gave it a small bump with his ass, then came back down the same way. He wasn’t even winded when he was done, like he could’ve done it a hundred more times.

“That’s very impressive, Tommy,” I said, shaking my head. “They teach you that at West Point, that climbing-the-walls thing?”

I heard a sudden gurgling sound in the back of his throat, the sound of a convulsive vomit being swallowed, then, “Oh shit. I never tried that after burgers and beer.”

I chuckled some more. “Hey, I talked to some old friends of yours.”

“Yeah? Who?”

“I had a great chat with Ernie Walters. He sends his best. He asked me to tell you he still loves you. But like a brother, he says. He made me promise to be real clear on that point.”

I heard a small “hmmph” come from somewhere deep inside Whitehall’s chest. “I’ll bet Ernie’s catching hell, isn’t he?”

“Well, yeah,” I replied. “The day I talked with him his desk was painted pink, the cadets changed the nametag on his door to read ‘Mrs. Whitehall,’ and his wife made him demonstrate he could perform his heterosexual obligations.”

Whitehall brought his right hand up and began rubbing it across his lips.

I said, “Hey, he’s keeping his sense of humor. And he’s telling everybody who asks that he still considers you his best friend.”

“Ernie’s always been a damned good guy,” he said, still rubbing his hand across his lips.

“He had great things to say about you. He even offered to climb on a plane and come testify on your behalf. Of course—”

But before I could finish he said, “No.”

“Huh?”