Justin had seen Borbidge once, a couple of years ago, at the local breakfast joint in East End Harbor, Art's Deco Diner. He was in his early fifties, nearly completely bald, and had ears that looked like, with just a little bit of flapping, they could lift off, fly him around the town, and make a nice, comfortable landing at the local airport. He had been having breakfast with a gorgeous actress at least twenty years younger than he was. She had made a name for herself by doing several nude love scenes in successful movies. She was looking adoringly at Borbidge as he paid the breakfast check. He paid no attention to her. He was too busy studying the check for errors.
The conference had started earlier that morning, and security was out in full force. There were four police cars on the highway near the entrance to the grounds of the resort. Justin knew from experience that in addition to the eight uniforms guarding the exterior, there had to be at least that many in plainclothes inside. Depending on who was attending this year, there might also be Secret Service. Two years ago, Clinton had shown up at this thing. Heads of Wall Street, senators, cabinet members, presidents of media conglomerates, opinion makers, even leaders of foreign countries appeared to listen and lecture. This year Giuliani was one of the keynote speakers.
But the person who was clearly causing the biggest ruckus at this year's event was ex-secretary of Health and Human Services Frank Man-waring.
The protesters were already out in force. There were probably a hundred of them, men and women, holding signs, parading back and forth outside the entrance to the Havens. Several had bullhorns and were periodically screaming out words and phrases such as "Murderer!" and "Tell the truth!" and "What kind of human service is murder?" Justin thought he recognized Maura Greer's parents from their newspaper and magazine photos. The father looked placid and out of place. The mother was one of the ones with a bullhorn.
Justin cruised by, followed Deena's instructions as she directed him to go half a mile past the resort, then up to the left, into the oddly barren hills near the ocean. Soon they came to a small house, a shack clearly meant for summer living only. She asked Justin to wait in the car, then she knocked on the door of the shack, opened it herself, and disappeared inside.
Five minutes later, she came out, followed by a small, thin, muscular man-lithe is the word that came to Justin's mind-with short-cropped brown hair. He wore loose-fitting sweat pants and a tank-top T-shirt. Deena had a grin that spread across her entire face.
"This is Curtis," she told Justin. "He's the one I used to work for sometimes, when I was a masseuse."
"Nice to meet you," Curtis said and shook Justin's hand.
Deena's grin seemed to grow even wider. "I told you. If there's one thing wealthy people always want at a conference, it's a massage."
"And you're doing the massages for this conference?" Justin asked Deena's friend.
"I'm providing all the outside work," Curtis explained. "They don't have enough regulars to keep up with the demand. I've done it since this thing came to the Havens."
"So you can get us in?" Justin said.
"I can do better than that," Curtis told him.
And when Justin gave him a look that said, I give-what could be better? Deena jumped in, her words tumbling out. "Guess who has a massage appointment for tomorrow morning? At eleven o'clock."
That's when Justin smiled. And his smile was almost as wide as Deena's.
"And it gets even better," Deena said. "How can it get any better than that?"
"He wants a massage for two people," Curtis said. "He asked for two masseuses."
"Is his wife with him?" Justin asked.
Curtis now joined in the grinning. "Not according to my pals at the hotel," he said. Curtis was driving; Deena sat shotgun. Justin, a baseball cap pulled down low over his forehead, was in the backseat. As they made the turn into the Havens driveway, the protesters began booing and screaming. One of them even made a feeble attempt to kick the car, until a policeman came running over and the protester disappeared into the throng.
They drove a few feet farther, inside the gate that separated the property from the road, and reached the security checkpoint. Curtis rolled his window down as a policeman approached the car.
"Oh shit," Justin murmured.
Deena turned around then, responding to Justin's tone, and turned in the direction of the policeman.
"You have your passes?" the cop asked.
Curtis nodded, handed three official laminated passes through his window. The cop examined them, glanced at Deena, nonchalantly started to hand the passes back to Curtis, then swiveled back to face Deena. He stared at her for several seconds, then jerked his head to look in the window of the backseat.
Justin lifted his baseball cap, raised his head to meet the cop's stare. He saw Gary Jenkins's mouth open, not to speak, simply to take in the rush of air he needed after his gasp. Justin said nothing, nor did he change his expression. Their eyes stayed locked. Then Gary lowered his gaze, handed the passes back in through the driver's window. Justin thought he saw the cop's lips move-a silent prayer-as he waved the car forward.
Deena exhaled a breath, the one she'd been afraid to release since Gary had approached the car.
"We're in," Curtis said.
"Just barely," Deena whispered. Curtis opened the trunk, let them each lift out a collapsible massage table. He asked if they wanted him to stick around, but Justin told him it wasn't necessary. If they got caught, there was no reason for Curtis to be stuck in the middle of things. With a little luck, he said, they'd call him in a couple of hours to come pick them up.
Justin and Deena lugged their tables to the front desk, told the clerk whom they were there to see. The clerk dialed the room, got the okay, and directed them to suite 317 on the ocean side. A few minutes later they were knocking on the door of the suite and Frank Manwaring, wearing nothing but a white terry-cloth robe, was ushering them inside.
"I told them I wanted two masseuses," Manwaring said, agitated, as they set the tables down. "I didn't want a man."
"Are you going to make me quote the words of the immortal Mick Jagger?" Justin said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"It's a good lesson for you to learn. 'You can't always get what you want,'" Justin told him and, pulling out his gun and pointing it at the ex-secretary, the next thing he told him was to sit down and shut up.
Deena went into the bedroom, came out dragging a woman, who also wore nothing but a terry-cloth robe. The woman was attractive in a plain and simple way, about five foot five, straight black shoulder-length hair. She was thin and fragile looking, and right now she appeared terrified.
Manwaring immediately started telling Justin that he was making a huge mistake, that there were police all over the place, that if he was part of the protest group it was all an error, that nobody knew what was really going on.
"We actually know what's going on," Justin told him. "Or at least a big chunk of it. And we're not part of the protest group. We're here to get some answers and I have to say, if we don't get them I'm going to use this gun."
"If you pull that trigger you will never get past the lobby. You'll be committing suicide."
"Mr. Manwaring, you may be right but I can't say it scares me any. You don't have any idea of the kind of shit we've fallen into. If I pull this trigger, my guess is the only thing it can do is make me a lot more popular than I am right now."
"I know your voice," the woman in the robe now said to Justin. She had a soft, whispery tone that Justin thought could never become too harsh or too loud. "I recognize your voice."