"In a minute," Remo promised. "How did you get my picture?"
"You were filmed by one of our 'Winner' crews. Did you know the season finale of 'Winner II' got a 21.1 rating and a 31 share? That was amazing. Hard to keep those numbers up. The occasional sweeps stunt is mandatory to keep viewership levels high. A random death like yours would have generated some good numbers for us in February."
Remo disregarded the executive's TV babble. "I made it so I couldn't be seen," he insisted.
"Technology is amazing, isn't it? Your tape was pretty bad. But they're able to take points of reference from a poor-quality recording like yours and computer enhance a solid digital image. Say, maybe I should jump off the roof. Three stories down from the terrace might not do it."
"The pool's below the terrace. Aim for the concrete and you should be golden," Remo said.
"Thanks," Martin Houton said. "You're not such a bad guy after all."
He started for the terrace. Remo collared him and flung him back into a chair.
"Who else was in on this subliminal crapola?" he asked.
"Well, I signed off on it," Martin Houton said, a lie that seemed so much like the truth he actually believed it himself. "Thomas Trumann developed the technology. He's the guy who shot himself in that church basement this morning."
"No one else?"
"Nope, that's it," Houton said agreeably. "Only two men in the entire BCN establishment. Had to keep it quiet. If it panned out, we would have been aces in the ratings. Right now Mondays have been okay for us with it, and Thursdays are holding their own. But we hadn't been using it at any other time and our ratings showed it. Now thanks to Trumann, I guess we're back to hemorrhaging viewers to cable and video."
"How about those orders to the rioters? Why didn't they go out nationally?" Remo asked.
"Our satellite fed to Trumann in the church. Harlem is where we've been testing the technology for a while, so mostly we were local. But flip a switch, and he could send the signals back up to the satellite and make them national. There's a transmitter in the church steeple. That's what we were using for 'Winner.' Just started it on a few more shows."
His Sinanju training gave Remo the ability to sense when someone was lying. Martin Houton was clearly a nit, but he was a nit who was telling the truth.
"Can I kill myself now?" Houton asked hopefully.
"Knock yourself out," Remo said.
Houton rubbed his hands together determinedly. He was getting up from the bed when, as an afterthought, Remo gave another good squeeze to the TV executive's earlobe. Bolts of pain shot through Martin Houton's clouded brain.
"What was that for?" Houton asked, rubbing his ear.
"Ten years of 'Murphy Brown,'" Remo said.
A ghost in shadow, he slipped from the darkened room.
Interruptions finally over, Houton stepped out onto the balcony. Warm steam rose from the surface of the gurgling pool, kissing the cold December air. Martin Houton could smell the chlorine in the air. The stars were beautiful, the air crisp and the words beckoning him to end his life as clear as church bells on a Christmas midnight.
Martin Houton climbed up on the rail and, without so much as a glance at the beauty of the chilly night around him, went the way a just world would send all television network executives. Three stories down and headfirst into solid concrete.
Chapter 14
Smith watched the last of the news reports in the darkness of his Folcroft office. Light from his buried computer monitor cast ghostly shadows around his wan face.
For the dozenth time he watched the suicide of BCN Vice President Thomas Trumann.
Smith was thankful that the networks were at least playing an edited version of the grisly footage. The CURE director's screen was filled with blurry blue dots. Even so, Smith grimaced at that which had been deemed airworthy. It made him wax nostalgic for the not-so-long-ago time when decency trumped ratings. In Smith's day, every broadcast network would have refused on principle to air so much as a single frame of Thomas Trumann's public suicide.
Smith felt like a man out of time. But thanks to the current culture, it was a feeling he had gotten used to.
Typing wearily, Smith exited his computer's TV function and shut down the system. The buried terminal winked to blackness beneath the onyx surface of his desk.
There had been no news from Remo for several hours. Apparently, he had upset the Master of Sinanju in some way, for Chiun had returned to Folcroft alone by taxi. Their argument probably had something to do with the letters Remo had mentioned. Smith had wanted to question the Master of Sinanju about them, but when he saw the angry look on the Korean's face, he lost his nerve. He left the old Asian to cool off in his quarters. Smith decided to await Remo's return in his office. So here he sat.
Smith turned to face the big picture window behind his desk. Night had claimed Folcroft's back lawn. The glow of his desk lamp on the one-way glass was a single bright star in the dark heart of winter. Unseen beyond the glass, cold wind churned the night-black surface of Long Island Sound.
Smith closed his eyes for a moment.
He didn't realize he had dozed off until the voice in his office startled him awake twenty minutes later. "Rise and shine, sleeping beauty."
Snapping awake, Smith spun. Remo stood before his desk. In the lamplight his deep-set eyes were hollow caves.
"Remo," Smith exhaled. "What happened with Houton?"
"Good news," Remo said. "That picture they put on TV didn't have anything to do with me. The guy said I was picked off the street at random. They wanted a murder to gin up ratings for that screwball survival show of theirs."
Cautious relief brushed Smith's tired face. "You're certain he didn't know about CURE?"
"Looks it," Remo said. "And even if he did, he was a TV executive. They time-share about four brain cells between them. He'd forget all about us halfway through happy hour."
"Was?" Smith asked. "You eliminated him?"
"Didn't have to. He took care of himself. I'd only give him a 2.5 on the dive, but a perfect ten for splattering his brains on the patio."
"That's odd," Smith said. "Both men responsible for developing and using the technology killed themselves."
"Lucky us for a change," Remo said. "I'm sick of picking up after everyone else all the time. Let the garbagemen haul their own trash for once."
"They must have both panicked," Smith speculated. "They would have both been answerable for the murder."
Remo nodded. "That dizzy producer from 'Winner' told me Shittman's mob killed one of her contestants."
"Yes," Smith said slowly. He looked up over the tops of his glasses, studying Remo's face. "Apparently, she didn't tell you the victim's name."
Remo noted the older man's odd tone. "She said they were keeping it under wraps," he admitted.
"Why?"
"His name has leaked out to the press. The contestant killed was a man named Remo."
"No kidding?" Remo said. "Well, if it's a comfort to you, I'm pretty sure it wasn't me, Smitty. Although now that you mention it, she did want me to be on the show. I gave her a tentative yes, but I told her I'd have to check with you first. What do you say? America's number-one assassin could be a real ratings bonanza. If I win I'll split the million with you, seventy-thirty."
Smith removed his glasses. "The man's last name was Chappel," he continued dryly. "Other than a shared given name, there is no other connection. However, given the uniqueness of your name, I must admit that it was disturbing to hear it at first."
"Tell me about it," Remo said. "I sympathize with him for what his parents did to him."