“Thanks for getting back to me so early,” he said as he directed the showerhead away from him.
Tyler was at home sitting at her vanity in a robe, a towel turbaned around her wet hair. She held her beloved pink princess phone in one hand as she put on makeup with the other. “So what are you all excited about?”
Hiccock looked down, about to say something, but thought better of it. “In your travels, ever bump into anyone monkeying around with or involved in high-speed interstitial image retention research?”
“It’s a little early, but are you referring to subliminal advertising?”
“Essentially yes.”
Extending the long, pink-coiled cord, she rose from the tufted, crimson velvet covered bench, walked over to the closet, untying the silk belt of the red Norma Kamali wrap. Exposing one shoulder then two until the robe tumbled to the floor, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Not too bad, she thought. “Back in the sixties, advertisers were starting to experiment with slipping in quick cuts of beautiful women during cigarette commercials.”
Hiccock ran a towel over his hair with the phone tucked under his chin. “And dry, desert scenes into beer commercials,” he added. “It worked, too. Until Congress got wind of it, made it illegal, and financed research for building monitoring machines.”
“But, Bill, the head guy on that was out of your old graduate school, what was his name … Walters … Watkins. Wallenford!” She resumed her task of eyelining.
“Yeah, that rings a bell. They had one of those machines right there I bet.”
“Sure. That stuff is probably collecting dust in the basement of the Media Lab. So why this sudden interest?” she asked, pulling the towel off her hair.
“Something came to me as I was waking up.”
“Really?” she inquired with a naughtiness that surprised her.
“Down girl, this is work. You sure his name was Wallenford?” He was imagining her finishing her morning routine in her bra and panties. He loved the way she looked when he caught her doing something perfectly plain and ordinary. How sexy she was, even when she wasn’t trying. That brought a smile to his face that waned with a twinge of sadness. He was, after all, just imagining.
“It’s always work with you … Jack! No! John. John Wallenford.”
“Thanks, Janice. See ya tonight for dinner?”
“Um … not tonight, Bill.”
“What’s up?”
“Nothing, I just can’t make dinner tonight.”
“Oh … Okay.” He clicked off, taking a deep breath. Tyler hung up, also taking a deep breath.
Sperling High Voltage made large capacitors for use mainly in research projects. One of those was the particle accelerator being assembled on Long Island at the Brookhaven National Lab. Opponents of the project claimed that the research being done right there on Long Island could create a black hole that would suck Long Island, the entire Earth, the sun, and this whole corner of the galaxy into it. Most of the protests took the form of sign-toting students and others who managed to acquire the delivery schedules of the supply trucks. They blocked the main gates for a short time and a few spoke over the various media outlets on the dangers of screwing with the basic glue that held everything in the universe together.
The idea came to Bernard after reading about the protests in Time magazine. He logged onto a bulletin board the society now ran under the guise of a hardware-trading web site for people who had old Olivetti word processors. The subject matter ensured that no one but the lost or stupidly curious would ever bother with the site. He typed in the message: “The weather on Long Island is getting better.” Voyeurger noticed immediately and responded to Sabot via Instant Messenger.
Voyeurger: What can I do for the cause?
SABOT: Hold on. I am reading your file now.
Voyeurger: What are you looking for?
SABOT: Do you have any experience with explosives?
Voyeurger: Yes, I remove tree stumps with them.
SABOT: Very good. Here’s my plan.
Although Bernard couldn’t see him, Voyeurger was smiling as he outlined his idea. It was Bernard’s turn to smile when Voyeurger typed back that he could do this within a week.
Hiccock was on his way to a military aircraft. He would shoot up to Boston, then an Air Force helicopter, already having arrived at Logan airport, would shuttle him to Cambridge. As he was leaving his office, Carly appeared at the door. “Can we chat?”
“Gee, I am out of here. I’ll be back tonight.”
“Can I buy you dinner?”
“No, I have plans for dinner… No I don’t.” Hiccock caught himself remembering that Janice had a date. “Sure! I’ll call you on my way back to D.C. this afternoon.”
He walked out to the car waiting for him in the portico wondering if this was a good idea, but not in any mood to cancel his spur-of-the moment acceptance of dinner. Did I just say yes to a date?
The offices of GlobalSync were the epitome of downtown chic. After following the prescribed protocol, a series of security guards and receptionists, Dennis and Cynthia finally stood in front of the company’s comptroller in her office.
“Can you tell us what this check is for?” Dennis asked the lady who probably worked her way up from assistant bookkeeper.
“Let’s see, the code here—23765—should tell us.” She entered the numbers into her computer. Her expression changed when the screen came up. “Oh, dear!” She picked up the phone, “Mr. Freidland, can you come into my office? You’re going to want to handle this yourself.” She hung up the phone, then hung “smile number three” on her face, and politely asked, “Would you kindly just wait here a minute?” Dennis caught Cynthia’s eye and shrugged.
Ten seconds later, Mr. Freidland, in a suit that cost half of Dennis’s Detective’s Benevolent Association pension, entered the carpeted, midlevel executive office.
“Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Mallory, nice to meet you. Would you follow me, please?” With the air of a maître d’ he turned and led them into a small private elevator. There were only two floor buttons. The mirror-polished, stainless steel doors opened onto a vast space. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the cityscape of lower Manhattan Island. The vista was reflected in the highly polished black-marble flooring that, to Dennis, had the unintended effect of making the entire floor look like it was covered in an oil slick. Way down, at the other end of the space, was a desk that was a replica of the “con” on Star Trek. A skinny man in a red turtleneck, green pants, and white shoes swung his feet around and off the side return where they had been planted while he talked on a wireless headset. Upon seeing the Mallorys, he removed the headset, stood up from his desk, and approached them. Dennis gave a glance to Cynthia that said, “Now I get it!”
“How’s the leg?” Dennis said to the man.
“Hurts when it rains, but I stopped limping about a month ago.
It took me a while to track you down, Mr. Mallory, and I can find anybody.” He smiled at Cynthia. “And you must be Cynthia. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Cynthia returned the warm smile.
“I appreciate the two of you wanting to come here to thank me but believe me, it is I who should thank you, more than any amount of money could ever express.”
Cynthia caught on. “Oh, you must be the young man Dennis helped in the woods.”