Tess Gerritsen - Whistleblower

“Seeing much action?”

“Uh-you mean today?”

“Yeah. Here.”

“No, sir.” O’Hanley sighed. “Pretty much a bust. I mean, I could be out on patrol. Instead they got me hanging around here eyeballing faces.”

“Surveillance?”

“Yes, sir.” He nodded at the poster of Holland. “That guy. Everyone’s hot to find him. They say he’s a spy.”

“Do they, now?” Polowski took a lazy glance around the room. “Seen anyone around here who looks like him?”

“Not a one. I been watching every minute.”

Polowski didn’t doubt it. O’Hanley was the kind of kid who, if you asked him to, would scrub the Captain’s boots with a toothbrush. He’d do a good job of it, too.

Obviously Holland hadn’t come through here. Polowski turned to leave. Then another thought came to mind, and he turned back to O’Hanley. “The suspect may be traveling with a woman,” he said. He pulled out a photo of Cathy Weaver, one Jack Zuckerman had been persuaded to donate to the FBI. “Have you seen her come through here?”

O’Hanley frowned. “Gee. She sure does look like… Naw. That can’t be her.”

“Who?”

“Well, there was this woman in here ‘bout an hour ago. Kind of a down and outer. Some little brat ran smack into her. I sort’ve brushed her off and sent her on her way. She looked a lot like this gal, only in a lot worse shape.”

“Was she traveling alone?”

“She had an old guy with her. Her pop, I think.”

Suddenly Polowski was all ears. That instinct again-it was telling him something. “What did this old man look like?”

“Real old. Maybe seventy. Had this bushy beard, lot of white hair.”

“How tall?”

“Pretty tall. Over six feet…” O’Hanley’s voice trailed off as his gaze focused on the wanted poster. Victor Holland was six foot three. O’Hanley’s face went white. “Oh, God…”

“Was it him?”

“I–I can’t be sure-”

“Come on, come on!”

“I just don’t know… Wait. The woman, she dropped a makeup case! I turned it in at that window there-”

It took only a flash of an FBI badge for the clerk in Lost and Found to hand over the case. The instant Polowski opened the thing, he knew he’d hit pay dirt. It was filled with theatrical makeup supplies. Stenciled inside the lid was: Property of Jack Zuckerman Productions.

He slammed the lid shut. “Where did they go?” he snapped at O’Hanley.

“They-uh, they boarded a bus right over there. That gate. Around seven o’clock.”

Polowski glanced up at the departure schedule. At seven o’clock, the number fourteen had departed for Palo Alto.

It took him ten minutes to get hold of the Palo Alto depot manager, another five minutes to convince the man this wasn’t just another Prince-Albert-in-the-can phone call.

“The number fourteen from San Francisco?” came the answer. “Arrived twenty minutes ago.”

“What about the passengers?” pressed Polowski. “You see any of ’em still around?”

The manager only laughed. “Hey, man. If you had a choice, would you hang around a stinking bus station?”

Muttering an oath, Polowski hung up.

“Sir?” It was O’Hanley. He looked sick. “I messed up, didn’t I? I let him walk right past me. I can’t believe-”

“Forget it.”

“But-”

Polowski headed for the exit. “You’re just a rookie,” he called over his shoulder. “Chalk it up to experience.”

“Should I call this in?”

“I’ll take care of it. I’m headed there, anyway.”

“Where?”

Polowski shoved open the station door. “Palo Alto.”

The front door was answered by an elderly oriental woman whose command of English was limited.

“Mrs. Lum? Remember me? Victor Holland. I used to know your son.”

“Yes, yes!”

“Is he here?”

“Yes.” Her gaze shifted to Cathy now, as though the woman didn’t want her second visitor to feel left out of the conversation.

“I need to see him,” said Victor. “Is Milo here?”

“Milo?” At last here was a word she seemed to know. She turned and called out loudly in Chinese.

Somewhere a door squealed open and footsteps stamped up the stairs. A fortyish oriental man in blue jeans and chambray shirt came to the front door. He was a dumpling of a fellow, and he brought with him the vague odor of chemicals, something sharp and acidic. He was wiping his hands on a rag.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

Victor grinned. “Milo Lum! Are you still skulking around in your mother’s basement?”

“Excuse me?” Milo inquired politely. “Am I supposed to know you, sir?”

“Don’t recognize an old horn player from the Out of Tuners?”

Milo stared in disbelief. “Gershwin? That can’t be you? ”

“Yeah, I know,” Victor said with a laugh. “The years haven’t been kind.”

“I didn’t want to say anything, but…”

“I won’t take it personally. Since-” Victor peeled off his false beard “-the face isn’t all mine.”

Milo gazed down at the lump of fake whispers, hanging like a dead animal in Victor’s grasp. Then he stared up at Victor’s jaw, still blotchy with spirit gum. “This is some kind of joke on old Milo, right?” He stuck his head out the door, glancing past Victor at the sidewalk. “And the other guys are hiding out there somewhere, waiting to yell surprise! Aren’t they? Some big practical joke.”

“I wish it were a joke,” said Victor.

Milo instantly caught the undertone of urgency in Victor’s voice. He looked at Cathy, then back at Victor. Nodding, he stepped aside. “Come in, Gersh. Sounds like I have some catching up to do.”

Over a late supper of duck noodle soup and jasmine tea, Milo heard the story. He said little; he seemed more intent on slurping down the last of his noodles. Only when the ever-smiling Mrs. Lum had bowed good-night and creaked off to bed did Milo offer his comment.

“When you get in trouble, man, you sure as hell do it right.”

“Astute as always, Milo,” sighed Victor.

“Too bad we can’t say the same for the cops,” Milo snorted. “If they’d just bothered to ask around, they would’ve learned you’re harmless. Far as I know, you’re guilty of only one serious crime.”

Cathy looked up, startled. “What crime?”

“Assaulting the ears of victims unlucky enough to hear his saxophone.”

“This from a piccolo player who practises with earplugs,” observed Victor.

“That’s to drown out extraneous noise.”

“Yeah. Mainly your own.”

Cathy grinned. “I’m beginning to understand why you called yourselves the Out of Tuners.”

“Just some healthy self-deprecating humor,” said Milo. “Something we needed after we failed to make the Stanford band.” Milo rose, shoving away from the kitchen table. “Well, come on. Let’s see what’s on that mysterious roll of film.”

He led them along the hall and down a rickety set of steps to the basement. The chemical tang of the air, the row of trays lined up on a stainless-steel countertop and the slow drip, drip of water from the faucet told Cathy she was standing in an enormous darkroom. Tacked on the walls was a jumble of photos. Faces, mostly, apparently snapped around the world. Here and there she spotted a newsworthy shot: soldiers storming an airport, protestors unfurling a banner.

“Is this your job, Milo?” she asked.

“I wish,” said Milo, agitating the developing canister. “No, I just work in the ol’ family business.”

“Which is?”

“Shoes. Italian, Brazilian, leather, alligator, you name it, we import it.” He cocked his head at the photos. “That’s how I get my exotic faces. Shoe-buying trips. I’m an expert on the female arch.”