Kim Baldwin - The Gemini Deception

“Yeah,” a woman’s voice replied.

“I’m with the Secret Service. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“What about?”

“Your work at the Bath Country Club.”

“I don’t work there anymore.”

“Please open up.”

“Whatever, I’m busy.”

“We can do this the hard way if you refuse to cooperate.”

A few seconds later, Gingras buzzed her in. Her apartment was on the second floor, and the young woman stood waiting at the top of the stairs. “Show me your ID,” she said as Shield neared.

Shield flashed her White House credentials as she walked around the girl to the open door of 2D. “Let’s do this inside.”

The girl walked in first and Shield shut the door behind them.

Julie Gingras’s long blond hair covered most of her face, the same way dark stains covered most of her worn T-shirt. Without a word, she curled up on the couch and stared at some infomercial on TV. The small apartment, with its kitchenette, looked like a department store had exploded in there. Clothes and shoes covered almost every surface, and dirty plates were piled up on the sink and coffee table.

The furnishings and clothes were all feminine, however, with no indication that Weitman or any other man was also living there.

“So?” Julie said distractedly.

Shield walked over to the television and turned it off.

“Hey.” The girl complained with a frown. “I was gonna buy that Miracle Mop.”

“Nothing short of a fire hose can clean this place up.”

“Whatever.”

“I have some questions regarding your sick leave on the twelfth of October.”

“That was like eons ago. So?”

“I understand your boyfriend took your shift that day.”

“I had the flu. So?”

“I’d like to talk to him.”

“Why, what’d he do?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Shield replied, standing over the girl. “That’s why I want to see him.”

“Good luck with that.” Gingras stared at the blank TV screen.

“Where is he?”

The girl shrugged. “Dunno.”

“What time does he get back?”

“Like, never. We broke up in November when I caught him screwing my best friend, like on our bed.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“The scumbag moved back to Boston.”

“Do you have an address?” Talking to the girl was like pulling teeth.

“Ipswich Street, ’cross from Fenway Park.”

“Number?”

“152, I think.”

“Thanks.”

“Whatever. Tell him I said I hope he rots in hell.”

Shield had barely shut the door when the blare from the TV started up again.

“Got anything yet on Weitman?” Shield asked Reno as she headed toward the highway.

“He has a pretty extensive rap sheet for a twenty-six-year-old,” Reno replied. “Stole a car in his teens, lots of petty drug busts, then served a couple of years for breaking and entering. Nothing in the last year or so, however, and can’t find a current on him. No driver’s license, and he hasn’t filed taxes in the last couple of years. If it helps, most of his history—school, arrests and such—was in Boston.”

“I’m headed there now. His girlfriend gave me an address. Send me his mug shot, and call me back if you get anything I can use.”

*

Dorchester, Massachusetts

Dennis Weitman cursed aloud when the phone bleated again, jarring him from his near-coma slumber. He hadn’t gotten home until six that morning and had promptly passed out on the couch after a night of pill popping and sex. He fumbled for the receiver, trying not to tip off the couch. “What?”

“Listen, stupid. Someone was just here asking about you. Not that I owe you any favors, loser, but I thought you might wanna know.”

“Who is this?” Dennis scratched his balls, half-awake.

“It’s Julie, you fool.”

“Hey, Jules. What’s up, babe?”

“Don’t babe me, and are you even listening? Some Secret Service woman named…something Kennedy is looking for you.”

“Why?”

“Something about you taking my shift at the golf club in October.”

Dennis sat up. “What exactly did she say?”

“Nothing. She just wanted to know where to find you.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I gave her an address near Fenway. Some girl’s I went to school with.”

“Good. What did you tell her about that day?”

“I didn’t tell her you made me call in sick, if that’s what you mean.”

“Good. Good.”

“Why is she looking for you?”

“Don’t know, babe. Listen, I gotta go.”

“Hey, wait. I—”

Dennis hung up the landline and made a call from his unregistered cell. “Hey, it’s Weitman.”

“I hope you have a good reason for calling this number.”

“Some Secret Service chick named Kennedy is looking for me, asking about the golf club.”

“Who has she contacted?”

“My ex. The one I took the shift for.”

“What did Ms. Gingras tell her?”

Dennis frowned, surprised they even knew his ex’s name. “Julie gave the woman a fake address to get rid of her.”

“I see.”

“Listen, I don’t want any trouble with no Secret Service.”

“Don’t panic, Mr. Weitman. We’ll take care of it.”

“Damn right you will. Last thing I need is cops crawling up my ass.”

“We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen. Keep a low profile until we find out what this is about.”

“You know what this is about. Someone knows or someone talked. Either way, I just got paid to do a job. None of this is my shit to deal with.”

“Thank you for notifying us. You have nothing to worry about. We’ll get back to you when we know something.”

“Damn right you will.” Dennis hung up. “Motherfucker.” He kicked the coffee table and got up to shower.

*

A quick call to the airport confirmed there were no direct flights between Portland and Boston, so Shield decided to drive the hundred or so miles and arrived at Fenway about one in the afternoon. It didn’t take her long to determine the address that Gingras had given her was fake. Number 152 was a broken-down tenement, long unoccupied, that was due to be torn down to make way for a new parking lot. None of the area merchants recognized Dennis Weitman’s mug shot.

Frustrated, she called Reno back. “The address I had is bogus. Got any leads where he might be?”

“Weitman has no family to speak of,” Reno replied. “No one visited him in prison. But Harry Brinker—his cellmate when he was in the MCI-Norfolk facility—lives just outside Boston, and Weitman was registered at that address when he was released a year ago.”

“Mail it to me, and a mug shot of Brinker.”

“Coming your way.”

“Talk to you later.” Shield hung up.

She entered the address into her GPS and turned the car south. Thirty minutes later, she stood at the door of a tiny prefab house surrounded by a wire fence, in a slummy area of Dorchester. The house was tired and worn, and a large, balding beige patch served as lawn.

Shield went up three steps to the small porch. As soon as she knocked, she heard movement from inside. “Mr. Brinker, please open up.”

“Who’s there?”

“Agent Kennedy. I’m with the Secret Service.”

Several seconds passed before an overweight man in his mid-thirties opened the door but left it on the chain. He wore soiled sweats, and a cigarette dangled from between his brown-stained fingers.

Shield held up her ID. “I was hoping you could help me find Dennis Weitman.”

“Dunno him.”

“Your ex-cellmate. He registered your home as his address after his release.”

“Oh, that Weitman. Yeah, he was here for a week, maybe. That was over a year ago.”