Well, here we are again, this bloody thing doesn't want to finish itself for some reason. I have to admit that I'm torn between the enjoyment of crawling around these people's psyches and then wishing that they would damn well go away so I can work on something else.
Special Notes for this chapter: [1] There isn't a continuity problem, I'm playing games. The consequences of the flashback will appear in the next chapter. It surely does reek of Deus ex Machina, but you get that, and I take pride in the fact that it's gonna drive 'tasha nuts.
[2] You can use malt whiskey for Irish coffee; deal with it J
Thanks as always to the wonderful 'tasha, my beta extraordinaire, whom I am slowly driving mad and a welcome back to Kate, who felt I didn't love her any more but who was still kind enough to point out all the words I spelt wrong.
As always, I hope, you, the reader, enjoy this offering; you may, in the interests of boosting my meagre ego shower me with reviews.
The best thing to give to your enemy is forgiveness; to an opponent, tolerance; to a friend, your heart; to your child, a good example; to a father, deference; to your mother, conduct that will make her proud of you; to yourself, respect; to all men, charity.
Francis Maitland Balfour
Trying to be a first-rate reporter on the average American newspaper is like trying to play Bach's 'St. Matthew's Passion' on a ukulele.
Bagdikian's Observation
When they discover the centre of the universe, a lot of people will be disappointed to discover they are not it.
Bernard Bailey
Dinner had been nice. Not nice in that horrifically faux-polite way, which denoted not only disdain but also the implication that the host was a tasteless clod whose parents should really have married outside the family, but nice in the sense of a pleasant company and good conversation.
…..and Greg could cook…..Although that wasn't a major surprise considering how anal he was about his coffee. Actually, his coffee machine was of minor concern looking, as it did, like a cross between an iron maiden and the bridge of the Enterprise. When Greg disappeared behind the monstrosity for a good ten minutes after the dessert dishes were cleared Rilie began to think that she'd been thrown over for the caffeine equivalent of the Bride of Frankenstein.
"Sanders, are you mating with that thing, or do I have to talk to your cat?"
The cat was another concern. It had looked at her disdainfully when she arrived and its opinion of what its pet had invited home had only gone downhill as the evening progressed. It had perched on a ragged-looking sofa during dinner and had regarded her through slitted eyes for the entire meal, to the extent where she was fighting the urge to check if she'd suddenly sprouted a tail and whiskers. Greg hadn't helped. He'd regarded the interaction between the two with the veiled amusement and avuncular tolerance that all pet owners gift their animals.
"Benzene isn't particularly social."
"In the manner of a great white shark."
"I just think she's a little possessive is all."
"I think you need to examine your definition of 'little' Greg, I'll feel like I'm being sized up as a potential scratching post."
Greg disagreed, "Benzene wouldn't scratch you Rilie, you're not expensive enough, Benzene only scratches the finest of everything," he gestured in the direction of the sofa - well it looked like a sofa if you being generous to matted lumps of stuffing held together with the odd bit of fabric, actually calling it a sofa was an insult of all home furnishings in general and lounge suites in particular – "Once upon a time" Greg continued, "That was an heirloom piece, then one day I went out and came back a couple of hours later to find this," he laugh ruefully, "That was the first and last time I ever forgot to feed her."
"If I had a cat that did that it would be dog food.'
"Maybe so, but Benzene amuses me more than the sofa ever did and I must admit to taking a small amount of pleasure in knowing that the destruction of the sofa will have my great aunt Martha rolling in her grave."
"Her sofa?"
"No, but she'd wanted it and had been put out in the extreme when her sister, my Gran, refused to give it to her because Gran thought that Martha wouldn't take proper care of it. I never liked Martha, she was a bad-tempered old bat who smelt like a pickled onion; and she didn't like cats. Half the family thought it was some sort of divine justice when she was run down by an SPCA van when she was out visiting the furrier to purchase a new fox-skin wrap."
"How was the driver?"
"Of the van?"
"Yes"
"Traumatised, or he was until we described Martha to him; after that he made a remarkable recovery. Nice guy, married Martha's granddaughter; they met at the funeral."
Greg finally finished his caffeinated machinations and came out of the kitchen bearing something tall and creamy looking.
"That doesn't look like a coffee Greg."
"Irish coffee. God's blessing. Single malt scotch, the finest Columbian coffee and perfectly whipped cream, it doesn't get any better than this; even Benzene likes it."
"Your cat like Irish coffee?"
"Yes, I'm very proud of her."
"And precisely how do you control that thing when it's on a caffeine high?"
"Usually I hide in the other room."
"Very brave."
"One tries." Well at least the ironic banter was going well, however, Greg was somewhat confused as to his next step. Should he heroically leap over the couch and ravish Rilie – who was certainly looking extremely ravishable - …..probably not, she'd probably plait his arms and legs together. Well, then again, maybe not, after all it was she that had hurdled the table in the café this morning and assaulted him - not that he was complaining mind – so maybe some level of reciprocation was in order.
"Rilie, would you be horribly offended at the notion of my coming over to where you're sitting and performing moderate, but extremely interesting indignities upon your person?" Oh yes, that was smooth, makes me sounds like a thirty year old virgin with a dictionary fetish.
"What are you suggesting Sanders? And is it something of which your cat would approve? "
OK, thought Greg, she has to be teasing me.
Christ, thought Rilie, glaciers move faster than this.
Useless pets, thought Benzene.
Waldorf Astoria was in a manic mood, a peripatetic frenzy no less and one that couldn't be blamed on his morning coffee – a half-caf, mocha latte with both chocolate and cinnamon sprinkles. In his hand he held a report, a report that if true would alienate a good percentage of the voters no matter which way he slithered. He paced, his pacing matched by the tourettian agitation of the report in his hand, which waved to and fro with such force that the fan in the corner was rendered essentially redundant.
"Mary," he thundered, "Where the hell is Corbin?"
Waldorf's secretary, used as she was to mayoral tantrums having served five consecutive administrations, ignored the lack of anything remotely resembling civility and indicated in a tone as bland as the City Councils latest budget that the Police Chief was indeed on his way.
"I said I wanted him here immediately."
After briefly pausing and swallowing a comment about Star Trek, transporters and where the mayor could install one, Mary hurried off to locate the errant Chief, she returned within minutes and informed the Mayor that the Chief was held up in traffic. The Mayor was not impressed.
"Why doesn't he use his siren?"
"Because you made it illegal."
"I what?"
"Part of those budget cuts that we're not supposed to mention."
The mayor gifted his P.A. with a murderous glare and it was through clenched teeth he managed to ask he for the rest of the days appointments.
Mary, having organised his calendar for the day, grinned maliciously. "Well sir, at 11AM you're meeting with representatives from the Las Vegas Medical Ethics Association. At Midday, the presidents' of the League for Penal Reform and Anti-Death Penalty Advocacy Association will be here, followed by Rich Businessmen for a Socialist Utopia at 1PM. You get a half-hour break for lunch and then the Spanish Citizens association will be here to talk to you about a Piñata…… Also….." and there was no hiding Mary's suppressed glee, "Your wife called, you're not to forget that you're having dinner with the Hendersons this evening and that they're going to show pictures of their trip to Greenland last Winter."
The Mayor, who had turned an interesting shade of green during his secretary's recitation, visibly quailed at the last item on his itinerary. "Is there any way you can get me out of it Mary? Perhaps an official visit to a landfill? Anything?"
"Not a chance sir. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go and terrorise the typing pool." As her back was to Astoria as she left his office, he wouldn't have seen the broad grin on her face, she enjoyed reminding the Mayor from time-to-time just who was really in charge.
She had just seated herself behind her desk when Corbin wandered in his distinct lack of haste clearly indicating that he shared Mary's pleasure in driving the Mayor mental.
"Waiting for me is he Mary?"
"Oh yes, he's fairly close to implosion this time."
"Well I'll see what I can do to encourage that, the mayoral chamber needs re-decorating; anyway, what's the crisis du jour?"
"Some CSI report he's received through unofficial channels; it would seem that he's got a mole in the office. Whatever it is, it's got him impersonating a hamster on speed that's missing its exercise wheel; it's not a good day for our beloved leader considering the agenda I've organised for today."
"You playing games again Mary?"
The P.A. grinned, "Let's just say that the Mayor's day is a right-wing capitalist's nightmare. So Corbin, what's this report all about?"
The police chief shrugged. Taking a moment to withdraw his cell phone from an inner pocket he dialled a number and waited.
"'lo Jim, Corbin. You know anything about a report?…..Really….I see, so it's just preliminary speculation…..How do I know about it? The Prince of Darkness has a spy, I'm about to go peel him off the ceiling…..Grissom wants to do what? Hasn't he heard of due process…..No, I wouldn't recommend that as a course of action, perhaps you could remind him that lynch mobs aren't legal in the state of Nevada…..He doesn't care? Christ Jim, he doesn't even know where to point the bloody thing, anyway, I thought he was supposed to be Mr Rational…..Yes, I know, he's tired of prying people off walls, we all are…..Look Jim, I better see if I can't talk some sense into the Great Leader, you go tie Grissom to a chair, or give him a rabies shot…..Yes, yes I know….thanks Jim."
Mary looked at the Corbin questioningly as he replaced the phone in his pocket but before she open her mouth he held up his hand to forestall her. "Not now Mary, I've got to go forestall our Mayor from doing something colossally stupid, could you do me a favour and disconnect his phone for a couple of hours, the last thing we need is him talking to someone even more ignorant that he is."
Mary shrugged, "OK Corbin, but can I listen in on the intercom? Someone's got to run this place and it's probably better that I have some idea of what's going on."
Corbin shrugged, obviously leaving the choice to Mary's discretion, taking a deep breath he squared his shoulders and entered the Mayor's inner sanctum.
To say that Corbin was bemused as he surveyed the scene before him would leave one open to accusations of understatement. The mayor, the conservative, dignified mayor looked like the people from Queer Eye had rearranged him with a blender such was his state of deshabille.
Restraining the urge to ask the Astoria if he had switched to Einstein's hairdresser, the chief cleared his throat and announced his presence with a polite inquiry. "I understand you've been looking for me Mr Mayor?"
"Where the hell have you been Calliope?"
"In traffic," was the bland reply. "So what's the problem?"
"Have you seen this," shrieked the mayor waving the document in his hand in front of Calliope's nose.
"No, it's in your hand. What is it?" he asked despite knowing precisely what it was from his brief conversation with Brass in the outer office, however, he wanted the Mayor's version, however histrionic that wound up being.
"It's the police, they're going to cause a major political scandal."
"…..and how are they going to do that?"
"They're going to catch the Shakespeare Killer."
"…..and catching one of the blood thirstiest criminals in US history is a bad thing?"
"Yes…..I mean no…..I mean, hell I don't know what I mean I just know I'm dead."
Hooray for the police, it's nice to know when you're wanted, thought Calliope. "So what you're telling me Waldorf, is that you're concerned that what's contained in that report is bad for you politically and that you are more concerned about your political career than you are about stopping a madman?"
Astoria had the grace to look abashed.
Calliope decided that this was the perfect opportunity to put the boot in.
"So, can I ask Waldorf, how it is that you have a police report, on the Shakespeare Killer I might add, that I haven't seen yet? I believe that I am still the Chief of Police. Of course I could be mistaken."
Astoria would have cleaned up at the academy awards at that point; such was the quality of his 'cornered rat' impression. Unfortunately, the rat had no hole and was thus left to babble incoherently in the direction of his Chief of Police. Calliope, experienced in the ways of politicians, was able provide an approximate translation of the Mayor's excuses, which could, in essence be distilled down to the somewhat unlikely: "I found it on my desk this morning."
"Oh really?" Calliope's scepticism was a palpable force and the mayor quailed before it. 'Would you like to try again Waldorf?"
Waldorf, for all his faults wasn't stupid, and his next tactic came straight from the Large Black Book of Political Tricks™. "I'm the Mayor, I'm not answerable to you Corbin."
Unfortunately for the mayor, Corbin was smarter, and when required of him, fought dirtier than the basest politician. "You're quite correct Waldorf, you're not answerable to me and I'll mention that when I announce my resignation to the press; I'm sure Ms Babylon would love an exclusive."
Game. Set. Match.
Astoria's defeat was a palpable thing, as was his genuflection to the gods of political expediency "Alright Corbin, point made. Will you accept that I have a source inside the police and leave it there? Certainly, you can initiate a witch-hunt, and you'll probably find my source and then I'll just find another source you won't know about."
Corbin, while obviously not happy, was also on speaking terms with the same gods of expediency that Waldorf obviously had lunch with every Saturday at his Country Club and as such knew that what mattered now was playing the game; he'd had a win now it was time to move on.
For what it was worth, he didn't begrudge the Mayor his source; that was how the game was played, his annoyance came more from the Mayor's reaction for that wasn't how the game was played. Astoria, for his part knew he'd been outmanoeuvred through his own clumsiness, and pragmatist that he was, ceded the point to his Chief. This time.
"Alright Corbin, now that you've had your fun can we get down to business, and Mary, if you're still listening in, get the hell off the intercom and do some work."
Calliope looked amused, "How'd you know."
"I'm corrupt Corbin, not stupid; although I'm well aware that my harpy of a P.A. thinks I'm an idiot. Hamurabbi I'm not, but neither am I completely bereft of the vague stirrings of higher brain function. I don't have enough money to buy my way into office, and I'm not an aging movie star, so do give me a little credit for something."
Corbin shrugged; he'd learnt never to underestimate any opponent especially one with all the cunning of a cornered rat like the Mayor. Certainly, Waldorf Astoria would never be the brain of Britain, but he wasn't in the running for village idiot either. "Whatever you say Mister Mayor, now if you could pass me that report you're trying not to have in your hands we'll get down to business."
Astoria assumed a pained expression; one Calliope knew better than to give total credence to thus he extended his hand for the report that his employer was, through the wonders of prestidigitation, attempting to disappear into the various documents that scattered his desk.
With the resignation of a man forced to choose between beheading and being staked out over an anthill, Astoria handed over the report and then watched as his Chief of Police's expression did it's best imitation of a chameleon on a tartan rug.
"I take then that you understand the reason for my swearing?"
"Perfectly. What it's telling me is that in order to catch this maniac we have to undermine the Hippocratic oath, the legal basis of doctor-patient privilege and, if we get time, cause a diplomatic incident with a foreign country."
"You missed out the bit about undermining the constitution."
"Oh yes. Wonderful. Why was it we wanted to catch this guy?"
"Beats me. Lunch?"
FLASHBACK: THE PREVIOUS EVENINGThe doorbell was still ringing. Agatha Babylon was not happy, safely ensconced as she was in her wallow of self-hatred and recrimination, the last thing she wanted to do was interact with her fellow beings. For all she cared it could be Lexington Steele with a bunch of flowers, tow tabs of ecstasy and a packet of Trojan extra-ribbed and she still would have slammed the door in his face – amongst other things.
'BBBBBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZTTTTTTT'
The buzzing was more insistent now, like a swarm of hornets left on the stove to boil too long and who were now using less than polite language to express their unhappiness with present accommodations.
Babylon gave in, and after cursing her doorman for being the incompetent offspring of a female canine she answered the door. Such was her aggravation that the usual concern one has for their personal safety, especially considering the contemporary Las Vegas environment, was cast aside as she ripped the security chain aside, flung back the deadbolt and pulled the door open with a muscularity one would not have initially attributed to one of her petite dimensions; to say she was surprised at who stood before her wasn't true, she was completely stunned, speechless and almost breathless. She would have been less surprised if the Shakespeare Killer himself had stood before her and asked her if wanted a personal relationship with God.
"I have to admit that I actually expected there to be sign-posting" came a quiet voice from in front of her, "Something like 'Cave Babylon' perhaps."
"As opposed to something more appropriate like Beware of the Wild Hydrangeas?" Agatha Babylon, chief reporter, voice of the people, shrugged and stepped aside, gesturing for the person at her door to enter. "Won't you come in Mr Grissom?"
Nodding in polite acquiescence, the scientist entered the room and paused to admire the impressive tropical aquarium before taking a seat in one of the leather recliners his host gestured too.
"Would you care for something to drink?"
If Grissom was surprised at the courtesy – especially considering the last Armageddon-like encounter between the two - he kept it hidden and asked for a mineral water if such was available. While Babylon went to get his drink he took time to examine the room. That it was testament to wealth and luxury was not a surprise; Babylon did earn a fortune for her skill as a professional muckraker, what surprised Grissom was the clearly evident taste of the owner, he'd expected the gaudy trappings of Toulouse Lautrec on acid; mentally he chastised himself for sloppy thinking and reminded his addled prejudices that Ecklie's house should have been enough of a reminder not to let his preconceptions run amok.
Presently, the small dark haired woman returned bearing a glass and a small bottle of mineral water - Perrier of course.
"Alright Grissom, what do you want?"
Well that was direct and to the point he thought, "That's twice you've got my name right Ms Babylon…..", she grinned wryly before he could finish…..
"It's a tactic Grissom, annoy someone enough and they usually get angry and say something they shouldn't; I say usually, because some people, like our beloved mayor, are too used to being insulted to pay any attention. Normally Waldorf sicks his ever-faithful Calliope onto me and tries to forget I exist. Calliope occasionally thinks he's funny and I imagine that's how you wound up puncturing my ego last time around."
While such candour was refreshing, Grissom didn't trust it, especially from this woman.
"You came here Grissom, this is, after all, my house" Babylon reminded him, and there was no escaping the emphasis on the possessive. "You're obviously the one that wants something from me, so logically, I lose nothing by being honest about things which are of relatively little import. So tell me, why are you here?"
Grissom swore silently, damn her for being intelligent, unfortunately, beggars couldn't be choosers and thus decided he began to speak.