“While the cat’s away . . .” Lilly quipped, referring to Esther.
“What’s that Lilly?”
“Nothing, Rick,” she said, turning away.
“And call Pincus. I want him over here this afternoon.”
“No need, Rick. He’s coming in this morning with the material you gave him.”
“I love a man who does his homework,” Mallory commented. “Dominick?”
“He’s due here in fifteen minutes.” Dominick was his barber. Burns at CTV recommended him.
“You’re unquestionably a man in need of a haircut and a shave,” Berg commented.
“Ice, you have a few minutes? Why don’t you come down to my office and give me your impressions of the Stallings case.”
“The Ice Man cometh,” Berg responded, laughing at his own pun.
Mallory stopped at Nick Tunney’s office and stood conspicuously in the doorway.
Tunney looked up from behind a stack of case folders. He was tall, peppered haired, mid-forties. An ex-FBI agent, his free-wheeling days were behind him. A conscientious sort, he knew the law enforcement business inside out, and his avuncular style afforded Mallory a comfortable cushion for bouncing off his highly speculative, sometimes off-beat theories. “Can I expect some help today?” he pleaded, without wasting time on a greeting or acknowledging the presence of the press.
“I can’t today,” Mallory replied.
“Why not? This is our detective agency isn’t it? I would think you might want to pitch in occasionally just to make it look good.”
“Nick, I’d like to help, but I’m really into this Stallings case. Melissa Compton is coming over this afternoon. And I still have to read the files you got for me from the FBI.”
“Fifty missing persons and six firms requesting psychological tests with undercover follow up. Your girlfriend decides to take a vacation at the busiest time of the year, right before the holidays, when rich men decide to leave their wives and the company comptroller runs off with the receipts. I’m overwhelmed,” Tunney pleaded.
“Alright. Calm down,” Mallory relented. “Give me some time to clean myself up and I’ll come in to help. By the way do you still know that Russian intelligence attaché,” Mallory asked.
“You mean Bobki?”
“Yeah, Bobki.”
“Bobki now has his own detective agency in Moscow.”
“Detective agency?”
“Well that’s what he calls it,” Tunney remarked. “More of a B to B than an agency. He sells old KGB files.”
“KGB files? He making any money at that?”
“Raking it in. His biggest customer is the United States government.”
“Touch base with him. Find out what he charges. I may have some business for him.”
“Sure, Rick.”
“Hello, Nick,” Berg said, not enjoying being totally ignored.
“Ice,” Tunney acknowledged him grudgingly. There was a long pause. Berg and Tunney had words in the past when Berg jumped the gun on the Lucas case, blowing the cover on two FBI agents that Lucas later murdered. “How’s the character assassination business?” Tunney asked, showing his disdain for the media and Berg, in particular.
“Never better,” Berg retorted. “You know the old line, Nick. No one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public.”
“Sorry, but I never heard that one.”
“H.L Mencken, I believe,” Berg informed him.
“I’ll file that away under things to forget.” He gave Berg a long hard stare then shifted his gaze down at the mound of paperwork on his desk.
Mallory and Berg continued down the long, gray-carpeted hallway to Mallory’s office.
“Can you keep yourself busy for a while?” Mallory asked, heading for the shower.
“I’ll manage,” Berg responded.
Berg parked himself on the plush silver Italian sofa in front of the white marble bust of Julius Caesar. He looked back, over his right shoulder at the Roman emperor. “Beware the Ides of March,” he mumbled. Mallory’s office was a veritable treasure trove of rare artifacts: vases, swords, sculpture, not to mention movie memorabilia. Behind the antique gold writing table was the back-lit De Boer smoked glass window with Spade and Archer embossed in copperplate gothic lettering; it was the actual window of Sam Spade’s office in the Maltese Falcon that Mallory had purchased at Sotheby’s for twenty grand. “Pure gold,” Berg commented to himself, referring Mallory’s collection.
He lifted himself off the couch and sauntered over to the bar. It was a little early, but you only live once, he thought. He turned over a pink depression tumbler, filled it with ice and poured in a 4oz can of Sacramento tomato juice, then covered it over with a full jigger of Stolichnaya. Placing the glass on a green onyx coaster that had the name George Jensen scripted across, he carried it over to the desk, retrieved the Stallings file and plopped down on the sofa. He placed the drink on the cocktail table with the precision of a watchmaker and cracked open the file.
A wad of photos: the crime scene, hours after the kidnapping; the Stallings boys; the next door neighbor who had been with them that fateful night; Dr. and Mrs. Stallings. There was also a composite drawing of the kidnapper—normal looking son of a bitch. Normal as normal could be. Full face, pixie ears, deeply set narrow eyes, light stiff brown hair, collegiate style. Oddest thing was that he was wearing a matching shirt and tie, brownish-burgundy. The shirt didn’t have a wrinkle, like he had just taken it out of the closet and the tie was fastidiously knotted. The three boys all commented on it. The creep looked like a camp counselor or religious school instructor. Berg just couldn’t figure it. Not your typical sexual deviant.
The seasoned crime reporter hoisted the Bloody Mary into the air as if toasting the New Year, and sipped off just enough to get that warm feeling. He’d forgotten to mix it; the alcohol seared his palate and seemed to pass instantaneously through his blood brain barrier. He nodded approvingly at the jolt. He twirled the concoction around a bit before re-depositing it on the coaster. He put the photos aside and folded back the plastic file cover, placing it over his crossed knees.
October 12, 2002. Dr. and Mrs. Stallings were away, attending a medical conference in Alliance, North Dakota, ten miles north of Dickinson, the nearest town to where they lived. They planned to return home later that evening. Mrs. Stallings called home at approximately 4P.M. to check on her three sons: Evan, 14; William, 13, and Robbie, 11. Their neighbor, Eric Lyman, Evan’s friend, was over: Mrs. Stallings had left a pot of franks and beans on the stove. She asked Evan to warm it up at dinnertime and dole it out to the crowd. Evan asked her permission to bike over to the video store in town to rent a game. Mrs. Stallings reluctantly agreed provided they started out immediately so they would get back before dark. Carnes Video was a 20 minute ride down Levlin Road, a winding two-lane offshoot of Route 4A. It passed through Pickens Bluff, then yielded to open prairie for about two miles, then a stretch of sand hills and prairie dunes before entering the suburbs of Dickinson. Carnes was located at a strip mall at the intersection of 4A. Levlin Road had a wide shoulder and was seldom traveled: a safe run the boys had made innumerable times. The trip going was uneventful. The wind was at their backs and traveling time was just under 20 minutes. They barely took notice of a black Mercury Cougar with muddied license plates parked along the shoulder where the bluff gave way to the open prairie. But coming back, a man with matching burgundy- brown shirt and tie got out of the car and hailed them down. He explained that he was lost, on his way to Chadren. He needed directions back to 385. “Go down Levlin Road to 4A North,” Evan Stallings told him.” The man was grateful. Offered him some