Mean Woman Blues

different prescription drugs. Poor thing’s so out of it her speech is slurred.”
    “Can we get the mother on the show?”
    “Whoo! That might be too much, don’t you think?”
    “How about a tape? We could go to her house and talk to her in the comfort of her own bed.”
    “You are so
smart
, David Wright. Sure. Let’s do it. I left a memo for you.”
    Tracie was falling for him; it was never more obvious. She’d have to be kept at bay. He absolutely could not mess up this thing with Karen. Did Ronald Reagan mess around with bimbos? Hell, no. That was for losers like Clinton. He, Mr. Right, must be above reproach.
    He wasn’t in his office twenty minutes when Tracie busted in, not even bothering to knock. He glared at her over the rims of his reading glasses, a trick he’d seen in movies, and spoke in his most supercilious pseudo-British. “Ms. Hesler. Do we need to talk about privacy?”
    She ignored him. “David, listen.” He noticed for the first time how pale she was, how her hands were flying aimlessly through the air, working off nervous energy. “I need to talk to you.” She closed the door behind her. “Something bad’s going down. Two feds just walked into the station manager’s office.”
    “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “It’s all right, it’s all right.” She patted the air in front of his chest, not touching him. “It can’t affect us directly— unless we get fired. The bank must have leaned on somebody. I’ve seen it before. Every time you have a really controversial story, this kind of thing happens.”
    Mr. Right was no longer listening. His attention had gone ten minutes into the future. His panic flashed back for a second and then disappeared. One thing about it, panic was an illusion at worst, a warning at best. When the worst had happened, the very worst that could possibly happen, it was replaced almost instantly by an icy calm.
    He knew at once that there was no way this could be coincidental. Isaac had awakened and ratted him out. No doubt in his mind. Well, there was his contingency plan. He cracked the door and looked around the corner. Nobody was there.
    He said to Tracie, “Well, they’re damn well not going to get away with it. I’m going in there and bust this little party up.”
    “You can’t do that!”
    “I damn well can, and I will. Stay here, and I’ll let you know what’s going on. Here.” He held out a folder. “Been working on a strategy for next season. Look it over, will you? Be back in a few.” He strode out purposefully, and after a few steps, reversed his direction, slipped out the back door, and drove away. He figured he had about twenty minutes till anyone noticed he was missing. It was still a long way from that to connecting David Wright to Errol Jacomine. His television career might or might not be over, there was still half a chance Tracie was right and the feds were there for some relatively benign shakedown, but he didn’t think so.
    He drove to Highland Park Mall, near one of his banks, the one with the Thomas Washington account. He parked his car in the lot, leaving his sports jacket on the seat. He opened the trunk, extracted a baseball cap, shades, and tan windbreaker, all of which he put on, making sure the cap covered his now-famous gray hair. And then he pulled out a canvas briefcase, the kind meant to carry a laptop. This one contained his life— lives, actually. He’d taken the precaution of having a number of documents forged at once. You never knew when one persona was going to have to die and another was going to be needed. There was one other thing in the case— a gun.
    He went into the bank, looking warily around. A woman employee caught his eye, and he saw the flash of recognition. She started toward him happily, smiling and waving, and he knew she wanted to tell him what a fan she was, to be the person who helped Mr. Right that fine day. He absolutely could not have that encounter; Mr. Right could not be connected to Thomas Washington. He turned and fled, pretending he hadn’t noticed her.
    He walked briskly to the nearest men’s room, which was by no means near, and called a cab. He waited in a stall for fifteen minutes, then slowly, warily, ventured out.
    He gave the cab an address a block from Rosemarie Owens’ house and walked blithely up to her door. But on the way he phoned her. “Morning, ma’am. UPS. I’m at the service entrance.”
    She had a back door, but not a service entrance.