MIRROR IMAGE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Van's search came to an end on the eve of Election Day. For several seconds, he stared at the color monitor screen, not believing that he'd finally found what he had been looking for all this time.

He had taken a catnap at daybreak, realizing when he saw light leaking around the tattered shades in his apartment windows that he had been up all night, viewing one videotape after another. After he had slept for about an hour, he'd drunk a pot of strong, caffeine-rich coffee and returned to his console.  The desk area was littered with junk food wrappers, empty soda cans, empty cigarette packs, and rank, overflowing ashtrays.

Van hadn't noticed the untidiness. He didn't care. Nor did it matter to him that he hadn't eaten a square meal or showered in over forty-eight hours. His compulsion to watch videotapes had become his obsession.  His passion had grown into a mission.

He accomplished it at nine-thirty P.M. as he sat looking at a tape he had shot three years earlier while working at an NBC affiliate station in Washington state. He didn't even remember the station's call letters, but he remembered the assignment. He had used four tapes in all, each containing twenty minutes of unedited video. The reporter had com­ pressed those eighty minutes into a five-minute special feature for the evening news during a ratings sweep week. It was the kind of piece people shuddered over and woefully shook their heads at, but consumed like popcorn.

Van watched all eighty minutes several times to make certain there was no mistake. When he was positive he was right, he flipped the necessary switches, inserted a blank tape, and began to make a duplicate of the most important, and most incriminating, one of the four.

Since it had to be duplicated at real time, that left him with twenty minutes to kill. He searched through the crumpled packets littering the console and finally produced a lone, bent cigarette, lit it, then picked up the phone and called the Palacio Del Rio.

"Yeah, I need to talk to Mrs. Rutledge.  Mrs. Tate Rutledge.''

"I'm sorry, sir," the switchboard operator said pleasantly, "I can't put that call through, but if  you leave  your name and number—"

"No, you don't understand. This is a personal message for Av ... uh, Carole Rutledge."

'T11 give your message to their staff, who is screening—"

"Look, bitch, this is important, got that? An emergency."

"Regarding what, sir?"

"I can't tell you. I've got to speak to Mrs. Rutledge personally.''

"I'm sorry, sir," the unflappable operator repeated. "I can't put that call through. If you leave your—"

"Shit!"

He slammed down the receiver and dialed Irish's number.

He let it ring thirty times before giving up. "Where the hell is he?"

While the tape was still duplicating, Van paced, trying to figure out the best way to inform Irish and Avery of what he'd found. It was essential that he get this tape into Avery's hands, but how? If he couldn't even get the hotel operator to ring her suite, he couldn't possibly get close enough tonight to place the tape into her hands. She had to see it before tomorrow.

By the time the duplication was completed, Van still hadn't thought of a solution to his dilemma. The only possible course of action was to try to locate Irish. He would advise him what to do.

But after keeping the phone lines hot for half an hour between his apartment, KTEX's newsroom, and Irish's house, he still hadn't spoken to his boss. He decided to take the damn tape to Irish's house. He could wait for him there. It would mean driving clear across town, but what the hell? This was important.