Office Visit

by Dustin Stevens

  Spread wide to either side are a pair of offices, wooden doors off-set by glass fronts. Reserved for client meetings and telephone discussions of delicate matters, they look essentially like fishbowls, putting whoever is inside on display.

  In the back is an open entryway into a kitchen and break area, the smells of coffee and Chinese food faint in the air.

  Taking a deep breath, I can’t seem to shake the feeling that I am trespassing, my heart rate continuing to climb. Opting against turning the lights on, I move in the semi-darkness around the right side of the front desk, heading for the eastern bank of cubicles.

  The first one on the corner belongs to Mallory, as evidenced by the bulletin board plastered with photos of her and her kids. Lining the desk are framed pictures and empty coffee cups and soda bottles, every available inch covered in paperwork or personal effects.

  As perfect an encapsulation of the woman as could be mustered.

  Seeing it all, inventorying it, and dismissing it, I don’t break stride as I head around to the back corner, seeing a space that is as different as can be.

  The desk of my Mira.

  The area is tidy, in a way that cannot be believed for a woman that does what she does for a living. Her chair, replete with ergonomic back support, is pressed up tight against the desk. The bulletin board beside it boasts nothing but a handful of official notices, all squared and aligned perfectly.

  Enough to make some of my early drill instructors proud.

  On the desk is a single picture frame, the sort that folds in the middle, holding a photo on either side. To the right is a shot of her family, back before her father passed. In it her parents are sitting in lawn chairs, plates of food on their laps. Behind them stand Hiram and Mira, both leaning down, arms wrapped around the necks of the person before them.

  I recognize it in an instant as the 4th of July party we’d hosted shortly before her father’s tragic passing. Not back long from an overseas posting, I took the shot, can still recall how happy Mira was having all the people she cared most about together again.

  The second is a picture of us all at The Cartwright, this one taken on my birthday just months before. She and I are in the foreground, Ross and his wife behind her, Swinger and Stapleton behind me. On the table before us is enough food to feed ten times as many people. Enough beer to satiate even more.

  I can say with complete honesty, this is the first time I’ve ever seen the photo without immediately smiling.

  Somehow, it just doesn’t feel right at the moment.

  Pulling my attention away from the frame, I start with the mouse. Giving it a single shake, I wait for the screen to come alive, seeing no lights pop on to indicate as much. Lowering myself to a knee, I find the computer tower that feeds the monitor and press the power button, a series of lights and fans kicking to life.

  While I wait for it to do whatever it needs to, I turn to the vertical row of drawers along the right side. Starting at the bottom, I slide it out, the metal rollers pulling smoothly. In it is nothing but a row of hanging files, hooks on either end resting on metal bars. Sticking up at odd intervals are plastic tabs, each with an identifier scrawled out in Mira’s handwriting.

  Eyes still burning from the encounter with Mallory in the car just moments before, the sight of the loopy cursive gives me pause. More moisture rises to the surface, the salt stinging slightly. Pressing my lips tight, I focus on it for only an instant before shoving the door shut, the metal slamming home, the sound echoing through the space.

  For much of the last few days, I’ve done a decent job of keeping the walls in place. There have been a few wayward moments like those in the parking lot, and I suspect there will continue to be more, stretching indefinitely into the future.

  At the same time, I have to become better at recognizing them. At seeing them on the horizon and stemming them before my emotions take over.

  There’s just too much to do right now for me not be in control.

  Moving to the second drawer, I find nothing but basic office supplies. The sort that most would keep out on their desk, hers are of course filed away, their edges aligned with as much precision as the bulletin board beside me. Arranged by size and shape, I notice a stapler, a pair of scissors, a stack of post-it notes, and a host of other things all in order, nothing unusual jumping out.

  The top drawer is just as uneventful, this one no more than a couple of inches tall, holding a plastic tray filled with writing utensils of various color. Everything from generic wooden pencils to pens and highlighters in every shade, I flick my gaze over everything in short order, shoving it back shut just as the screen before me comes to life.

  What exactly I thought I would find here, I cannot say. All I know is I have to keep looking somewhere, keep doing something, until I find out if there is even a shred of truth to what that bastard said with his last breaths a few nights ago. Until then, my Mira will not be at peace.

  And I will not get a moment’s rest.

  The screen before me pops up solid blue, a single white box in the middle asking me for a password. Contemplating it for only a moment, I reach past the chair to the keyboard tray mounted on the underside of the desk. Using just my left hand, I type out the same combination she used for most everything, a faint smile crossing my face as the screen dissolves before me, bringing up a generic black background with a series of icons strewn across it.

  Molly1, chosen for the dog we laid to rest not that long ago. Known as a puggle, she was a pug and beagle, a critter so ugly she couldn’t help but be considered cute.

  Feeling one corner of my mouth turn up slightly, I grasp the wireless mouse on the desktop and move it in a circle, the white arrow on the screen moving so quickly it is little more than a blur. As it does so, I read down through the list of folders on the screen, nothing unusual grabbing my attention.

  Immigration. Healthcare. Education. Welfare. Food assistance.

  Each I recognize as one of the topics she dealt with daily, dismissing them for the time being as I maneuver the mouse to the corner and draw up her program list. Scrolling through it, I make it down to the fourth icon in alphabetical order before clicking on it, pulling her calendar up to full size on the screen.

  As I do so, I can’t help but feel a tiny pang of guilt. In all the time I knew my wife, not once did I ever spy on her. Never did I look in her phone or read through her email or try to catch her in a lie. I had no reason to.

  Now, even in death, a pang of self-loathing appears in my stomach as I work my way through her appointments.

  A feeling that disappears almost instantly at the sight of one listing in particular.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Detective Malcolm Marsh makes a show of extending his left hand before him, balling it in a fist and twisting it back so he can check the face on his watch. Letting out a sigh, his eyes bulge slightly to see it is just half past six, it feeling much, much later than that.

  Beside him, his partner makes no acknowledgment of the show, his focus solely aimed at the screen before them. Hunched forward at the waist, his nose is no more than a few inches away from the flat surface, skin bunched around his eyes as he stares at the images moving about in silence.

  It is the same pose he has been in since they arrived more than two hours earlier, a picture of dogged determination if there ever was one. Or foolish pride preventing someone from admitting an idea was a bad one.

  Right now, Marsh can’t tell the difference.

  “Man, we’ve been over every angle of this park,” he says. “Our guy – if he even exists – isn’t here.”

  He makes no effort to hide the annoyance in his tone.

  The room they are currently squirreled up in could be generously described as half of the size of their office. Consisting of a single desk with a flat screen monitor balanced atop it, it serves as the repository for the dozen or so cameras that cover Balboa Park. Normally manned by a single guard in six-hour shifts, the place has a mini fridge in the co
rner that hums incessantly and the smells of bacon grease and body odor in the air.

  What Marsh wouldn’t give for a fan. Or a window. Or even one of those pine tree air fresheners that people used to hang from their rearview mirrors.

  “We’ve got two more to go,” Tinley whispers, his thoughts elsewhere as he continues to watch. Running the tapes in double time, people move in and out of the frame at twice their normal pace, their jerky movements and preposterous speeds enough to make someone under any other circumstances laugh.

  Now, stepping back and looking at the situation for what it is, Marsh can’t help but feel ridiculous.

  The stunt with park schematics earlier had piqued his curiosity. Tinley coming in before their shift started and pouring so much into it had at least earned him a couple of hours of their time, even if it was a long shot.

  Balboa Park, for all its bravado about being the centerpiece of the city and a beacon for tourists the world over, is no different than any other major attraction. Time and money are invested into buildings, and exhibits, and ways to further monetize what already exists. Security monitoring is an afterthought, the first place that gets slashed whenever difficult funding questions come into play.

  More people visit Central Park in New York City every year than come by Balboa in any two, and even less of it is monitored by camera. That isn’t a coincidence.

  “Come on, man,” Marsh says, leaning back in the loaner chair that was wheeled into the room for him to use. The plastic rollers slide a few inches over the bare tile floor as he does so, the springs creaking beneath him. “It’s over. We’ve got work to do.”

  The hypocrisy of the statement isn’t lost on him as he watches the younger man go. It’s not to say that what they’re doing isn’t work, but that there are other things that need their attention. Things guaranteed to produce results.

  Not to mention, there is no doubt other things piling up as they sit sequestered in the back corner of the Balboa Park security office.

  Making no effort to move or respond, Tinley sits rigid. He stares at the screen, his body like a hunting dog on the scent of prey, everything from his nose to his bottom drawn into a straight line.

  “I mean, it was a good idea,” Marsh concedes. “The park is just too big. They only cover the major museums-“

  “Like the Air and Space,” Tinley interjects.

  “Like the Air and Space,” Marsh agrees, rocking his head forward. “And the Museum of Man. The places where the most people go, which in turn draws the most riffraff.”

  Beside him, Tinley jerks his head to either side. A quick, stunted movement, his gaze never leaves the screen, his cheeks twisting just a few inches in either direction.

  “No, I mean, like the Air and Space Museum.”

  Casting a quick glance over to Marsh, he pushes his tongue out over his bottom lip. Raising his right index finger, he jabs it toward the screen. “Take a look at this.”

  For a moment, Marsh does nothing. He fights the urge to roll his eyes, tamps down the feeling of dread that begins to assemble in his stomach.

  Tinley is a good cop, and a promising detective. Whatever shortcomings he has are compensated for with enthusiasm and effort, meaning Marsh wants to be very careful not to squash him whenever possible.

  Especially with the possibility of future usefulness to his own aspirations.

  Taking in the young man’s stance, seeing the earnestness on his face, he pushes out another sigh. “Okay, but this is it. If this isn’t our guy, we head back. Deal?”

  “This is our guy,” Tinley responds, not a moment’s hesitation.

  Remaining reclined in his seat, Marsh lifts his eyebrows slightly. “Deal?”

  “Yeah, sure, deal,” Tinley replies. Using his heel, he pushes his chair to the side, clearing the way for Marsh to come forward.

  Watching his young partner for a moment, Marsh can feel the same twist appear in his stomach. Mixed of dread and agitation, he lets it creep a little higher this time, just barely making it to his cheeks, before exhaling slowly, dispelling a bit of the inner tension. Pushing his weight forward in the chair, he moves forward slowly, shifting his focus to the screen.

  The image Tinley was staring at is frozen in place, the central figure in it being a man in dark jeans and t-shirt. Over one shoulder is a long black piece of material, the tail of it streaming slightly in the breeze. His body pitched forward just slightly, his face is aimed at the ground, his eyes cast to the side.

  “Like you said yourself yesterday,” Marsh says, staring at the image, “the problem is, the description we have could be for half the men in this city.”

  “Me included,” Tinley finishes. “Yeah, I know, but didn’t it also mention a black blanket over the guy’s head?” He shoots the same finger toward the screen, motioning to the length of fabric tossed over the man’s shoulder. “That sure looks like that to me.”

  Whether the item onscreen was a blanket or not was a matter of some debate, though Marsh couldn’t completely dismiss it. Not with Tinley sitting beside him, clearly snatching at the first sign of bait they’d seen.

  “Could be,” he manages, continuing to stare at the screen. “You say this was taken by Air and Space?”

  “Yeah,” Tinley replies. “Guy came up out of the ravine on the far side, walked right past the front, disappeared between the Starlite and Muni Gym.”

  Falling silent, Marsh stares at the screen. When he’d first gotten the report from Kyle Clady, the description had been vague enough that he couldn’t help but feel like it was a phony, the sort of thing a guilty spouse says to cast doubt on things.

  Now, staring at it, he can’t help but think for the first time there was maybe a bit of truth to it after all.

  “When?” he asks.

  “Eleven minutes before the 911 call came in.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I left almost everything on Mira’s desk where I found it. I’ve already got a detective that is itching for an excuse to pin her death on me, and a co-worker who, if forced into a deposition, will have to admit she gave me her key to the office.

  Instead of nabbing anything that might look the least bit controversial, the folding picture frame is on the front seat in the car beside me. Shut tight, I can only see the black felt backing on it, knowing already the two photos that are tucked away inside.

  One will be going home with me, the other dropped off to Angelique. Even if she already has a copy of it on the wall in her living room, it will still serve as an easy alibi. It isn’t uncommon for spouses to seek out personal effects, especially those with strong sentimental value.

  At some point in the coming days, I will reach out to Mallory and return the key, casually slip in that I took the frame. Without even realizing it, she will be brought up to speed, a perfect complementary piece should Marsh come looking for me.

  Despite the frame sitting beside me, the real score of the trip is now scribbled on a piece of paper. Having been folded a number of times and stowed in my pocket, it is now stretched to its original size, thick creases crisscrossing it in even intervals. Resting on my thigh, I stare down at it, the blue ink scrawled across it seeming almost neon, glowing in the gathering darkness of the car.

  In just ten minutes I’ve already committed every character to memory, pouring over it, trying to contemplate what it could mean. One at a time, ideas come to mind, each seeming as disparate or implausible as the one before, being dismissed almost as quickly as it arrived. For another few moments, I try to place what else they could possibly represent before forcing my gaze away and taking up my phone.

  Thumbing through it, I find what I’m looking for quickly enough and hit send, the speakerphone echoing through the car before being picked up after a trio of rings.

  “Hello?” Hiram asks, a hint of uncertainty in his tone.

  “Hey, Hiram,” I reply, trying to keep my voice light. I know he is staying with Anqelique in La Mesa, that she is most likely sitting close by.
<
br />   And that right now, I don’t particularly want her to be privy to what I’m about to say.

  “Hey, Kyle,” he replies, his voice a little stilted, all the signal I need that he isn’t free to speak at will. “How are you?”

  “Well, you know,” I reply, not bothering to point out the obvious. “Listen, I was wondering if you might be up for a beer this evening? My friends are all meeting at our usual spot, but I just can’t bring myself to go there right now.”

  The fact that I did that very thing just last night is immaterial. Neither of them know it.

  “Oh,” he says, surprise clear. “Yeah, I could do that. What time you thinking?”

  “Soon.”

  A moment passes, hopefully a clear indicator of him processing what I’m trying to relay.

  “Where should I meet you?” he asks.

  “No need,” I reply. “I actually had dinner with a friend in Lake Murray, so I’m not far. I’ll come pick you up in, say, a half-hour?”

  “That should be fine,” he replies.

  “Good. There’s a new place I want to try. Never been there before.”

  I hang up without another word, hoping my last message was enough to be understood.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  My relationship with Mira’s family has always been on pretty good terms. Despite the myriad differences between us, they have always been extremely welcoming to me. Having no family to speak of beyond my mother, and her being so far away at that, I willingly jumped into the mix, for the first time since leaving home feeling like I wasn’t quite so alone.

  Family dinners, holidays, even the occasional Sunday outing to Balboa Park. If I was in town, I was invited. Whether or not I always made it was a different matter, but there was never a question as to whether or not I was welcome.