I began searching the office, eyes peeled and ears straining to hear when the cops returned. I had no idea what I was searching for. After ten minutes or so, I be-came convinced that the police had taken everything of interest and tagged it for evidence.
The papers on the floor turned out to be mostly empty forms and junk mail, and the Colonel’s desk was practically empty. It did contain a paperback, titled Perry Mason and the Case of the Sleeping Wife. Naturally, I was a big fan of Erle Stanley Gardner, and I hated to see a perfectly good pulp novel go to waste. I picked up the book and stuck it in the pocket of my overcoat. Under the book was a stack of blue index cards, held together with a rubber band. They were just like the one I’d found with my mail that morning, except these were blank. After a moment’s hesitation, I decided I’d have to consider the implications later.
There was a coat closet eight or nine feet to the right of the desk. I figured the cops would’ve gone through it, but I checked it out anyway. There were two coats, a shirt, and an umbrella inside. I’d just about decided I was wasting my time, and was expecting the cops to return at any moment. I took one more look around the room and was about to leave when I noticed something odd.
A thermostat control box was affixed to the wall by the door, but it suddenly dawned on me that there were two of them in the office. I examined the one by the door closely and decided that it was actually what it appeared to be. The second box was on the same wall as the coat closet but, unlike the first, had a casing of smoke-tinted plastic. I looked it over, then carefully pulled the casing off the wall. Staring back at me was what appeared to be a camera lens.
Apparently, Drysdale’s men had missed this little item. It was just like the Colonel to have a hidden surveillance camera installed in his office. And it was almost certain that no one but the Colonel would know it was there. I thought it over for a minute. The camera was probably attached to a videodisc recorder or something equiv-alent. The question was, where? I moved back and look-ed at the wall. Stepping outside the office, I tried to determine if there could possibly be a small area unaccounted for behind the camera. By my rough estimates, there seemed to be.
I walked back to the coat closet and stepped inside. As near as I could tell, if there was some kind of concealed room, it had to be accessible through the right wall of the closet.
I inspected the wall and saw a hairline crack running horizontally about four feet off the floor. I ran my hands over the surface of the wall, pressing and prodding. Finally, in the top left corner, I pushed and heard a click. The lower four feet of the wall sprung open.
Pulling the panel back, I got down on my knees and crawled into the space beyond. I pulled out my Zippo and lit it. After moving the flame around for a few seconds, I found a switch and flipped it. A light came on, and I found myself in an area a little smaller than the interior of a cardboard freezer box. I stood and saw a camera sitting on a tripod, pointed at the wall. Piled on the floor were stacks of videodisc jeweled cases, hundreds of them. When I checked the camera, I saw that it was turned on, but wasn’t running.
I pressed the release button on the camera, and a videodisc ejected softly into my hand.
It was almost too much to hope for. The disc could’ve been recording the last time the Colonel was in his office. Maybe he’d been abducted, or even killed here in his office.
Was it possible that the Colonel’s murder had been recorded?
Suddenly, through the wall, I heard voices. The cops had returned. I pulled the coat closet panel shut, flipped off the light, and put my ear against the wall. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but their voices weren’t getting any closer to the Colonel’s office.
I waited at least fifteen minutes. When I was fairly sure they were going to stay where they were, I ventured out of the video room, breathing through my mouth and moving as slowly and quietly as possible. There was a closed window on the opposite wall. I tiptoed across the room, careful to avoid stepping on anything that would make noise. I wished I’d thought to shut the office door.
I reached the window and, as I bent down to raise the sash, spotted a Gordon Lightfoot CD case on the floor. The video surveillance disc was in my pocket, and it occurred to me that, if it got scratched, it might be seriously damaged. I picked up the CD case, which was empty, inserted the other disc, and stuck it in my pocket. The window sash was unlocked and lifted easily. I’d gotten one leg over the sill when I heard a click behind me. It sounded very much like a handgun being cocked. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a smiling cop standing in the doorway.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Murphy, returning to the scene of the crime. Looks like I’ve got me an extra week of vacation.”
UAKM - CHAPTER NINE
It was only the third time I’d ever been handcuffed, and the first two times had nothing to do with the legal process. My hands were going numb as the cops escorted me into the holding area of the police station. It was 9:30, and the usual assortment of vagrants, ladies of the night, and frightened-face teenagers were seated on the benches. The air inside was tinged with the queasy odors of weak coffee, stale cigarette smoke, and vomit. A trio of hideous and unsanitary-looking hookers sat bunched together like Charlie’s Angels from a parallel universe. They cackled as the cops led me past them, and I felt like the title character in some contemporary, inner-city production of Macbeth.
When my handcuffs were removed, I was asked to take off my shoes, coat, hat, and all personal effects, after which I went through the delights of the booking process.
Everyone involved was unnecessarily jovial, acting as if they were the helpful staff in some hellish resort spa. There was only one belligerent cop, as allowed by law. I told him I had to call his wife and tell her I wouldn’t be able to make it over till later. This seemed to offend him, and he took it upon himself to make sure I didn’t loiter at the door to the drunk tank.
I picked myself up off the floor and looked around at my fellow inmates. Surprisingly, or not, most of them weren’t much different from the guys I’d played poker with in college. A little older and more damp. There were a couple of vintage bums, drunk on some cousin of Lysol and focusing on nothing in particular. The odd man out was a young man, no more than twenty years old, wearing a Polo sweater and dress slacks. He was sweating like a pimp in Sunday school.
The benches were filled, so I took a seat on the concrete floor. On top of everything else, the cops had made me leave my smokes and lighter with me personal effects. Taking my shoes I could understand. Shoelace suicides were a rich tradition in prison lore. But what did they think I’d do with a pack of Lucky Strikes? Smoke myself to death? Stage a prison riot while brandishing a red hot cherry? It’d been less than an hour, and I was already experiencing nicotine withdrawal. From somewhere outside the cell, I heard pitiful wailing. Maybe the cops were working off some empty calories. I drew my knees up to my chest and rested my forehead on them.
This was not the greatest night of my life. It’d probably been stupid of me to go to the Colonel’s office. Except for the surveillance disc, the contents of which might turn out to be completely worthless, I’d ended up with nothing but smudged fingertips and a criminal record. Drysdale now had his scapegoat in custody, and it was just a matter of due process before I was taken to trial and an impartial jury of my peers found me guilty and handed down a life sentence complete with a one-way ticket to the lunar penal colony. Not that it wouldn’t be an improvement over the existential quality of my past few years. At least I’d get three meals, some time to read, and rent-free
accommodations. I was already celibate, so that wouldn’t be a problem.
“Scuse me!”
A loud and warm gust of pickled breath blew into the side of my face, interrupting my bleak introspection. I turned my head to see a tiny wino sitting beside me and leaning close. He was old and rail-thin. With his spiky white hair and five-day beard growth, he resembled a toilet brush.
“The name’s Rusty.” He exte
nded his hand, which I ignored for sanitary reasons. He paused, then looked from me to his hand, before wiping it on his pants. “I ain’t seen you here before.”
I nodded curtly, trying to discourage further conversation. Rusty went on, oblivious.
“Me, I been in here quite a bit.” He thrust what was left of his jaw in the direction of a loudly snoring sack. “Not as much as old Quentin there. Ain’t that right, Jerry?”
Another watery-eyed denizen nodded unsteadily. “Dat’s right.”
Rusty clapped me on the back. “So what they got you for?”
I cleared my throat. “They say I waited for my grandparents to fall asleep, then hacked them into little pieces with a shovel.”
Rusty stared at me for several seconds, then got up and staggered across the cell. Behind me, a goodsized space had appeared on the bench. I climbed up and stretched out leisurely.
I’d been resting for about thirty minutes when the cell door opened and a burly prison guard summoned me. I followed obediently through a maze of corridors until we reached the door to the commissioner’s office.
Commissioner Armon Drysdale was a mean son of a bitch. He was one of the few men I’d ever met who could make full-grown adults feel like they were back in the principal’s office, mired in a bucket of fresh manure. All the cops were scared to death of him. He and I had only spoken a couple of times and, I had to admit, hadn’t hit it off particularly well. I seem to remember making an unflattering remark about his lack of social skills. Malden had said I was lucky I didn’t end up in the drunk tank for a week.
The guard knocked lightly on the door, and I was ushered inside by a young, crew-cut man wearing the kind of dark blue suit that comes with two pairs of pants. Drysdale sat regally behind his desk, arms folded across an Armani suit and an intolerant expression on his stone-cut face. He fixed his dark, unblinking eyes on me.
“That’ll be all, Blake. Go back to your post and do something useful.”
The large man mumbled something subservient and unintelligible and marched back out the door. Drysdale motioned for the young man behind me to leave as I stepped toward the chair in front of the desk.
“I didn’t invite you to sit down, Murphy.”
The office door closed, and I casually stuck my hands in my pockets. The commissioner unfolded his arms and crossed his legs precisely. “I assume you know why you’re here.”
“Yeah. Something about a parking ticket.”
Drysdale didn’t smile. “Colonel Roy O’Brien disappeared six days ago. When the Missing Persons’ report was filed, we searched his home, then his office. When the investigators went in, they found your name and address written in an appointment book. We’ve been trying to find you ever since. Now that you’re here, we can proceed in a variety of ways. You can tell me why your name was there and everything else you can think I’d want to know. Or, you can be a smart-ass. In which case, I’ll throw you back in the drunk tank, and we’ll try it again next week. It’s up to you.”
I considered for a moment. “I guess I’ll take the first one.”
Drysdale looked down at the sleeve of his fifteen-hundred-dollar jacket and delicately picked off a piece of lint. “I’m waiting.”
“There’s not much to tell. I hadn’t seen the Colonel in years. The other night, he shows up in my office. We chat for a few minutes about nothing in particular, then he leaves.
That’s it.”
“Which night was it that he came to your office?”
I tried to recall.
“I’d guess it was about two weeks ago. Give or take a day.”
The commissioner fixed a glare on me and held it for probably twenty second, though it seemed substantially longer. “What did he talk about?”
I found a small hole in the bottom of my pocket and thought about how good a smoke would be. “Like I told you, nothing in particular. He said I looked like hell, mentioned something about retiring to a tropical island, then told me to shape up. He didn’t say a thing about his upcoming murder or who the killer would be.”
Drysdale held up a finger as a subtle warning. “Don’t test me, Murphy. I don’t like you.
And if you push me, I’ll kick your ass so hard, only dogs will hear you fart.”
He reached into his sleeve and pulled down the cuff of his dress shirt to exactly a quarter inch below the hem of the jacket.
“The Colonel was a good friend of mine. I’m going to find whoever killed him and blow his or her brains out. From what I’ve heard, the only thing you’ve been capable of killing over the past few months is brain cells. But that isn’t a viable alibi. Where were you last week ago?”
I didn’t appreciate the cheap shot, but he had the home-field advantage. One thing was for sure - if I ever caught him on neutral ground, he’d get a verbal beating he wouldn’t soon forget.
“I was in Mexico City, working on a case.”
“Can anyone verify that you were there?”
I’d been afraid it would come to this. “Probably not.”
“Who hired you?”
This wasn’t going to sound good. “I don’t know. I was set up. When I got back, my client had pulled a disappearing act.”
The commissioner stared at me for some time, an incredulous expression on his face.
“You’re either a bigger idiot, or a lot more clever than everyone thinks. Your story is too unbelievably stupid to be fabricated.” Drysdale shook his head. “Either way, I’ve got you dead to rights for breaking and entering, as well as tampering with a crime scene.
And, while I can’t prove it, a jury could probably be convinced that you threw the rock into the store window. Put all the charges together with the Colonel’s appointment book and the bad blood between the two of you, and I’ve got a reasonable body of
circumstantial evidence.”
Drysdale said it like he actually believed it. I wasn’t about to say anything, but I suspected that he’d have a hard time convicting me on even one of the charges.
Unfortunately, the cop was probably betting I couldn’t make bail, and that would allow him to detain me until my court date, which he could push back indefinitely. I had one blind card in the hole, and it was time to play it.
“I found something at the Colonel’s office.”
Drysdale’s cool façade lapsed for a split second. He leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk. “I’m listening.”
“The Colonel had a surveillance camera set up in his office.”
The commissioner sat back in his chair, a smirk on his face. “You’re lying.”
I shook my head, mirroring the smirk. “That’d be a pretty stupid thing to lie about, don’t you think? There was a secret chamber through the side of the coat closet. There was videodisc recorder inside, and I took the last disc out of it.”
Drysdale didn’t want to believe me, but I had his attention. “Where’s the disc?”
“Drop the charges, and I’ll tell you.”
“You’re in no position to barter, Murphy. Where the hell is the disc?”
Anyone but Drysdale would’ve been willing to bargain. All I could do at this point was tell him where it was and hope it panned out. “It’s with my personal effects. In a Gordon Lightfoot CD case.”
Keeping his eyes trained on me, Drysdale activated his vid-phone and requested that the envelope with my things in it be brought to his office. After he disconnected, he raised a finger. “This better be on the level. If you’re jerking me around, you’d better have someone send you a lifetime supply of soap-on-a-rope.”
We waited in silence until the young nazi entered the room and handed a large manila envelope to Drysdale. The commissioner removed the disc and stood up. Crossing to a side table, he inserted it into a videodisc player and turned it on. Drysdale pulled a chair to the table and sat down, giving me a clear view over his shoulder.
The monitor flickered, and then a view of the Colonel’s empty office appeared on-screen. In the lower right corner was
a time and date display. It was 10:15 A.M., December 1. The Colonel stepped into the picture from the direction of the coat closet.
He walked through, then reappeared a moment later with a cup of coffee in hand.
Drysdale fast-forwarded for a few seconds until we saw the Colonel welcome a middle-aged woman into his office. Drysdale turned up the volume, and I could hear the Colonel discussing a job.
Drysdale resumed scanning. The Colonel stayed in his office for the remainder of the morning and then had another visitor around 12:45. He left after the second
appointment, and the office was deserted throughout the afternoon. The empty office grew steadily darker as the image fast-forwarded. The commissioner glanced at me over his shoulder. He seemed impatient. It didn’t appear that this was going to do me any good.
The image slowed to real time when the office lights came on and the Colonel
reappeared. Behind his desk, he put on his jacket and tightened his necktie, then sat down. It looked as though he was expecting someone. Drysdale fast-forwarded until the Colonel rose from his seat and crossed the room, out of camera range. He returned a moment later, exchanging pleas-antries with a slightly built, dark-haired man, who was wearing a long overcoat and carrying a valise. The Colonel gestured toward a chair on the near side of the desk and started walking around the desk with his back to the man.
He seemed to be on his guard, but it didn’t matter. With a lightening-quick move, the stranger whipped something out of his overcoat and brought it down viciously on the back of the Colonel’s head. The sickening thud was clearly audible and made me wince involuntarily. As the Colonel hit the floor, the other man pounced and slapped a pair of handcuffs on him. Then, with surprising strength, the stranger pulled the Colonel around the desk and into the chair where the Colonel had been sitting seconds before.
Aaron Conners - Tex Murphy 02 Page 8
