by Roy Johansen
Ken assumed the cop was invoking a general “we,” since he obviously hadn’t left the cozy confines of the hospital. “Do you know whose boat it was?”
“Yeah, it was stolen this evening from a dock on the lake. The owner didn’t even know it was gone. They’re dusting for prints.”
“Whoever it was tried to kill me.”
“Is there anyone who would have reason to do that?”
Ken found himself shaking his head. “No.”
“Look, it’s my guess some kids stole the boat and went joyriding. It happens all the time. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Joyriding. Right.
The doctor put twenty stitches in his leg and informed him that there did not appear to be any permanent damage. He suggested a crutch, but after Ken hobbled around the room a few times, the idea was rejected.
He paid the emergency room tab with his credit card, deciding not to look at the total until the next morning. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with it.
He limped back to his car and drove home, all the while wrestling with the inevitable question: Was Myth behind the attack?
Maybe Michaelson was right.
Ken cast a nervous glance in his rearview mirror. All clear. For now.
Since he was limited in what he could tell the police, he was entirely on his own.
So what else was new?
—
Another of Gant’s least favorite clichés of police TV shows was that of the department’s seemingly inexhaustible resources. Apparently, money and manpower were always in plentiful supply, and officers could have as much time as it took to crack every case.
This simply was not true.
He knew it was certainly different in small towns, but on a big-city police force there came a time when it was wiser to cut one’s losses. If, after a few days, there were no strong suspects in a homicide investigation, the detective had to present a strong argument for continuing full-time on the case. There were other, solvable murders that required more immediate attention.
He knew the cutoff time was coming on the Carlos Valez investigation. The autopsy report hadn’t turned up anything useful, and the only suspect, Ken Parker, had no priors and no evidence against him. It also did not help matters that Valez was a lower-class Latino with a criminal record. That, coupled with the fact that he died in a poor area, didn’t bode well for the case. Gant ruefully noted that if Valez had been a white physician murdered in fashionable Buckhead, the investigation would continue indefinitely. At least until well after the local media coverage stopped. For an unemployed janitor, alas, the incident merited a story the day of the murder, but nothing more.
The Burton Sabini killing was another matter. Sabini had been a public figure due to the high-profile embezzling case that had caught the attention of the local business community. And it did not go unnoticed that another recent murder victim, Don Browne, had worked in the same industry as Sabini. What were the odds of two Atlanta metalworks executives being murdered within a week of each other? Gant had spoken with Serena Misner, the investigating officer on the Browne case, but so far there was no other apparent link between the two men.
In Sabini’s case, the lack of a strong suspect was crippling the investigation. His murder looked more and more like a random mugging turned deadly. Sabini had been drinking at the Blues Junction bar at the Atlanta Underground entertainment center, apparently celebrating his passing the D.A.’s polygraph test. He left alone, and the next time anyone saw him, he was dead in an alley four blocks away.
It was possible he staggered into the wrong place at the wrong time. That was certainly the way it looked. But here, as in the Carlos Valez case, there was a connection to Ken Parker. Maybe Sabini did have Parker’s name, number, and address so he could telephone him and ask a few questions. Gant wasn’t sure. But he knew the only likely solution to cracking the mysteries rested with Parker. Otherwise, the cases would soon just stall, residing in the “unsolved” files, likely to forever remain that way.
Gant strode into the audiovisual lab at nine A.M. sharp, greeting the two officers on duty. A/V patrol was a popular slot for cops sidelined with injuries. Carlton and Wittkower were manning the consoles, and both had crutches next to their chairs. Carlton had been shot during a drug bust, and Wittkower had slipped on a cupcake wrapper in the squad room. Ironically, it looked as if Carlton would be the one to recover more fully.
“What’s going on, guys?” Gant asked as he peered over their shoulders.
“Not much,” Carlton groused. “I’m just logging in the Michael Moss show.”
Gant looked at the monitor, and sure enough, there was Officer Moss in his uniform, giving a sobriety test to a suspected drunk driver. The video camera was mounted inside the police car, recording the officer’s each and every move.
“Look at the way Moss keeps playing with his hair,” Carlton pointed out. “And he always tries to keep the right side of his face to the camera. He thinks that’s his good side.”
Gant laughed as he kept watching. He caught a brief glimpse of Moss’s left profile. “I’ll be damned. His right side is better.”
Carlton smiled as he noted the time on a log sheet. “He thinks he’s gonna be on TV. Maybe Cops.”
Gant turned toward Wittkower. “What do you got for me?”
“Nothing yet. You know that expression, Doing nothing but watching the grass grow? I’ve just been watching the grass grow. Literally.”
Wittkower motioned toward the monitor above him. There, in black and white, was the side of Ken Parker’s office building, with the tape being played at several times faster than normal speed. Wittkower turned the dial to slow it as he saw someone. He pushed a button, and the picture zoomed in on a man entering the building. Wittkower compared it to photos of Ken and Sabini taped onto his console. Satisfied it wasn’t either of them, he continued scanning.
“How much do you have done?”
“About twelve and a half days. I haven’t even seen Parker yet. He obviously doesn’t use this entrance. Do you really think we’ll find anything?”
“We might. Keep watching, Wittkower.”
—
Ken walked with a slight limp as he tried to make out the worn house numbers along St. Charles Avenue. It was a pleasant street in the trendy Virginia-Highlands section of the city, but Ken couldn’t enjoy the scenery.
Someone had tried to kill him.
Who was behind the wheel of that boat?
Was it the same person who killed Sabini? Don Browne? Carlos Valez?
Ken glanced around. That person could be any of the people he saw walking on this sunny street. Just waiting for another chance at him.
Ken had never visited this address before. It belonged to one Stan Warner, a self-described “information broker.” Ken had met him the year before, when the man’s then-employer, Greenfield Electronics, suspected Warner of stealing computer time from a mainframe at the firm’s New York headquarters. When he came in for a polygraph test, he offered Ken his own unique services to coax a passing grade. His lucrative side business involved the selling of personal information, ranging from credit histories to driving records to unlisted phone numbers.
Ken failed Warner, who was immediately fired from his job. But Ken was intrigued by his “information brokering” service, so he kept the address.
This was a stupid move, Ken thought as he walked toward the duplex. Warner would probably K.O. him before he could get two words out. Oh, well. What was one more bruise?
Ken rang the doorbell. After a few moments, a shirtless, wild-haired young man swung open the door. He eyed Ken suspiciously.
“Stan Warner?” Ken asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’m Ken Parker. I’m a polygraph examiner, and you failed a lie detector test I gave you last year.”
Warner looked closer and burst into a broad smile. “I’ll be damned! Come on in!” he said with a thick southern accent.
He fl
ung the door open wide and stepped back into his home. Ken hesitated. He hadn’t expected a warm greeting.
Warner called back as he stepped into another room. “Don’t worry. I got only one dog, and she doesn’t bite.”
Ken followed to a messy living room area, with newspapers, magazines, and tractor-feed computer paper everywhere. The only illumination came from the sunlight peeking from around the roll-down shades. Warner cleared away some papers from his couch, making just enough room for Ken to sit.
“What brings you here?” Warner asked as he plopped down on a stool.
Ken was still taken aback at Warner’s gregarious manner. “Do you remember who I am?”
“Sure. You flunked me. Made me lose my job.”
“I thought you might be mad about it.”
“Nah. You caught me. I was guilty as hell. I’m just glad they didn’t have me arrested.” He gave Ken a curious look. “You didn’t come here to apologize, did you?”
“No, I—”
“Because you don’t have anything to feel bad about. Losing that job was the best thing that ever happened to me. I never would have had the guts to leave on my own. I work only for myself now. I love it. But what am I talking about? You know how it is. It’s great, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Great. That’s kind of why I came to see you. You’re still in the information business, aren’t you?”
“Of course!”
Ken instinctively distrusted people who were this peppy. Either they were on drugs, or they were masking deep-rooted anxieties that could result only in their going berserk at a playground with an AK-47.
“I need information on someone. As much information as you can find.”
“Do you have a social security or driver’s license number?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’re the one who’ll be paying extra for it.”
“How much are we talking about here?”
Warner presented Ken with a rate card listing his entire range of services. Ken smiled at some of the items: UNLISTED PHONE NUMBER $50.00, UNLISTED HOME ADDRESS $40.00, COMPLETE POLICE RECORD $275.00, MEDICAL HISTORY $225.00.
“How do you decide on the prices?”
“Depends on how hard it is for me to get the information, how risky, or how much I have to pay. I have sources, and they don’t come cheap. I think I have the lowest prices in the city though. If you can find any lower, I’ll beat ’em.”
After some haggling, Ken finally settled on a “general background” package that Warner assured was becoming increasingly popular among older, wealthier women who wanted to check out their young suitors. Warner showed him a few samples, reminding Ken of his own file at Myth’s house.
“Okay,” Warner said. “All I need now is the name.”
“Two names. The first is Burton Charles Sabini.”
Warner scribbled it down. “Fine. What’s the other?”
Ken paused a moment before answering. “Daniels,” he finally replied. “Her name is Myth Daniels.”
—
“What is it?” Margot asked as she fingered the blue-purple metal bar Ken had found in the late Don Browne’s office.
“I was hoping you could find out for me.” Ken leaned against the deck railing outside Elwood’s Pub. Bill and their other friends were watching a Braves game inside.
“Why?”
“It might be important. You guys run tests all the time. No one would notice if you had this analyzed, would they?”
“I would notice,” she said. “And before I send this to the lab in my company’s pouch, I’d like to know why I’m doing it.”
Ken looked away. Of course she’d like to know. How could he explain that he was keeping her in the dark for her own good? Just because he was up to his ass in muck didn’t mean he had to drag her down with him.
He could always make up a lie.
No. Not with her. She deserved better.
“I can’t talk about it right now, Margot. It would help me if you would do this, but if you don’t feel comfortable with it, that’s fine too. You have to know that I’m not telling you about this for a reason, and that when I can discuss it, I’ll answer any question you want. But right now I just need you to trust me.”
Margot was silent as the Braves fans went wild inside. She squeezed the metal bar in her right hand.
“Will you do it?” he asked.
She finally nodded. “I’ll send it out to the lab first thing in the morning. I give them a lot of business. I’m sure they won’t mind doing it for me gratis.”
“Thank you, Margot.”
“You’re welcome. When you feel like talking, just remember I’m here. Sometimes I think you forget that.”
“I never forget.”
—
Ken returned home to hear the phone ringing. He answered it. “Hello?”
“It’s time.” Michaelson’s voice.
“It’s pretty arrogant to expect people to recognize your voice after only a couple of conversations.”
“I’m just giving you credit. Since you’re a trained observer and all.”
“Uh-huh. So what is it time for?”
“It’s time for the favor you owe me. What are you doing early tomorrow morning?”
CHAPTER 12
Ken had never tested a more nervous subject.
Matt Lansing was trembling as Michaelson escorted him through the door of Ken’s office. Lansing licked his lips every few seconds, and his eyes darted furtively around the room. Although it was normally Ken’s job to keep his interviewees on edge, this young man was already terrified.
Michaelson’s “favor.” Shake the guy up, bully him, and see what he has to say. You know all the tricks, right?
Of course he knew all the tricks. It was all part of his job. He didn’t want to do it, but he believed Michaelson when he said he could make things uncomfortable for him. The last thing he needed was a loudmouth P.I. rocking the boat.
He extended his hand to Lansing. “It’s really not that bad.”
Lansing managed a weak smile. “Then you take the exam for me.”
“If I could, I would. Have a seat.”
Lansing sat down next to the polygraph, looking at it as if it were a bomb that could go off at any moment. He took short, quick breaths.
“Don’t hyperventilate,” Ken said. “It’s hard to get a good reading if you’re unconscious.”
Lansing smiled, but his breathing didn’t improve.
Ken turned to Michaelson and motioned toward the door. “Wait outside. You can come back when the test is over.”
“You’re the boss,” Michaelson said. He left the office and pulled the door shut behind him.
Ken looked back and saw that Lansing’s condition was improving. Michaelson’s presence obviously rattled him.
“Okay,” Ken said. “Let’s talk about why you’re here.”
“My company doesn’t trust me.”
“That’s not necessarily true. Businesses have all kinds of reasons for testing employees. There are parent companies, investors, and board members who often require these tests. They just want to examine all the options.”
“Right,” Lansing said caustically.
“That said, you were sent here for a reason. Can you tell me why your company wouldn’t trust you?”
“Some investigators have approached me about possible securities violations on Vikkers Industries’ part. I haven’t told them anything, but they keep coming back.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
Ken fixed Lansing with a doubtful stare. The man looked away, then back. He squirmed.
Keep the heat on…
“Okay,” Ken said as he picked up his clipboard. “Let’s see what we have here.”
He went over the questions with Lansing, who was eager to respond. Ken told him to save his answers for the exam. As Ken pulled the polygraph cords across Lansing’s chest, he made a point of feeling the wireless microp
hone Michaelson had told him about.
“What’s that?” Ken asked.
“Uh, it’s a microphone.”
“You’re recording this?”
“No. Vikkers has been making me wear it ever since this stuff started.”
“You wear it all day?”
“And at night. I never know when I’m going to be approached.”
Ken smiled. “What about when you’re with your girlfriend?”
“I don’t have one at the moment. But if I did, I don’t think I’d treat that investigator to a show.”
“I don’t blame you. You should take the wire off. The polygraph is a very sensitive instrument. The radio waves from that mike could throw off the readings.”
“Okay. But please tell that to Michaelson when he asks why I’m not wearing it.”
“Sure.”
Ken knew, of course, that Michaelson was listening to their every word on a Walkman outside. Another mike had been planted on the desk, and Ken was quite sure the radio waves would have no effect on the test readings.
He did the card trick for Lansing, who was appropriately impressed by the polygraph’s “accuracy.” With that out of the way, it was time to begin the test.
“Are you presently an employee of Vikkers Industries?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be completely truthful to me regarding the subjects you’ve agreed to discuss?”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand I will inquire only about the issues we have discussed?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever stolen anything from an employer of yours?”
“No.”
“Have you divulged your company’s confidential information with investigators from any sector of the law enforcement community?”
“No.”
Lansing’s response was reasonably stable, but Ken frowned at the graph as he made a mark with his felt-tipped pen. He had to lay the groundwork here.
“Have you ever lied to keep from getting into trouble at work?”
“No.”
“Have you discussed confidential details of your company’s merger with Lyceum Metals with members of the law enforcement community?”
“No.”
