The Answer Man

by Roy Johansen

  “Hello?” a frail voice answered.

  “Dorothy Weiss?”

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Susan Flesher. You don’t know me, but I was a friend of your son’s. We went to high school together. I’ve been in Chicago for the past few years, and I ran into someone who told me Charles had been…” Hound Dog’s voice trailed off.

  “Killed,” the woman finished for her.

  “Yes. I’m sorry, Ms. Weiss. I know it’s been a long time and you may not feel like talking about it, but I’m curious to know what happened.”

  “Who did you say you were?”

  “Susan Flesher. Charles may have mentioned me.”

  “No, I can’t say he did.”

  “Oh. That’s all right. I probably didn’t mean that much to him.” Hound Dog instantly despised the self-pitying wimp she was portraying for this woman’s benefit. But if it made her talk, it would be worth it.

  “What do you want to know, dear?”

  “Who killed him?”

  “A woman he had been seeing.”

  “I heard that.”

  “Her name was Madeleine Walton.”

  “But she shot him in self-defense, right?”

  “No. In retribution.”

  “Retribution for what?”

  “For raping her.”

  Hound Dog was surprised at the frank admission. “You don’t think she made that up?”

  The woman sighed. “I should think that, shouldn’t I? He was my son. But I believe the best way to honor the dead is to learn from their lives. I knew Charles. He’d been in trouble before. There were other women, other incidents. This was just the only one that made it to the district attorney’s office.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know all the particulars.”

  “I know this isn’t easy to talk about, Ms. Weiss.”

  “Sometimes talking is easier than not talking.” The woman cleared her throat. “The district attorney threw the case out. Acquaintance rape is difficult to prove. I wished they had tried a little harder.”

  “You wanted your son to go to jail?”

  “There at least he could have gotten some help. Maybe he would have learned his lesson. As it was, the only lesson he learned was at the end of a thirty-eight-caliber revolver.”

  “Where did it happen?”

  “At the woman’s condominium complex. She claimed he was coming to attack her again. But I know that’s a lie. It was cold-blooded murder.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I’m sure he didn’t want to attack her again. That wasn’t Charles’s style. He called her just a few minutes before, probably to gloat about the charges being dropped, though she claimed it was to threaten her. I think she purred into the phone, whipped him into a frenzy, and invited him over. Then she murdered him.”

  “The police didn’t agree with you.”

  “No, and neither did the district attorney’s office. I think they were more interested in dating her than prosecuting her.”

  “Even though she had just killed a man?”

  “Maybe because she had just killed a man. There are some sick bastards in this world.”

  Hound Dog finished by thanking the woman and promising to visit her son’s grave the next time she was in Denver. She hung up the phone and walked to the elevator. The conversation hadn’t convinced her that Myth Daniels was evil incarnate. As Hound Dog punched the button for Mark’s floor, she wondered what she would do if some guy raped her and got away with it.

  Kill him?

  No. Mark would do it for her.

  But barring that, she wouldn’t let it go unpunished. Maybe Myth Daniels was on the right side of this one.

  The elevator doors opened, and Hound Dog walked down the hallway. As she stepped into the ICU, she saw a crowd of orderlies at Mark’s bed.

  Oh, no, she thought. Something’s happened.

  Hound Dog ran through the room and elbowed past the hulking attendants. “Mark…” she cried.

  She yanked the curtain aside. But he was fine. Or at least his condition was unchanged. Hound Dog looked up to see what had attracted so much attention.

  Three beautiful strippers from his club were leaving flowers, balloons, and signed cards. The room was aglow with white teeth, big hair, dark tans, long legs, giant breasts, and skimpy, form-fitting clothes.

  The strippers greeted her with polite “hellos,” minus the phony southern accents they put on for the out-of-town conventioneers. One by one, the women said their good-byes to the comatose Mark, accompanied by a peck on his cheek or forehead.

  “Bye-bye, big guy.”

  “See you soon, honey!”

  “You better get better!”

  The women filed past, whispering good wishes to Hound Dog as they left the room. The orderlies disbanded, leaving Hound Dog and Mark alone.

  Hound Dog’s friends often asked her if it drove her crazy that Mark worked with so many beautiful naked women.

  “No,” she always replied with a smile, “because he’s seen me naked.”

  She pulled up a chair and sat down. The strippers didn’t really worry her, because she trusted Mark completely. He always made her feel special. With every look, every embrace, and every smile, he let her know that she was terrific, that he was proud and lucky to have her on his arm.

  She wanted him back.

  She rested her head on his legs and fell asleep.

  —

  Hound Dog woke up at eleven-thirty, her back stiff from the awkward sleeping position. The nights at Mark’s bedside were wearing her down. She looked at her jacket and scanner lying on the chair next to her. It hadn’t occurred to her to scanner-surf since Mark had been shot, but tonight she had the restless feeling she got when she was away from the streets for a while.

  How twisted was that? No wonder Mark worried about her.

  She picked up the scanner and fingered its smooth surface. Just the touch of it made her feel better. She could slip on the headphones and listen for a while, but it wouldn’t be enough. It was never enough.

  She grabbed her jacket and camera bag. She knew if there was any change in Mark’s condition, the staff would call her on the cellular. She kissed him on the forehead and left the hospital. Just for a few hours, she promised herself.

  She felt herself relax before she even hit I-85. She turned up the scanner to hear it over her motorcycle’s roar. Was she addicted to this routine? Did she need it like a narcotic?

  Now wasn’t the time to wrestle with that one. Just go with it.

  Shortly before midnight she found herself in front of a coin-operated amusements company in College Park, where a ring of thieves had tried to cart off several pinball machines and jukeboxes.

  She snapped a few shots of the handcuffed perps lined up in front of their moving truck. Four squad cars were surrounding the vehicle, and the pinball machines were spread between the truck and building. A few cops had plugged in a game called Fireball to an exterior power outlet, and they were taking turns playing. Their fun abruptly ceased when they noticed Hound Dog taking their pictures. A plump cop turned toward her and grabbed his genitalia, and she captured this gesture on film too. The cop wasn’t pleased.

  “Still making friends, I see.”

  Hound Dog smiled as Laszlo, a fellow scanner geek, approached her. He wore Italian loafers, khakis, and a green Polo shirt, and his camera hung from his neck on a Nikon strap.

  “Laszlo, you look like a tourist on vacation.”

  He attached a flash unit to his camera. “When you come right down to it, aren’t we all tourists? Sightseers on that grand vacation called life?”

  “You can be the sightseer. I’d rather live life.”

  “By squinting into that viewfinder every night?”

  “No. By leading a happy, productive life, free from unfortunate wardrobe choices and dead battery packs.”

  Laszlo looked down to see that his flash unit ready light wasn’t
on. “Aw, man. Just my luck. I don’t suppose you can loan me one.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Well, that cuts my night short.” He looked at the row of pinball machines in the street. “This would make a great shot. See if you can line ’em up to look like tombstones. With the light of the flashers behind—”

  “Already done. You’re not the only one around here with a sense of ironic imagery.” Hound Dog took a few more pictures, then moved closer to the scene.

  “No security system,” Laszlo noted. “All that merchandise and nothing to protect it. Pretty dumb, huh?”

  Hound Dog remembered her parents’ using their household security system to keep tabs on her comings and goings. They would get activity reports faxed to them once a week, and they would know if she came home late or left after the system had been activated. She hated that thing.

  Something occurred to her. “Wait a minute,” she said.

  “What?”

  Her mind raced. Was it possible?

  “What is it?” Laszlo asked.

  Hound Dog ran back to her motorcycle.

  —

  Early the next morning, Gant stood in Ken Parker’s office parking lot, staring in amazement at the burned-out shell of the polygraph examiner’s office. He turned to Joe Downey, the building’s crusty old manager.

  “You have no idea who may have done this?”

  “No idea,” he said. “But I’m sure it’s that bastard’s fault.”

  “Which bastard?”

  “Mr. Lie Detector. Ken Parker.”

  “You think he threw the bomb?”

  “No, but he probably had it coming. Maybe he pissed someone off. He doesn’t show a lot of respect for people, you know.”

  “People like you?”

  “People like me, people like anybody!”

  Gant looked toward the side of the building. “If someone had walked up there and thrown it through his window, the fastest way down would be that west stairway, right?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Thanks,” he said to Downey. Gant walked toward the building next door.

  —

  Ken looked through his blinds, watching Gant as he disappeared around the side parking lot. What was Gant doing? Looking for new and different ways to pin a murder on him, no doubt. Ken had assumed Gant was asking Downey for the location of the new office, but the cop was now headed in the opposite direction.

  Ken picked up the notes he had transcribed from Don Browne’s computer the day before. Better get these out of sight. He opened the side panel cover of his polygraph, which contained the paper roll. He folded the notes, put them inside, and replaced the cover.

  The pieces were finally falling into place. Don Browne had figured out that Vikkers was disseminating phony information, and he had secured a sample of Lyceum Metals’ RC-7 formulation to determine if the test results were bogus. Perhaps in the process of investigating the data Browne had called attention to himself and was murdered for his trouble.

  There was one person who might talk about this, Ken thought. Matt Lansing. Ever since Michaelson had ushered Lansing out of the polygraph test so quickly, Ken wondered what more the man might have told him. Something about the merger had sent his readings sky-high. If Lansing had really wanted to talk about it, maybe it was time to give him another chance.

  Ken left his building, checking to make sure Gant wasn’t watching him. The detective was nowhere in sight. Where had he gone? Ken walked to a pay phone and thumbed through the directory for Vikkers Industries’ main switchboard. He dialed it and waited for the receptionist to answer.

  “Vikkers Industries.”

  “Matt Lansing, please.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Lansing doesn’t work at this office anymore.”

  Ken hesitated before continuing. “Where may I find him?”

  “Let me transfer you to Jason Danvers. He’s handling his accounts.”

  Before Ken could say another word, he found himself on hold. In a few seconds, another voice came on the line.

  “Jason Danvers.”

  “I’m looking for Matt Lansing.”

  “He’s not here, I’m afraid. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Uh, no. Actually, it’s personal. Do you know where I can find him?”

  Danvers laughed. “No one can find him.”

  Ken tensed. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s scouting for new markets. I believe he’s in Indonesia right now. If you’d like to leave your name and number, I can pass it along next time he checks in. It may be a while though.”

  “When do you expect him back?”

  “Probably not for a year.”

  “A year?”

  “Yup. He’s living on the road. Are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you?”

  Ken hung up the phone. Vikkers was covering all their bases. They had made sure Lansing wouldn’t talk to anyone.

  Dammit.

  Maybe his “partner” had done better.

  —

  Ken paced across the living room of Hound Dog’s trailer. “Don Browne knew Sabini’s figures were fake.”

  Hound Dog spoke from behind the canvas walls of her darkroom. “So you think that’s why he was killed?”

  “As far as I can tell, it’s the only thing that separates him from the other people who had the data. Vikkers wanted people to think that Lyceum Metals’ new aluminum formulation was a bust.”

  “So no one else would be interested in partnering with the company.”

  “Right. So Vikkers implanted fake test results. This merger was worth hundreds of millions to them. They weren’t about to let anyone stop them.”

  Hound Dog emerged from the darkroom and pinned four wet prints to a small clothesline stretched before a rotary fan. The fan was stained by the dried blood of a friend who had tried to duplicate a David Letterman “Stupid Human Tricks” segment. The dumbass had attempted to stop the fan blades with his tongue. Hound Dog swore he still spoke with a lisp.

  “Surely you don’t think Myth Daniels killed Don Browne,” she said.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know if she’s the one who tried to kill me. I don’t know if she’s the one who broke in here that night either.”

  “Funny you should say that,” Hound Dog said. “Because I have a way we might be able to find out.”

  “How?”

  She pointed to her drying photos. “Look.”

  It took Ken a moment, but he soon realized he was seeing Myth’s front yard. Two of the photos showed a security service sign next to the mailbox. Ken read the company name aloud: “APEX ALERT.”

  “It’s an alarm company. If she left her house, they would know it.”

  “As long as she had activated her system.”

  Hound Dog nodded, smiling at him.

  “I see what you’re getting at,” Ken said. “You want to see if she was home the night your boyfriend was shot.”

  “Or the night that boat rammed you.”

  Ken thought about it. “Good idea, but the alarm company won’t turn that information over to just anybody.”

  “They would turn it over to the police.”

  “With a court order, maybe.”

  “Without a court order. Those armed response security firms are mostly ex-cops anyway. They’re all one big happy family.”

  “So how does that help us?”

  Hound Dog was already flipping through the yellow pages for Apex Alert’s number. She found it, grabbed her cordless phone, and dialed.

  “What are you doing?” Ken asked.

  “Shhh.” She listened, then spoke in a casual tone. “Good afternoon, Linda, this is Tamara Brooking calling from the Atlanta P.D. How are you doing?”

  Ken rolled his eyes.

  Hound Dog gave him a shove as she walked across the room with her phone. “Good. Listen, I’m looking into a burglary complaint. The victim thinks it may have been a member of her own family, so she doesn’t want any paper on th
is until she knows for sure. I’m keeping it out of the system, but I’d appreciate it if I can get a copy of her activity records for a couple of dates.”

  Hound Dog picked up a pen and notepad and tossed it to Ken. He scribbled the day and time of the boat attack and flashed it to her.

  She nodded and spoke into the phone. “The address is 2525 Sandy Plains Road. I need records for June third and June fifth, all day for both.” Hound Dog turned to Ken. “She has me on hold.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “I hear that every day of my life.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “This will work!”

  “That I doubt.”

  Hound Dog spoke into the phone again. “Yes? Okay. But can’t you read me the entries now? I see. I was just hoping to save myself a trip. I understand.”

  Ken gave her an “I told you so” look.

  Hound Dog wrinkled her nose at him as she continued speaking into the phone. “Okay, but I won’t be able to make it by until this evening. Can you leave it with someone? Okay. Great. That’s Sergeant Tamara Brooking. B-r-o-o-k-i-n-g. Thank you, Linda.” Hound Dog hung up the phone.

  “Well?”

  “The records will be at the guard desk in their lobby. The guard will hand them over when Police Sergeant Tamara Brooking comes in and shows her badge.”

  “How is that going to happen?”

  “It’s not. There is no Tamara Brooking.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, at least we know where the records will be.” Hound Dog put the phone back in its cradle. “We’ll just have to go steal them.”

  “We?”

  —

  Gant huddled with Sergeant Andrew Stanton, watching the video monitor carefully. It had taken most of the day to get a court order freeing up the building surveillance tape from the other morning. If, as Gant suspected, the firebomber had made an escape around the back of Ken Parker’s building, the camera may have picked it up.

  Gant stared at the digital time stamp in the lower right-hand corner of the picture. “We’re getting close. It happened at about nine-forty A.M.”

  Stanton turned the jog shuttle dial, running the video at two times normal speed. He slowed the picture, freeze-framing it when a figure stepped into view. It was a person wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, and carrying a small paper bag.