The Answer Man

by Roy Johansen

She was quiet for a moment. She leaned over and whispered, “I have a plan.”

  —

  Michaelson stood next to his car, nervously drumming his fingers on the roof. He was parked behind Myth’s home, adjacent to a pool house that bordered the property line. Myth was twenty-five minutes late, and he was having second thoughts about her convoluted scheme to eliminate Ken Parker. It was possible Parker changed his mind and went to the police, in which case the coroner would be surprised to find a very live corpse in the car trunk. Unlikely, Michaelson thought, with the threat of a frame-up coupled with the lure of Sabini’s fortune. He was pretty sure Parker would do as he was told.

  There was the chance Parker could have overpowered Myth at the burial site. Also not likely, since she would have the element of surprise on her side. She should have been able to squeeze off six shots before the guy knew what hit him.

  Michaelson checked his watch again. Anytime, baby…

  As long as she didn’t screw this up, everything would fall into place. Within forty-eight hours he was certain a sizable chunk of the cash would be his, with no Ken Parker to mess things up for him. He couldn’t let Parker live and squeal to Vikkers. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to split his take with the guy.

  And then there was the kid who came back to his trailer unexpectedly the other night. Who came home at four in the morning? Nudie bar bouncers, Michaelson noted ruefully after reading about his victim in the next day’s paper. Mark Bailey was still in a coma, and with any luck would never recover. He would have to monitor Bailey’s progress, because he was pretty sure the kid could identify him.

  A flash of headlights speared down the alley. As the car drew closer, he recognized Ken’s MG. The top was up, and Myth was driving. She pulled to a stop behind the pool house and climbed out.

  “How many?” Michaelson asked.

  “How many what?”

  “How many shots did it take to kill him?”

  “Shut up, Michaelson.”

  She unlocked her back gate and strode to the pool house. He snickered as he followed her.

  Once inside the well-lit structure, he could see her dirt-stained clothes, skin, and hair. She stepped into a changing room and slid on an old denim shirt and a pair of sweat pants.

  “He didn’t open the trunk until he had already finished digging,” she said.

  “Well, it saved you the trouble of doing it.”

  “It took him forever. Then it took me a while to cover him up.”

  “Good work.”

  She emerged from the changing room. “This had better be worth it. You’d better be as close as you say you are.”

  “Tough talk, lady. I guess I should watch myself around you.” He smiled. “Or else I’ll end up like our friend.”

  “Don’t be cute. What do you know?”

  Michaelson approached a small wet bar and poured himself a shot of vodka. “I gotta admit I suspected you of partnering with Sabini on the embezzlement. The guy had almost no friends. I didn’t know who he could have worked with. But you, you’re sharp, crafty…”

  “I never met Sabini before the investigation began. And if I had been involved, I never would have represented him.”

  “I believe that. So then I thought Sabini told you what he did with the funds, and you were holding out on me.”

  “You don’t think that anymore?”

  “No. Because now I have a pretty good idea who does know.”

  “Who?”

  “The same person who helped him rip off all that money.”

  “Who is…?”

  Michaelson shook his head and chuckled. “Unh-unh. That’s my secret for now.”

  “We’re in this together, Michaelson. I killed a man for you.”

  “For me? I don’t believe you were thinking about me.”

  “I know why you really wanted him dead. Your bosses at Vikkers wanted him that way, didn’t they?”

  “I work for myself.”

  “Get real. They found out Ken was poking around in their misinformation campaign, didn’t they?”

  “Let’s just say the company is very sensitive about that particular subject.”

  “Does that mean you also killed that man at Crown Metals who was poking into their business? Don Browne?”

  “No comment.”

  “None necessary. That’s some company you work for. They used Sabini. They didn’t even tell him they had implanted that program, did they?”

  “They didn’t have to.”

  “Just like they didn’t have to share the profits of that merger with him either. I hope they realize that’s why he stole the money from them. He felt betrayed. He thought he had it coming to him.”

  “Life isn’t fair.”

  “I’m pretty sure his partner didn’t work for Vikkers. I want to know who it is. Now.”

  Michaelson, in one quick movement, whirled and slapped one hand over her neck. He slammed her against the paneled wall.

  “You think I’m fucking stupid?” he whispered. “If I tell you, I’d be mighty expendable, wouldn’t I? Just like Burton Sabini. Like Ken Parker.”

  “You’re a stupid, scared little man.”

  “Do you have any idea what I could do to you right now?”

  “How about what I could do to you?”

  Michaelson heard the sharp, distinct click of a revolver being cocked. He looked down to see Myth’s gun pointed at his genitals.

  “Do what you need to do,” she said.

  He let go and backed off.

  She pointed the gun away. “Don’t do that again.”

  Michaelson smiled. He laughed out loud.

  He was still laughing as he left the pool house and climbed behind the wheel of Ken’s MG.

  CHAPTER 19

  Good news is something I don’t get enough of,” Gant said as he strode into the A/V lab in response to a message from Officer David Wittkower.

  “You’re getting it this morning,” Wittkower replied, twisting a jog/shuttle wheel on the video console. “Check this out.”

  The monitor showed two men standing outside the rear entrance of Ken Parker’s office building. They were talking and smoking cigarettes. Wittkower activated the zoom function and zeroed in on the men. Ken Parker and Burton Sabini.

  Gant nodded. Only minutes before, he had received a telephone report that showed several one-minute calls from Ken Parker’s office to Sabini’s residence.

  “Clear as day!” Wittkower exclaimed. “Here they are together just a few nights before Sabini’s death. Twelve-fourteen A.M. You can’t ask for much better than this. We got him cold.”

  “Parker said they had never met.”

  “When a murder suspect says that about the victim, then turns up on Candid Camera with him, that’s what’s known as a break in the case.”

  “Thanks for the lesson.”

  —

  Ken took a deep breath, inhaling the warm, sweetly scented air around Myth’s remote cabin. Located forty-five minutes north of the city, it was often used to house her high-profile clients to keep them from media scrutiny. He didn’t like being stranded without his car, but Myth and Michaelson had already arranged to leave the MG at his apartment building. They wanted to delay notice of his disappearance for as long as possible.

  Ken paced the length of the large wooden porch, wishing Myth would get back. The more he thought of her plan, the less he liked it, and he liked being manipulated even less. He knew she hadn’t told him of the “French crime boss” scheme in advance for fear that he might not go along with it. After he had participated, albeit unwittingly, it was a much simpler matter to convince him to let Michaelson’s search come to its promised conclusion.

  What the hell was he doing? And why?

  He wasn’t doing this for her. It was for Bobby, wasn’t it? That’s what he kept trying to tell himself. He had gone this far, and he might as well ride it out a little farther. But where would he draw the line?

  The line. He had crossed it t
he moment he agreed to test Sabini on the polygraph. So he had simply drawn another one, he thought ruefully. And another one. And another one after that.

  Just as his interviewees did.

  Ken wandered inside the cabin, which was in reality a house. It was a rustic two-story structure with dark cedar beams and a freestanding fireplace that centered the large living room. As peaceful as the setting was, the silence unnerved him. He found an old magazine, which he read from cover to cover before hearing the sound of a car coming down the isolated country road.

  He cautiously approached the window and peered outside, trying to see through the trees. It was Myth’s car. He met her at the door.

  “What’s the story?” he said.

  She kissed him. “We’re in a holding pattern for another day or so. Michaelson thinks he knows where the money is.”

  “Where?”

  “He won’t tell me.”

  “So, in the meantime, I don’t have a life.”

  “Ken, it’s almost over. I promise. Michaelson needs to believe I’m with him on this.”

  “So what’s he going to believe when he finds the money?”

  “That you’re our partner, whether he likes it or not. What’s he going to do?”

  “Kill us both.”

  “It won’t happen.”

  “This is a dangerous game we’re playing. We know what the guy is capable of.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “Famous last words.”

  “Not mine.”

  “Be honest with me.”

  “About what?”

  “What if I hadn’t gone along with this? What if I told you there was going to be no treasure hunt, and all I wanted to do was go to the police?”

  “That didn’t happen, did it?”

  “What if?”

  She was silent for a long while. She finally replied, “We would have gone to the police, of course.”

  —

  Decker left his car with the valet and walked into Iverson’s, a restaurant known for its high prices, rude waiters, and excellent food. The place was closed for a private party hosted by the Friends of the Atlanta Ballet, and although Decker had never been to a performance, his company was a generous supporter.

  Decker surveyed the main dining room, where the Georgia elite were mixing and mingling, trying to look like they gave a shit about the performing arts. Decker didn’t see whom he was looking for.

  Decker noticed clouds of cigar smoke billowing from a smaller party room. Ah-ha. Where he should have looked in the first place.

  Decker entered the smoking area. He glanced around until he met eyes with the man he was there to see.

  Governor Walter Holden.

  Holden cocked his head to the right, then continued his conversation with a local sports team owner.

  Decker knew what it meant. He stepped through a pair of French doors to the balcony overlooking Butler Street. He waited two minutes before Holden joined him.

  “How are things?” Holden asked. He took a puff from his cigar.

  “Not good. In the vernacular of your friend in there, I need you to run some more interference.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “The feds. They’re swarming all over us. I have a list of fifteen employees they want to spy on us. Who knows how many they’ve gotten to?”

  “It’s messy.”

  “That’s why I need you to do something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Call off the dogs. Cash in a few favors.”

  “I’ve already cashed in a few favors. If I do any more, it may look suspicious. Already I’ve gone far beyond the realm of merely helping a constituent.”

  “Most constituents aren’t giving you a twenty-million-dollar nest egg to retire on. Your future’s at stake, Governor.”

  “I held up my end of the bargain. The merger was approved.”

  “Yes, but we can’t cash out for another six months. Before then, if the SEC digs deep enough, we can get wiped out.”

  Holden shook his head. “You never should have pursued the Sabini matter the way you did. If ever there was a time you didn’t need the spotlight on your company…”

  “What was I supposed to do? Let him walk with twelve million of my money?”

  “You could have cut him a deal.”

  “I tried that.”

  “You didn’t try hard enough.”

  “We’ve been through this before. It’s in the past.”

  “Except we’re still paying for it!” Holden spoke in a sharp whisper, almost spitting on Decker’s face. “I don’t know what you’re doing to keep things on track, and I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”

  “Come on, Walter. Are you still trying to tell me you didn’t have Sabini taken out of the picture? You know, so the spotlight’s glare on us wouldn’t be so intense?”

  “Don’t be stupid. In case you haven’t noticed, people are looking at your company harder than ever. His death is the worst thing that could have happened.”

  “If you say so,” Decker said.

  “I’ve done all that I’m going to do. I still expect the balance of my payment in five months and twenty-six days.”

  Decker looked at the street below. “I have a joke for you, Walter. What did the death row inmate say to the governor?”

  Holden just glared at him.

  Decker smiled. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  —

  “I’m going to the cafeteria. Would you like me to bring you back anything?”

  Hound Dog shook her head in response to the nurse’s question. “No, thanks. I might head down there myself after a while.”

  “Okay.”

  Hound Dog sat up in her chair as the nurse left the room. Mark was still in Intensive Care, and he was making progress, becoming semiconscious several times that afternoon and evening. Hound Dog even thought he recognized her for a few brief moments. A spiderweb of electronic equipment was wired to her boyfriend, humming, beeping, and clicking, making sleep for her more impossible than it was already.

  She looked at her watch. Ten forty-five P.M. On most nights, she would be heading out at about this time. And Mark would be throwing out obnoxious drunks who couldn’t keep their hands off the strippers.

  But tonight she was just sitting, watching, waiting. And Mark just looked weak. Tired.

  She suddenly felt restless and claustrophobic. Gotta get out of here, she told herself. Just for a few minutes. She wouldn’t ride the streets tonight though. If Mark woke up, she needed to be nearby. She kissed him on the cheek and left the room.

  The hospital cafeteria boasted the usual fare: hours-old food in heat wells, complemented by stale breads and pastries. There were only a few people around. Interns talked at a table in the corner. An elderly woman cried as she ate a bowl of soup. A large maintenance man read the paper and snacked on a bag of Fritos.

  The Frito muncher left as Hound Dog bought a pack of crackers. She took a seat near the exit.

  —

  Michaelson climbed the hospital’s rear stairwell, pausing when he reached the fourth floor. The maintenance uniform was a lousy fit. The jumpsuit’s crotch rode up uncomfortably. If he raised his arms, he was sure he would castrate himself.

  He had spotted Mark Bailey’s girlfriend in the cafeteria, which gave him a window of opportunity to visit the kid’s room. Bailey was making progress, and Michaelson knew this might be his only chance to silence him before the police could get a description.

  He had done a lot of work in hospitals, generally to sneak a peek at confidential patient records, so he knew that the maintenance worker garb was a good disguise. Doctors and nurses held laborers in low esteem and didn’t usually look at their faces. That was fine with him, but for good measure he had slicked his hair back and donned a thick mustache.

  He carefully opened the stairwell door and peered down the corridor.

  Intensive Care.

 
; This would make things more difficult. There were fewer rooms on this floor, and no patient was more than a couple of steps from a nurses’ station. Also, each patient’s vital signs were being constantly monitored, and any downturn would set off an alert. He would have to move fast once the job was done.

  He walked down the hallway, at first tentatively, then confidently, as an orderly passed him by. He walked past the nurses’ station. No one noticed. He grabbed a mop sitting in a pail, then followed the numbers until he found himself at Mark Bailey’s room. The door was cracked open, and he could see that three of the four beds were occupied. The kid was in the bed near the right wall.

  Perfect.

  Michaelson went to the next room, where all four beds were taken. He spoke in broken English to the nurse on duty. “Clean bathroom, me?”

  She gave him a puzzled look.

  “Room 924?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Clean bathroom, me,” he said, walking to the bathroom with his mop. He cast a glance back to see if she was picking up her phone. She wasn’t. She didn’t suspect a thing.

  He pulled the door closed and tried the door on the opposite side. Locked. Behind the door was another bathroom for Mark Bailey’s room, and beyond that was the kid’s bed. Michaelson had done his homework.

  He picked the lock in less than twenty seconds. He crept through the other bathroom and stepped into Bailey’s room. His curtain was drawn, blocking the bed from the nurse on duty. The girlfriend had probably drawn it.

  Michaelson crept toward the bed. Mark Bailey was lying flat on his back, eyes closed, still unconscious.

  Michaelson reached into the pocket of his coveralls and pulled out a large-sized plastic Ziploc freezer bag, one with the green “freshness stripe.” In his experience, pillows were not much use in suffocation, unless they were the heavier one hundred percent down pillows. Porous foam material allowed the victim to suck air through, allowed him to breathe even with the pillow jammed against his face.

  He looped a drawstring around the freezer bag’s opening. Careful not to upset the equipment sensors, he pulled Mark’s head forward. He lowered the bag over it and pulled sharply on the string. Within seconds the bag crumpled in on itself and pressed flat against the kid’s nose and mouth.

  Michaelson expected some resistance, some twitching perhaps, but there was none.