Allison stood waiting to greet the girl from the polling company, and greeted her, when Claudia finally appeared, like a long-lost daughter. As it was Claudia's first meeting with Allison, the statistician didn't realise that the welcoming smile was only millimetres different from the smile Allison wore when she demolished the opposition. After the two women got themselves settled, with Allison in the rare position of pouring coffee for a visitor, Claudia spread out her wares, and proceeded to inform the horror-stricken Account Director that the advertising program, funded at a cost of hundreds of thousands of dollars of Continental money, was showing a response that the appetite of America for a Stiletto or a Sabre was just above that of having major surgery. Claudia had also listed the written answers, where the individual questioned had wished to give other than one of the set answers; with the adjective, 'turkey' figuring large in those replies. Claudia and Allison spent the next ninety minutes dissecting the poll results, with a disbelieving advertising executive, convinced, in the end, that what she saw before her was for real.
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In the same building, but one floor below, a figure sat, listening to the conversation which was being held by the two women in Allison's office. As the young black girl finally persuaded her company's client that what she saw spread out on the ten sheets in front of her eyes was genuine, the listener picked up a telephone, and dialled out, heard a recorder start, and simply said, "Bob, New York, urgent," before being answered almost immediately by a voice which said, "Lazarus here, do we have a problem?"
As the answer unfolded from the listener in the agency, the old man concentrated; finally halting the words with an interruption, "Klein we know, and can cover. What about this researcher from the polling company? She has been thinking, which is unfortunate for her. Get her tailed, and organise it tonight, then get our friend to contract Klein, and make her an offer. We cannot allow any realisation of the campaign to emerge, and termination is the only way I know. Can you arrange a clean up at the office?"
"Yes, sir, here, I can set up a duplicate poll results disc which will show the adverts are working well. May take a day, but there will be the usual confusion, so there won't be too much to set us back; but how about Allison?"
"Get Salvatori, he is always a fast worker; let him do the burn, so there shall be no evidence left, nothing at all!"
"Understood. Usual terms for Sal?"
The old man grunted, "Tell him to do the job, and we shall pay double if there is nothing standing in the morning!"
The listener in the agency replaced his phone, and heard the two upstairs , over the mike which had been set into Allison Klein's desk for over three months, trying to dissect the answers contained in the poll.He smiled to himself, dialled an internal number, and spoke to the parking attendant in the underground carpark where Claudia's Beetle stood. "You have a visitor down there. Driven by some young black chick; gimme the number, Les!"
"Sure thing, Bob. I can see it from here, it's 212-NY-10700. O.K., Bob?"
Thanks, Les, be seein ya!" The man named Bob broke the connection, checked a notebook for a listing, dialled out again and waited, until his call was answered.
"D.M.V. computer section, Harris here, we are closed for general enquiries; try again tomorrow morning!"
"John, it's Bob here, Bob Webster, can you give me a hand?"
"Uhh, Bob, Bob, sorry for the spiel, how can I help?"
"I have a registration plate, 212-NY-10700, can you give me a make on it?"
The computer operator at the department, who received a monthly envelope containing twice his city salary, simply keyed in the details, and answered, Claudia Crickell, Apartment five, 2170 Broadway, Queens. Anything else, Bob?"
"Nope, thanks, I got all I needed, seeya!" The listener named Webster made a mental note to pull the radio mike in Allison's desk, which had been so helpful, as any evidence of surveillance might persuade an investigator that there was something more than an unfortunate death to cover, picked up the phone again, dialled out and, when answered, spoke, "Sal, it's Bob, Bob from the office; fancy a drink, say forty-five minutes. Usual spot, bye." and replaced the phone after receiving an affirmative grunt.
He then called out to a number in Harlem, the call being taken by a voice which had to compete with a radio being played at full blast. "Hi, SixThree here, who dat?" said the voice.
"SixThree, its Web here; got a little job for you. Meet me on the corner of seventy nine, and central; in about two hours. Don't be late, SixThree, I get annoyed when people stand me around, O.K.!"
"I be there, Web. No need to get uptight with me, two hours; see ya!"
The meetings being set up, the man named Bob Webster, who had specifically bugged the agency director's office to cover such eventualities, listened while the two women, who had finally agreed to meet the next morning, finished up their meeting, and left the office together. Webster waited until he saw the elevator lights passing the open lobby door, then quickly walked up the service stairs to the next floor, and then entered Allison's office;after making sure that the floor was deserted, to start looking for the results of the polling company's survey. In the disc drive of the desk computer was a single disc, with two more lying next to it on the desktop. He booted up the computer, kicked in the DOS manipulation software, and ran down the 'tree' of directories, before switching over to the 'a' drive, and logged the directory and files on the floppy disc. Once he spotted the title 'Contin 01', he knew he had the copy which the account director would have made, he swopped and checked the other two discs, which held similar named files, reversed into the hard drive, and found the hard copy of all three discs. He 'tagged' the files, hit 'delete' then checked that the disc was clear. As he did not have time to 'wash' the drive, he decided he had removed all outer signs that the files had been in existence, picked up all three floppies, and slipped the lot into his pocket. He then swung himself on to the carpet, edged under the desk, and removed the little radio mike which had run the course of it's usefulness.
Webster ran lightly down the stairs to his own office, picked up his coat, slipped the radio mike into his briefcase, and walked out towards the lift, and the first of his late appointments.
Chapter 9
In the early hours of the morning, a slow cruising Ford Station wagon slid onto the drive of a house in KingsBurgh, which lay about twenty miles north of New York. A figure got out of the passenger seat, and walked quietly towards the rear of the substantial, double-storeyed residence. He checked the presence of two large propane gas bottles, in the standard protective enclosure, before heading for the wide patio sliding doors. Knowing all the basic entry tracks backwards, he slipped two circular suction pads on to the glass, hooked a lifter bar between them, and simply lifted the door right out of it's groove. He forced the latch open with a screwdriver, then eased the window door open while sliding it gently back on the track. Heading, with the aid of a pencil torch clamped to his brow with a strap, he walked slowly towards the kitchen, and once there, aimed for the big gas cooker in the centre of the far wall. Leaning over, he located the gas entry pipe, which terminated in a stop valve, and a hose connection. He closed the isolation valve, removed the hose clip which had kept the reinforced rubber connection hose tight for the past three years, before replacing it with a hose clip which had a very worn thread, and thus did not hold the hose steadily on to the connector. He then briefly turned the valve on and off, while he listened for the 'hiss' of the gas escaping, before heading for the central heating boiler, and adjusting the timer control.
Casting the light across the broad lounge, he spotted a bulging briefcase lying by the side of a corner desk, and moved quickly across to open and scan the contents. He pulled out an entire clutch of paper, held together by elastic bands, with a scrawled heading 'Continental Re-run', rolled it up and shoved all the file into his pocket. He then returned to the open window, replaced it onto the track after easing the lock into the open position, turned th
e gas valve fully open, left the kitchen and exited from the house via the now open patio window, slid it closed, and gently removed the two suction lifter pads. He walked back to the drive, slipped into the big car, and the Ford gently rolled back down on to the road, before turning and slowly heading down about two hundred yards away from the big house, then parking under the branches of an overhanging tree. Both men in the car stretched , lit cigarettes, wound the windows down, and waited patiently in the dark.
The timer control for the hot water was a standard dual time model, with selections for morning and evening operation. The gas now running from the faulty connection had infiltrated most of the ground floor rooms, plus the games room which lay underneath the main block of the house. The micro-contact, driven by the drive motor on the timer, slowly lifted up on the riser cam, as the new timer setting, which ensured that the gas had been running free for nearly thirty minutes, approached the operating position. As the cam clicked over, the contact made the circuit, which would normally have started the boiler heating the water for the morning baths and showers of the resident family. The presence of the propane, in the immediate vicinity of the minute spark caused by the contact of the cam, was enough to set off an explosion which had the same effect as a high explosive shell. Within seconds, the whole of the ground floor was ablaze, followed within seconds by the first floor, which held the sleeping members of the family; Howard, a college lecturer; Amy, a junior high student; Jack, an eleventh grade student; and Allison, who spent her days as an account director with Morson, Hutcheons, Drew and Zeno. All died in the conflagration which followed the explosion. As the explosion flashed out, and the fire took hold, the waiting Ford was started up, and slowly drove away towards the turnpike.
The fire crew investigator, completing his search during the morning at the request of the police department, tossed the hose clip in the air, after briefly cleaning it with a cloth. He turned to the two detectives, who stood watching him, and simply said, "There she blows, boys. Simple criminal neglect! If the guy had bothered to spend fifty cents at the hardware shop, his family would still be alive. The thread is all worn, so it could not grip the hose. The hose finally worked loose under pressure, the gas comes out and mixes; the timer starts up for the boiler, and 'boom' , no house."
"Accidental death?" grunted the senior of the two policemen.
"Yeah, call it that if you wish. No point in letting the guy be buried under the tarnish of what he had done. Yeah; accidental death, on all members of the Klein family!"
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At approximately the same time as the surreptitious entry of the Klein family home, a young black man, very tall, about six foot three inches, stopped in a street in Queens, beside the parked orange Volkswagen which was his target. The door was a matter of seconds to open; in the available light from the street lamps, the intruder then popped the trunk cover, which on the VW was at the front, and, with a flat adjustable wrench, loosed the union which connected the fuel tank to the delivery piping. He then wired a flash bulb to the starter circuit, and laid the bulb down upon a bunch of rags which had started to gather moisture from the slowly weeping petrol tank. Stepping back to admire his work, he then closed up the front trunk cover, closed the door, and strolled away towards the corner of the street, waiting upon an old Lincoln which cruised up about a minute later. The tall black climbed in, slapped the dash, and the Lincoln slowly rolled away from the area, before accelerating towards the uptown reaches of New York City.
Leroy 'Homebase' Dougan, a nineteen year old white drop-out had a bad 'crack' habit, which cost him an estimated six hundred dollars a week, all of which had to be stolen, as he had no job. He awoke in his flop, which was an abandoned warehouse, in the western edges of Queens. His craving hit him immediately he came to his fuddled senses, and this urge drove him out to search for a quick score, so as to get him the necessary twenty dollars to buy him the 'rock' he needed for the morning. His supplier had adopted the Manchester Co-operative principles, of keeping a plentiful stock, but allowing no credit whatsoever. Leroy moved along the street, trying car doors, which would give him access to a radio, or a tape player which would earn a quick twenty; he tried the door of the orange Volkswagen, and because 'SixThree' had not pulled the door tight closed, the drop latch had not engaged. He sat in the drivers seat, searching the car for anything he could steal, but as Claudia had realised that anything extra fitted to the little car would make it a target, had not fitted radio, tape, or any other device. The craving for a 'hit' washed over the young junkie, as he determined to steal the car, and make his 'rock' money for the week, all at once. He wrenched the wheel hard over, which smashed the flimsy wheel lock, and took a handful of wiring loom, and pulled the ignition section out of the folds. His hand shaking badly, he separated the wire which would feed the ignition, wrapped it around the switch post, picked the starter wire and struck it against the black wire which led to the starter motor. The current raced along the wire, and spun the starter motor into the engine flywheel, but it also hit the flash bulb which lay in a petrol-sodden cluster of rags. The flash hit the vapourised petrol, ignited the tank, which enveloped the whole car instantaneously in a fireball which effectively ended the suffering of 'Homebase', before he knew what hit him.
Claudia was awoken from a dreamless sleep by a steady knocking on her door. This being New York, her apartment door resembled a war zone defence area, with five heavy duty locks, and two chains. She put her eye to the spy hole, and found she was gazing at the uniformed figures of two of New Yorks' finest. "What's the problem, officer," she called through the door, unwilling to get involved.
"Miss, are you the owner of a Volkswagen auto, we think orange or yellow; parked along the street a while?"
"You'd better wait. Let me get some clothes on, and I'll let you in, officer, O.K.?"
Five minutes later, Claudia unlocked her door, and allowed the two police officers into he apartment. "What's this about my car, officer,"she queried, but the older of the two policemen simply asked again about her car ownership. "Yes, it's mine; registration 212-NY-10700, I have the papers, er, here," scrabbling in a drawer in the side dresser.
Officer Ken Melchek scrutinised the documents, handed them back to her, and asked, "Your insurance all in order?"
"Why yes, officer, I have full cover through a company in New Jersey. Tell me, is there a problem, has my little car been stolen? What gives with the silence?"
"Miss Crickell, someone broke into your vehicle about two hours ago, we believe he may have been a junkie, looking for a quick score. He hot-wired the ignition and somehow the petrol tank exploded, and burnt him alive. Didn't you hear anything, the explosion, the fire department vehicles, the sirens?
"Well, no, Officer, my apartment faces towards the river, I wouldn't hear anything from the street side, and I do tend to sleep rather heavily."
"Well, if you would come down to the precinct in about an hour, you could make and sign your statement, ask for me at the desk, that's Patrolman Melchek; I'll do my best not to detain you any longer than absolutely necessary." The two policemen left, with Melchek silently whistling as he dropped down the staircase towards the street. His buddy nudged him and asked, "Nice girl, huh?"
"Well, I gotta admit that if there were a choice contest between you and Miss Crickell, I don't think you'd hit a single vote; not that you ain't a good partner, but you definitely have not got any of the basic Melchek guideline points for a great relationship; you're male, you are definitely not beautiful, you haven't got a figure that is already starting to give me bad eysight, you are basically not the sort of person that I want to spend a whole lot of time off duty very close to. In other words, Officer Davis, I think I'm in love!"
As his partner regularly fell in love with just about every personable girl which they encountered during their normal days on the street, Davis just grinned and countered, "Reckon you will be just the same as usual, too shy to do anything about it. Admit it, y
ou have chickened out of the last ten times that some broad offered you a date on a plate!
Davis watched as his partner tried to find the right defence, failed and started to blush. "I'm not shy, it is just that the signs haven't been right for a relationship, not with the few young women I may, repeat may; have expressed an interest in!" The young Melchek, who in fact was a very good and brave policeman, had a terrible time getting started with any girl, and became tongue-tied at the slightest hitch in the proceedings, would indeed have to admit, to himself, that he was hopeless with girls; but refuse to admit to the squadroom that he had a problem setting up a relationship.
The two policemen left the main entrance of the block they had just visited, and were just about to enter their marked car when a civilian came up, calling, "Say, are you the two guys who took the first call on the junkie who got fried?" When he received the nods of assent, he continued, "I'm from the Fire Investigation unit, it's routine for us to make a report to your precinct on any fire, as you know. Well, have you traced the owner of the car, the burnt Beetle?"
"Yup, we just dropped down from interviewing the owner, is there a problem?" asked Ken Melchek.
The two policemen started walking back towards the corner where the burnt out car stood gently steaming, with a masked paramedic squad gently removing the mortal remains of 'Homebase' Dougan. "Well, someone wished the owner harm, because our friend died through deliberate action, not an accident. We gotta go through a few more tests when we get the hulk back to our depot, but if you come over here, I'll show you what I'm talking about." Melchek eyed Davis as they came up to the front of the once orange Volkswagen, then shrugged as the investigator paused before pointing to the side of the open trunk, and saying, "That, officers, is the remains of the petrol tank, with, below it, the delivery pipeline heading towards the fuel pump; and carburettor, at the rear of the vehicle, okay?" As he received nods from the two suddenly alert policemen, the fireman continued, "Now put your fingers around the union at the top of the pipe, where it joins on to the tank."
Continental Attack: Murder and Mayhem in Detroit's Auto Industry Page 8
