The Dead Man jd-3

by Joel Goldman

  "Sorry, Jack. I was only kidding around. She left here at seven-thirty. I've been working out in my basement. Cell phone reception is lousy down there. I just came upstairs when you called."

  "Okay, if you hear from her, tell her to call me."

  "Will do. Is everything all right?"

  "Not hardly. Did you see this morning's paper?"

  "Yeah, but after you bit my head off, I didn't think it was a good idea to bring it up."

  I took a deep breath, trying to talk, my vocal cords too tangled to get the words out. I stopped walking and took more deep breaths. "Hang on," I managed as I waited for my throat muscles to relax, trying again, my words still choppy. "The police can't find Corliss. And, Maggie Brennan and their two research assistants are also missing."

  "That is very bad, Jack. It sounds like Corliss has gone totally off the rails. What are you going to do?"

  "Find them."

  "How can I help?"

  I punched out the words in spurts, like bursts of Morse code. "There's a retired Johnson County sheriff's deputy named Tom Goodell. He probably lives in Olathe. I need a phone number and an address."

  "Piece of cake."

  My car was parked in the driveway when I got home. I shoved past the door, stamping the snow off my boots.

  "Lucy! Where are you?" I called out, my speech restored to a steady cadence.

  She didn't answer but the dogs did. They came flying down the stairs, jumping on my legs, circling and racing back upstairs as I headed for my bedroom. The cream-colored carpet was crosscut with wet dog tracks and boot prints filled with dirt, salt, and specks of fine gravel, the trail going up the stairs, into my bedroom, back out, and down the hall to Lucy's, the mess renewing the suspicions I had when I realized she'd searched my room a week ago.

  "There you are," Lucy said from the bottom of the stairs.

  I looked over the rail. She was in her stocking feet, carrying a vacuum cleaner. I was on edge, trying to rein myself in and not doing a very good job of it.

  "What were you doing in my bedroom?"

  She came upstairs, set the vacuum cleaner down in the hall, uncoiled the cord, and plugged it in. "Trying to catch your damn dogs so I could dry their feet off before they tracked up the whole house, but they're faster than me so all three of us left our tracks."

  She didn't look away, her sharp tone telling me she didn't care for mine, letting me know that I was pushing her buttons. I gave her a disbelieving look, eyebrow raised, jaw set.

  "What? You think I was snooping around in your room? Give me a break. You want to clean up the mess, be my guest," she said, throwing up her hands.

  "Where have you been?"

  "You know where I've been. I spent the night at Simon's."

  "I meant this morning. Where were you this morning?"

  "I got some breakfast and went to the grocery store."

  "I told you last night that I needed my car today. Why didn't you answer your phone or call me back?"

  Her face reddened as she crossed her arms over her chest and turned her back to me, her shoulders rising and falling. She stood like that for a moment and then faced me, her hands on her hips, her even color restored.

  "Jack, you kind of remind me of my dad and I get the feeling I remind you a little bit of your daughter. But that's not who we are, either one of us. I'm sorry I didn't get the car back to you any sooner but you can't run my life or chew me out when I come home too late or don't answer the phone every time you call. Look at us. We're a couple of beat-up people who could get through the day a little easier if we cut each other some slack."

  I didn't know what to say, even though I knew she was right. I was cranked up; raw, and worried with none of the control she was using to back away from a fight I was starting.

  "Where are my car keys?"

  She handed them to me and I went into my bedroom, opened the closet, and took down my gun case. I clipped the holster to my belt in the small of my back and was sliding my Glock into place when Lucy appeared in the doorway.

  "What in the world are you doing?" she asked.

  "I made a promise to Maggie Brennan that I wouldn't let anything happen to her. The police can't find her or Corliss or their research assistants."

  "And you can? You know something they don't know?"

  I pulled my jacket on. It was cut below the waist, covering my gun as long as I didn't try to touch my toes.

  "I know what I'm doing," I said, my knees buckling, twisting me to the side as I held on to the closet door.

  "Knowing is only half the battle, G.I. Joe. You sure you can handle the other half? When you're done doing the Twist, maybe you can show me the Mashed Potato."

  I sat on the edge of my bed. "I'm fine. I just need a breather."

  She came over to me and put her hands on my shoulders. "Give me the car keys, Jack."

  I looked up at her. "Why?"

  "You need a driver. It's bad enough that you're probably going to shoot yourself. I don't need you wrecking the car while you're at it. I'd hate to have to buy my own ride."

  Chapter Sixty

  "We're all dressed up with no place to go," Lucy said. "We've got to work this thing before we go running off half-cocked to nowhere." She took my arm, pulling me off the bed. "Let's go. Downstairs."

  I threw my coat on the sofa as she paced around the living den, studying the Post-its on the walls. My muscles quit twitching as I watched her think. She was right about us. We were both beat up, too many of our wounds self-inflicted. We needed more than a little slack from one another. We needed a hand up and she'd given me hers.

  "Okay," she said, stopping in the middle of the room. "What do we know that we didn't know yesterday?"

  "Start with the article in today's paper."

  I handed it to her, giving her time to read it, then told her about my conversation with Rachel Firestone.

  She tucked the paper under her arm, took another lap around the living den, stopping across from me.

  "Working theory-Corliss is responsible for the disappearance of Maggie, Janet, and Gary. Worst case- they're dead. Best case-they will be soon if we don't find them."

  "Agreed," I said.

  "It's pretty tough to snatch three people all at once," she said. "Especially when two of them are young and could put up a fight, like the research assistants."

  "Even if Corliss had a gun, he's got to put them in a car and drive somewhere. He can't do that and watch them at the same time. If he lets one of them drive, he's still got control problems."

  "He could tie them up, duct tape them, but that's the kind of thing people in other cars would notice-three people all bundled up and gagged. You can get one, maybe two people in the trunk, but three's a crowd."

  "So, he grabs them one at a time," I said.

  "Possible, but not likely. Janet and Gary were probably together. Two people are easier to handle than three, but not that much easier. Makes it more likely that he talked them into meeting him somewhere they were familiar with, someplace that wouldn't raise any red flags."

  "Could have gone down that way."

  "What else makes sense?" she asked.

  "He takes them out separately. Kills them where he finds them."

  "The most likely place he would have found them is where they live which means the cops would have found their bodies by now," Lucy said. "Besides, that's too spontaneous and Corliss is a planner. Look at how much trouble he went to with Walter Enoch and Tom Delaney, taking the videos where they lived and then going back to kill them. And what about the way he staged Anne Kendall's body?"

  "You're right," I said. "Anne came to him about the dream project last Wednesday and she was killed the following Monday. Maggie and I left the institute at the same time on Tuesday. If Janet and Gary were gone by then, I think she would have mentioned it."

  "So, he doesn't grab them. He invites them."

  "More like he gives them an order. He's their boss."

  "He's Janet and Gary's bos
s, not Maggie's."

  "Then he invites her and orders the others," I said.

  "That would work. But where's the party?"

  "Someplace private, no walk-in traffic."

  "Not one of their houses. The cops have been there," Lucy said. "Then where?"

  "I don't know but I know where to look. Grab your coat. If Corliss persuaded Maggie, Janet, and Gary to meet him somewhere, there might be something in his office about that location, maybe a calendar entry or a handwritten note like the one with the victim's initials on it. "

  The lobby was quiet, as if Tuesday's turmoil had taken place in another dimension of time and space. Nancy Klemp was on duty, nodding as we passed her desk, the starch in her back replaced with a defensive crouch across her shoulders, afraid and ready. Her comparison of the institute to the valley of the shadow of death had been prophetic.

  I swiped my master key card across the lock sensor for Corliss's office and swung the door open. It had been stripped bare, desk drawers, file cabinets and bookshelves empty, and his computer gone. There was nothing left but the furniture. I picked up the phone on the desk and called Sherry Fritzshall's office.

  "Where are you?" she asked.

  "In Anthony Corliss's office. What happened to all of his stuff?"

  "The police took it."

  "When?"

  "This morning. What are you doing in his office?"

  "My job. Were you here when they took everything?"

  "Yes. They had a search warrant. There was nothing I could do."

  "Did the warrant cover anything else besides Corliss's office?"

  "Yes. It included the offices of Maggie Brennan, Janet Casey, and Gary Kaufman. They took everything that wasn't nailed down."

  "Next time, call me."

  "If there's a next time, it will be too late to call you."

  We checked Maggie's office and the one Janet and Gary used to be certain no scraps had been left behind. A swarm of locusts couldn't have done a more thorough job stripping a field.

  "What now?" Lucy asked.

  "The IT department. If Corliss is like most of the rest of the world, he exists as much in cyberspace as he does on the ground. It's impossible to cover all those tracks."

  We found Frank Gentry at his desk. He stood, stifling the impulse to salute, instead straightening and tightening his regimental striped necktie.

  "I need your help," I said.

  "Then you've got it."

  "I assume all the institute's computers are networked."

  "They are. Desktops, laptops, Blackberries and iPhones, anything that's wired or wireless. If we provide it, it syncs to the network."

  "What about backup?"

  "I won't bore you with the details, but if it was done on one of our machines in the last twelve months we've got it."

  "Except for everything Sherry Fritzshall told you to dump," Lucy said.

  Gentry's face burned but he didn't flinch or duck Lucy's shot. "Except for that."

  I said, "The police took Anthony Corliss and Maggie Brennan's computers and the ones that Janet Casey and Gary Kaufman used. I need you to print their calendars for the last year."

  "What are you looking for?"

  "Meetings they may have had somewhere besides at the institute."

  "Then I'll check expense records too. If they spent any money for it, there will be an expense voucher and a reimbursement record."

  "Great. How long will all that take?"

  He glanced at his watch. "Give me an hour."

  It took him fifty-three minutes.

  "Here you go," Gentry said, handing me a sheaf of papers. "Calendars and expense records."

  "Anything jump out?" I asked, knowing that he would have studied the records before giving them to me.

  He plucked Corliss's calendar for October of last year from the middle of the stack and put it on top, reading the entry for the twelfth. "Art gallery, noon, lunch."

  "What art gallery?"

  "It's not really an art gallery, at least not one open to the public. We just call it that. It's where Mr. Harper keeps the pieces of his art collection that aren't on display here or in one of his homes or that aren't on loan to a real gallery or museum. He also uses it for off-campus meetings and retreats."

  "Where is it?"

  "In the Crossroad's District near Twentieth and Oak. It used to be a brewery," he said, jotting the address down on the calendar.

  "Would Corliss have been allowed to use it?"

  "Sure, subject to availability. It's one of the perks for the project directors. All he had to do was make a reservation. There's also an expense record for that day," Gentry said, thumbing through the pages. "Lunch for four people, thirty-eight dollars."

  "How would Corliss get in?"

  "You need a key card, just like here. There are several of them. Ms. Fritzshall's secretary keeps them."

  I called Sherry. "How many keys are there to Harper's art gallery?"

  "Why? What's this about?"

  "I'll explain later. How many keys?"

  "Four."

  "Where are they?"

  "My secretary keeps them. She hands them out if someone reserves the gallery."

  "Ask her if anyone reserved it in the last day or two."

  "Hold on," she said, coming back on the line a moment later. "Anthony Corliss reserved the gallery for yesterday. Gary Kaufman picked up the key Tuesday afternoon and hasn't returned it."

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Today was Thursday. I checked Corliss's calendar for yesterday. He had nothing scheduled. Neither did Maggie, Janet Casey, or Gary Kaufman.

  I reconstructed what I knew of their movements over the last two days. I had talked to Corliss on Tuesday morning just before Kent and Dolan took a crack at him but I hadn't seen him since. I rode down the elevator Tuesday evening with Maggie, commenting what a good thing it was that the employees had been given Wednesday off, Maggie replying that a day of rest suited her. Neither had said anything about a meeting at the Gallery. I knew less about Janet and Gary's movements since I'd last talked to them on Monday.

  Kent's and Dolan's interrogation may have convinced Corliss that the walls would soon come tumbling down, pushing him over the edge. He could have reserved the gallery by phone and instructed Gary to pick up the key, using the fact that the institute was closed on Wednesday as a reason to meet there.

  I got a key to the gallery from Sherry's secretary and called Quincy Carter after Lucy and I were in the car. He didn't answer, confirming Rachel's warning that he had cut me off. I left him a message telling him about the gallery and that Lucy and I were on our way there.

  "I know why you called Carter but why make sure he knows that's where we're going?" Lucy asked.

  "Motivation. Even if he doesn't think it's a good lead, he'll want to get there before we do. All things considered, I'd rather he go through the door first."

  My back arched as I spoke, wedging me against the headrest, spasms genuflecting me in my seat, my gun pressing on my spine.

  "Hey, Sparky," she said. "Remember me. Lucy Trent. Kick-ass in the clutch."

  "You'd like that, being first through the door, wouldn't you?"

  "Damn straight I would."

  We were northbound on Main, climbing the long, steep hill from the Plaza. The snowplows had done their best, but the ice was stubborn and cars were stranded on the slope, turning our drive into a slow motion slalom. Lucy goosed and cajoled the car, keeping the tires rolling but not spinning, cresting the hill with a broad smile.

  A few blocks later, we did the downhill run on Main, a sweeping descent, the Liberty Memorial on the left, Hallmark Cards' headquarters and Crown Center on the right, Lucy nudging the wheel and working the brakes, turning right on Twentieth, grill smoke coming from the Hereford House cutting the late morning air.

  "Stop here," I said, after we crossed Oak.

  Lucy eased to the curb half a block from the gallery. We walked the rest of the way. There were no cars, civil
ian or police, parked along Twentieth. The street had been plowed, obliterating tire tracks that would have been left by anyone going into or leaving the gallery and there were no footprints in the snow on the sidewalk or on the three steps leading to the entrance.

  The maroon brick building was narrow across the front, set long and deep into its lot. A heavy wooden door was cut into the brick and shrouded beneath an arch. The parking lot on the east side was empty.

  I looked east and west on Twentieth, then north and south on McGee, the next cross street east of the gallery. Traffic was light. I gave Carter a few minutes and then turned to Lucy.

  "Showtime."

  She held her hand out to me, palm up. "Me first. Give me your gun."

  "Carter shows up and sees you with a gun, could be a lot of trouble."

  "I'll tell him I took it from you so you wouldn't accidentally shoot yourself."

  I smiled. "Kick-ass in the clutch. I can't wait to see this."

  I handed her my gun and the key card and followed her to the front door. She tried the handle but the door was locked. She ran the card across the sensor, the lock giving way with a firm click.

  Holding the gun with both hands, arms extended down in front of her, she leaned against the door, pushing it open an inch, testing the sound it would make, waiting a beat for a reaction from the other side. The door and the gallery were silent. She looked back at me, one step below her. I nodded and she ducked her chin, slammed her shoulder into the door, and we blew across the threshold. Lucy went to the right and I went to the left, dividing the field of fire for anyone who may be waiting for us.

  The door opened into the main gallery, a broad, high-ceilinged hall with smaller rooms on each side. Paintings hung on the walls, interspersed with sculptures mounted on pedestals and the floor. There were no lights on, the only illumination coming through the open door and the windows, leaving the recesses of the main hall in shadow. Wide stairs at the back led to a landing, an additional set of stairs at each end continuing to the second floor.