by John Lutz
Nudger chastised himself for letting his imagination roam. His was the business of facts, and it was time to add to what he knew instead of standing in the hall speculating. He opened Dr. Wallace’s door and stepped inside.
He found himself in a large, cool anteroom, alone. There was a grouping of black vinyl furniture around a low coffee table with a scattering of news magazines on it. A wide desk with a computer on it sat near another wide desk, which held only a green felt pad and an answering machine. There were framed, modern museum prints on the walls, the kind that made Nudger dizzy and slightly nauseated if he stared at them too long.
A woman said, “Oh!”
He turned and saw that a short, dark-complexioned woman in a tailored business suit had come through one of several doors on the back wall. She was about forty, plain looking except for exotic dark eyes that were heavily made up.
She said, “Sorry, I didn’t realize someone had come in. Generally I’m behind my desk to greet visitors.”
“Are you Dr. Walling’s receptionist?” Nudger asked.
The woman gave him a smile that took away her plainness; the eyes had been right all along. “Generally speaking, yes.”
“Is he, er, seeing patients today?”
She stared at him. “Patients?”
Nudger didn’t know quite how to respond. “This is Dr. Walling’s office, isn’t it?”
“Sure it is. Generally speaking.”
“What is he,” Nudger asked in frustration, “a general practitioner?”
The woman smiled. “I meant, this is his office like it’s his business.”
“Well, isn’t that how it generally is?”
She pursed her lips, then said, “Ah!”
“That’s what I assumed the doctor might ask me to say,” Nudger told her.
“Not likely. Dr. Walling isn’t a medical doctor. He’s a doctor of economics, and the chief executive officer of Compu-Data.”
Nudger understood then. The directory had been right. There was indeed only one business on the seventh floor.
“So this is an economist’s office—like a think tank? That what Compu-Data is?”
“No, sir. We create custom computer software.” She went to the almost-bare desk and sat down, then folded her hands and looked up at him with her large dark eyes. The mascara made them seem bruised, as if she were recovering from a beating.
He decided it was time to retreat, but first he wanted to make sure of something.
“Isn’t Dr. Walling a tall man with red hair? Walks with a limp?”
“You must have the wrong floor,” the woman said. “Dr. Walling is average height with gray hair, and he certainly doesn’t limp.” Nudger was obviously making her uneasy now, wasting her time. She bent low from her chair and slid open a drawer. “If you’ll excuse me . . . ”
“Sure,” he said. “Sorry. I must have been given wrong directions.”
He backed to the door, then out into the uncomfortably warm hall.
Okay, he thought, walking slowly toward the elevator, a computer whiz with a doctorate in economics. Brilliant guy. But then, Dale Rand was probably no fool. It wasn’t surprising he’d have friends he could talk to without getting them confused.
It occurred to Nudger that if the man with the gun and earring had been following him, the sparsely occupied office building would be a likely place for a confrontation. He actually felt the beat of his pulse in his throat.
He dropped to the lobby in the lurching old elevator, then walked quickly outside where there were people and sunlight. He might have heard echoing steps behind him in the lobby, but he couldn’t be sure.
For the next few hours he sat in his car outside the Medwick Building, waiting for Rand to emerge again.
It was past four o’clock when the blue Caddy flashed from the shadows of the parking garage and turned west. Nudger started the Granada and followed.
Rush-hour traffic was building, and keeping Rand’s car in sight wasn’t so easy this time. There were too many vans and pickup trucks blocking Nudger’s view, until Rand drove south on Tenth Street and got on the Highway 40 ramp to go west. By that time Nudger’s nervous stomach was letting him know again he was in the wrong business. Antacid tablets didn’t help much. Maybe because of the heat.
Or the fear.
Nudger thought Rand was probably going home, and he didn’t want to park again on a secluded street in the county where the man with the gun might show up. The earring didn’t seem very memorable now, only the gun.
Sure enough. Rand drove to Ladue and steered the Caddy into his driveway on Houghton Lane.
Nudger didn’t even slow down as he drove past the house. It wasn’t that he was afraid, he assured himself. He’d hired the bug man so there’d be no need for a stakeout here. The guy with the gun would inform Rand he wasn’t being watched at home, and Rand might let down his guard elsewhere.
That was the strategy, anyway, so why mess it up just so Nudger could assure himself he was macho and unafraid? Like some insecure teenager who’d been challenged outside school.
“You don’t have to prove yourself,” a voice inside him said disdainfully, as he fought the impulse to defy the gunman. “For God’s sake, grow up!”
Another, softer interior voice said, “Grow old.”
He heeded them both and drove to his office.
CHAPTER 8
Nudger set his alarm for 12:30 A.M., lay down on the bed fully clothed except for his shoes, then sat straight up as the alarm screeched at him.
Could this be? So soon?
Surely there was something wrong with the alarm.
But the clock actually read twelve-thirty, and the darkness and dearth of noise outside the window suggested twelve-thirty. Twelve-thirty, all right. He’d been asleep for more than three hours.
He slipped into his shoes and adjusted his wrinkled and twisted clothing; it knew that hours had passed. After rinsing off his face and combing his hair so it only stuck out on one side, he left his apartment and drove the Granada through the hot, humid night to the block behind Dale Rand’s house in Ladue.
The houses here were on large, woody lots and set far back from the street, and there were few cars parked at the curb. The blue Chevy the bug man had described was parked near the cross-street where a small-strip shopping center anchored by a Quick Stop market sat in an oasis of light. The nondescript vehicle would attract little attention there.
He pulled the Granada in behind it, glanced around, then climbed out and walked to the back of the Chevy. The night was quiet but for the shrill scream of crickets, a primal background noise that settled in the depths of the mind like suppressed panic. He used the key the bug man had given him and opened the trunk.
The bug man had painted over the trunk light so it revealed the contents in a soft glow. There was the receiver and recorder, rectangular black objects with dim, pinpoint red lights to show they were in operation. Another recorder lay by itself on the left side of the trunk. A box of cassettes sat between them. Nudger saw a small white placard near the receiver and squinted at it to peer through the darkness. “Property of U. S. Government.”
His stomach jumped. It took him a few seconds to realize that the bug man had placed the placard there to cause confusion if local authorities for some reason happened to look in the trunk. His contacts in law enforcement would tip him off, and he might have time to remove the equipment while various bureaucracies were still trying to sort out which government agency might actually have planted the devices. In government, the right hand seldom knew what half a dozen other hands were doing, or holding.
He had no trouble removing the dual cassettes in the master recorder and replacing them with fresh tape. The used cassettes and the smaller, spare recorder he slipped into his sport coat pocket. Then he shut the trunk and got back in the Granada.
There was a little activity down by the Quick Stop market, two guys talking alongside a pickup truck. One of them held an open can of soda or b
eer and waved it around while he talked. A blond woman was seated on the passenger side of the pickup, patiently waiting for them to finish their conversation. No one seemed to have seen Nudger, or paid any attention to him if they had.
He backed the Granada a few feet so he could clear the Chevy, cringing at the idea of trying to explain the contents of the trunk and his jacket pocket if he rammed the car from behind and the police arrived. Then he swung the dented red hood of the Granada out toward the center of the street and accelerated away from there.
He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep when he got home. He’d have to listen to the tapes.
Back in his apartment on Sutton, Nudger settled down on the sofa with the recorder on the cushion next to him. Balanced on the sofa arm was the box of MunchaBunch doughnuts he’d stopped for on the way. Danny would never know. He held a can of Budweiser in one hand, and with the other pressed the Power button, watching with satisfaction as the little red light winked on.
He pressed Rewind and ate a miniature doughnut while he waited for the tape to spin out, then pushed Play.
The real-time numerals on the recorder indicated that this conversation had taken place at 11:03 A.M., Sydney Rand calling the liquor store down by the Quick Stop market for a delivery. Two bottles of Gilbey’s gin. The bug man had rigged his equipment to pick up both ends of phone conversations. They seemed to know Sydney at the liquor store, and assured her the delivery would be made within the half hour.
It was. Real time was 11:27 A.M. when the recorder played the brief conversation between Sydney and the delivery man at the door. Nudger reluctantly admitted to his subtle thrill of being secretly present in other people’s lives. He didn’t like that about himself, but there it was.
Then, almost immediately, real time read 5:12 P.M., when Rand had arrived home from Kearn-Wisdom. The Rands didn’t greet each other like June and Ward Cleaver. Rand’s wife, Sydney, spoke first:
“ ‘Bout time. Let’s go.”
Rand’s voice: “Christ, I just walked in the—”
“I’m hungry, damnit. I wanna go out and get some supper.”
“Hungry or thirsty?”
After a long silence. “I’ll take my car. You can come along or stay here and eat by yourself.”
“By myself suits me fine.”
“It would. You do everything else by yourself.”
“It seems that way sometimes. Where’s Luanne?”
“Out. I figured you might know where.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? She’s your daughter, too. Right? Right, goddamnit?”
“I haven’t forgotten. Have you?”
“No. Even though she’s . . . difficult.”
“Oh, I’ll just bet she is.”
“Why don’t you talk to her about it?” There was sadistic amusement in Rand’s voice.
“You bastard! You know she won’t talk to me.”
“She’s seventeen years old. It’s natural she has her secrets.”
“Natural, is it?”
“Why don’t you take your car and go to a restaurant. I’d rather have a sandwich here at home.”
Silence. Then Rand’s voice again.
“And try not to have an accident on the way home.”
Click. Whir. The real-time indicator read 7:24 P.M. A phone ringing, not in the room with Rand, but on the other end of a connection. The phone was answered, and a voice said, “Yes?”
Then Rand’s voice, on the phone and in the room:
“Me, Horace. Can you talk?” Nudger assumed Rand was addressing Dr. Horace Walling.
“Until I’m interrupted. Did you act on the information I gave you?”
“All of it. We have nothing to sweat about. They’re solid stocks with plenty of room to go up in price. How are you doing on the software?”
“Not to worry about the rest of the software, Dale. It’ll be ready well before Labor Day.”
“Then we’ve got no problem.”
“You positive about those stocks?”
“Horace, Horace . . . Synpac is a sure thing by almost any standard. Fortune Fashions is a lock, too. The returns on their new spring line will drive the price way up within the month. It’s the word from people who know, the kinda fairies who follow that stuff, sleep with the models and designers figuring to get rich by selling what they learn to the competition that needs it most. These people know book value like they know their phone numbers. Everything I learned confirmed your information. Believe me.”
“I do believe you, or I wouldn’t be doing this.”
“We’re getting the diversification we need. And in some cases I’m calling in favors, acting on inside information that’d make the SEC’s hair curl if it knew.”
“That’s the kind of edge we can use.”
They talked about stocks for another five minutes, then Rand said, “I can get away for a game of golf tomorrow, maybe have some more recommendations for your kind of research, see if they fit our pattern.”
“Golf it is. Afternoon?”
“Afternoon.”
“Uh, Dale, how are things with Sydney?”
“Up and down. Depends on how much she’s drinking at the time.”
“Yeah . . . well. How about Luanne?”
“I don’t know where she is right now. I hardly ever do. That’s Luanne these days.”
“Be cautious with Luanne, Dale.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just what I said. You know how it is with teenage girls.”
“Everything’s under control, Horace. Don’t sweat any of this.”
“Best be careful what you say. I don’t trust the office phones.”
“Nobody’s gonna tap your phone, Horace. When would they get a chance, the way you spend your evenings there?”
“But why take the chance?”
“So don’t take it. Call me from a public phone when we need to talk.”
“You might laugh, but I intend to do that from now on. I’m a prudent man, Dale.”
“That’s why I bet against you when we golf.”
“You’re the one who leaves your putts short.”
A laugh, more resentful than amused. “See you tomorrow at the club.”
The connection was broken.
Nudger took a sip of beer. The real-time indicator flashed to 10:01 P.M.
“You still up?” Sydney had returned home. Her voice was slow, unsure. She sounded drunk.
“I was waiting for you.”
“Well, I’m goin’ up to bed.”
“If you do that you’ll pass out within two minutes.”
“Tha’s the idea. What the bed’s for. Our bed, anyways. Sole purpose.”
“For Christsake, Syd.”
“Night. Fuck you.”
Flash to 12:25 A.M., less than an hour before Nudger had removed the recorder and cassettes from the blue Chevy’s trunk: moans, bedsprings creaking, a rhythmic knocking sound, probably the headboard banging against the wall.
Embarrassed and feeling like the tawdry P.I. some people thought him to be, Nudger listened for a few minutes, then fast-forwarded.
The rhythmic knocking ceased, as did the moans. Now there was soft sobbing.
That was the end of the recording.
Nudger punched Rewind and rested his head on the sofa back, listening to the cassette whir. There hadn’t been much conversation in the Rand household; two cassettes hadn’t been needed. But maybe tomorrow would be different. Though it didn’t sound as if the talk would be any friendlier, even if the absent Luanne showed up. This was obviously one of those unhappy families miserable in its own way.
The recorder clicked. Nudger glanced down and saw that it had finished rewinding and had switched itself off.
He decided the recorder had the right idea, so he ate the last doughnut, took a last sip of beer to help him sleep, and went to bed.
He didn’t sleep, though. He lay there sweating with the air conditioner on high, trapped in slowly passi
ng real time and thinking about Fortune Fashions. And Synpac. And book value.
Whatever that was.
CHAPTER 9
Claudia wasn’t scheduled to teach until noon, so Nudger met her at the Bradmoor restaurant, near Clayton and Big Bend. They ate breakfast there occasionally, when Nudger simply had to escape the obligatory Dunker Delite and acidic coffee. After all the MunchaBunches he’d consumed last night, he didn’t want a Dunker Delite anywhere near him.
When he arrived a few minutes before ten, Claudia was already in one of the orange vinyl-upholstered booths by a window, sipping coffee and gazing out at the bright morning. She looked up at him and he saw surprise and mild curiosity on her face.
“What happened to you?” she asked.
“Happened? Me? Oh, I was up most of the night. It shows?”
“You look like you were in an accident.”
He slid into the seat across from her. She looked fresh and put together, her dark hair swept back off her forehead, her deep brown eyes tugging at something in his heart. His weariness and the edge of his excitement fell away. Being in Claudia’s presence did that; he often thought inanely that she had the same relaxing effect as a warm bath. He never had mentioned that to her, though; she might not take it the right way.
“Why did you want to meet here so late?” she asked. He’d phoned her at eight o’clock and awakened her. “I was hungry an hour ago.”
“This is my second stop.”
A pretty young waitress of apparent Indian descent arrived and took their orders. Claudia asked for her usual Number Seven on the menu. Nudger oddly enough wasn’t hungry, so he requested only a bagel with cream cheese and jelly. The waitress wrote all this down, then topped off Claudia’s cup and poured some coffee for Nudger, spilling a little, and glided away.
Claudia held her cup but didn’t drink from it. Instead she leaned back and smiled faintly at Nudger, waiting. She obviously knew he’d been up last night because of the case he was working on, and the time had come, as it often did in his job, when he needed to share. Claudia always listened, and often provided insight.
