Frank came out of the lunch room. Lulu glanced at him then went back to window-shopping, then glanced at him again. He looked both ways up and down the mall. He gave her a puzzled look, and for a moment she was sure he was going to walk up to her, but then he pulled up his sleeve to see his watch and turned and walked the other way.
What would she have said to him? Something about whatever she’d been looking at in the window? She let her eyes focus on the merchandise in the window. She gasped and took a step back. Through the window she saw many people at desks all looking back at her.
She took another step back so she could look up at the sign—SPLASHDOWN SOFTWARE. They’d taken over the old dime store that had closed several years ago. She knew that. Frank knew that, too. Her staring into this particular window was what had puzzled him. His cop instincts.
Lulu still assumed she was being watched; she always assumed that, so she waved at the people inside as if that’s what she’d been up to all along.
And she did see someone we at least recognized—Arthur Snow, the head guy at SplashDown. He had a handful of printouts, and he stopped to say something to a woman at one of the desks. We knew the woman, too, but couldn’t retrieve her name. She and Snow both looked up at Lulu.
We moved away from the window.
Frank had reached the corner. That was lead enough. We hurried to follow.
Ordinarily he would just walk back to his office after lunch, but we could tell he would break his pattern today. For one thing, he already had. He’d taken that early lunch alone.
Following anyone is an art, but following a cop takes special care. Lulu turned on Olive, leaving Frank to continue down Broadway on his own. She was pretty sure she could pick him up anywhere along the mall before he reached the police station.
As long as he didn’t get into a car along the way, we probably wouldn’t lose him. If he used his own car, we’d be okay. The lot where we had permanent parking places was only a block from the police department’s underground parking garage. Sky kept his Cherokee in that lot, and Lulu’s old Ford Escort was pretty much permanently parked there. The car was registered in my mother’s name. I wondered what Frank would think if he suddenly suspected Lulu was following him and had the plate checked. Would he think my mother had lost twenty years and gained fifty pounds?
Lulu passed the police station and walked around to our parking lot. She was playing a hunch. If he just went back to his office, she’d know soon enough, but if he walked through to the parking garage, she would be ready to follow him in the Escort.
Lulu unlocked the Escort, but before she climbed inside she saw a small group of mushrooms on the floor under the steering wheel. We didn’t remember buying mushrooms, much less dropping them as we unloaded groceries. Lulu leaned down to pick one up. It was growing in the Escort’s carpet! How long had it been since she’d used the car? She didn’t remember. We hoped the battery wasn’t dead. Lulu plucked the mushrooms from the carpet and tossed them to the pavement and climbed in behind the wheel.
Sometimes you win. Not only did the Escort roar to life when Lulu turned the key, but she had no more done that when Frank pulled into view on the one-way street in his own beat-up green Dodge.
Lulu gave him a moment, and then followed. Frank took Seventh Street to Franklin and for a moment we thought he would drive right out of town. Maybe he had a rendezvous in Springfield.
Fast food and motels on the left, the University of Oregon on the right. He pulled into the left turn lane at a light.
It was decision time. We could pull in behind him and risk him spotting us, or we could take a chance that he would make a legal U-turn here in order to get to the businesses on the other side of the street. That was the main purpose of a left turn here. If he really went on down the cross street we’d probably lose him. We stayed in the lane that didn’t turn.
Frank made a U-turn. The light turned green and the traffic in front of us moved on. We just needed a moment more to see what Frank was up to. The traffic behind us waited patiently, but they wouldn’t wait much longer. A bunch of horn honking might attract Frank’s attention. We thought he might be doubling back to downtown, but before he got out of sight he turned into the parking lot of the Quack Inn. Lulu dropped the Escort into gear and zipped into the left turn lane. Got some dirty looks, but no one honked. That reticence on the part of locals to use the horn aggressively is one of the things that amazes visitors.
By the time we could make our own U-turn and get down to the Quack Inn, Frank had parked and disappeared into one of the rooms. That meant someone else had already rented the room. Or at least that Frank had done it himself some time in the past. He hadn’t had time to check in while we waited at the light.
The bar at the Quack Inn was called the Tail Feathers Lounge. Both of the names had to do with the U. of O. Ducks. A lot of stuff in Eugene has a duck theme, the school’s mascot being a duck and all, especially in this part of town, what with the university just across the street.
We were a little surprised Frank would pick this part of town when he was looking for a steamy love nest. There’s a whole other area of town with motels catering to hanky-panky. Lulu was glad we weren’t there. While Eugene has no really mean streets, there are a few decidedly grumpy ones Frank might have picked.
Part of the Tail Feathers Lounge was dark and smoky, but part of it had once been a coffee shop and was bright and filled with potted plants and little white tables with bent-wire soda fountain chairs. Lulu took a seat at a table by the window and ordered a glass of white wine. From that vantage point we could see Frank’s car and a row of upper and lower motel room doors. Unless Frank parked around the corner from his room, we ought to be able to see him when he came out. More important, we ought to be able to see who he was with. Lulu opened her bag and fussed with her Nikon Auto-Everything. She pointed it out the window and snapped one shot of Frank’s car. Then she dropped the camera back into the bag and took a sip of her wine.
So it was all true. Elsie had been right to suspect Frank. He was out for a nooner with some bimbo, and we would soon get the goods on him. We had begun to suspect that he was on the up-and-up which would have been disappointing.
Lulu had time for another glass of wine. It was a lazy afternoon, and she relaxed and let our mind wander. Surely Frank would have to get back to work soon, but until he did we could take it easy. The Tail Feathers had no tap dancing floor, so we were in no danger of wandering off to lala land and losing track of time and space. We could just relax all afternoon and drink wine and wait for Frank to come out with his secret squeeze so we could take his picture.
Some forty-five minutes later, he did come out of a room three doors down from his car and on the bottom floor—room 142.
Alone.
Damn. We were hoping for some hand holding. An affectionate butt squeeze. Maybe a good-bye kiss.
Frank marched to his car and dug into his front pocket for his key.
Lulu snapped his picture.
Oregon clouds. They are such a part of your life you don’t even see them coming and going. The Nikon thought it needed more light and flashed, and Frank jerked his head around. Lulu yelped and dropped the camera into her lap. Frank scanned the window then walked quickly toward the door of the lounge. Lulu snatched up her bag and camera and hurried into the shadowy part of the bar.
The bartender’s look said, “Hey, don’t barf in here,” and a man at the bar twisted around to see who was running by. Lulu ducked into the ladies’ room. We hoped no one would be in there. We hoped Frank wasn’t so fired up he’d come in there himself. We hoped the bartender and his lone customer wouldn’t mention us.
Okay, the flash was a dumb mistake, but we learn from our mistakes. When things get too automatic there’s usually trouble. Put it on the to-do list—get a simpler camera. Lulu pushed open one of the stalls and went inside, closing the door behind her. Looked around. This would have to do. She didn’t sit down.
We took a d
eep breath. We took a bunch of deep breaths. We waited ten minutes.
Lulu peeked out into the bar, but the angle of the door was wrong, so she couldn’t see much. We couldn’t hide in the ladies’ room forever. Lulu pushed back into the bar. No Frank. She walked back to her table by the window and sat down. The server came by and Lulu ordered one more glass of white wine.
Frank’s car was gone. He must have figured the flash had not been about him. We weren’t off the hook. The idea of the flash had been burned into Frank’s mind. Even if he didn’t know it, on some level, he would be thinking about people taking his picture. Since it looked like he really was fooling around on Elsie, the subconscious awareness of being photographed coupled with his guilt could make him even more dangerous to follow. We’d need to be extra careful.
But Frank was not here now. We decided to wait and see who else might come out of room 142.
If anyone else did come out. If she hadn’t already come out while Lulu had been hiding from Frank.
An hour passed and no one came out of the room. We didn’t think Lulu could handle another glass of white wine, so we left.
Whoever Frank had met wouldn’t know Lulu nor have any reason to suspect she wasn’t telling the truth when she said, “Whoops, wrong room. Sorry!” It was possible Frank’s squeeze was still in there.
Lulu walked up to the door of room 142 and knocked. No answer. Knocked again. Nothing. She put her ear to the door. Just silence from the other side. Sleeping? Lulu banged on the door. Listened again. Nothing. We were pretty sure there was no one in there.
That special someone really had left while Lulu was hiding in the can.
We’d missed her!
There was still the back of the building to check. It wasn’t impossible these units had back doors. That would be good to know.
They didn’t. And if someone had crawled out the back window, she would have had to crawl through a lot of shrubbery. And why would anyone bother?
We could try to bribe the desk guy. Probably not a good idea. What we could learn was not enough to risk someone telling Frank about us.
There was nothing to do but go back downtown and see if Frank would do anything else today.
So, by three that afternoon, Lulu was prowling around outside the police station waiting for Frank to come out and do something his wife could be told about. We bought an Italian soda (vanilla) from a street vendor. We wandered down to the underground garage to make sure his car was still there.
We sat in the Escort for over an hour.
We wandered back to the mall and spent some time throwing quarters into the guitar case of a street musician.
Frank didn’t come out until after five and then he drove straight home.
Lulu grabbed some dinner at a Thai restaurant in the Market District and then ambled on back to the office.
Stripped.
Showered.
Gargled scotch.
Brushed my teeth.
Wandered around the office making painful faces.
Brushed my teeth again.
I don’t know why I let Lulu order Thai. Eating the kind she likes is like letting a live wasp go crazy in your mouth. Hours later your tongue still feels like it’s sitting on a bed of nails.
The blinking pink glow from the TOFU sign across the alley on the Baltimore building taunted me. See? You should have fried up some tofu.
I was disappointed about not wrapping up the Wallace case, but it wouldn’t do any good to brood about it. I decided to switch gears and spend time with the case of the Graffiti Murders.
Prudence Deerfield was hot for me to get back into GP Ink. The big guy I’d surprised had been looking for something. Putting those two facts together, I could only conclude there really was something to find there. The police had surely been all over the place, and they probably had gone over it again after I’d bowled over Frank and Marvin, but they may have missed something. I would have to go back, and I might as well do it right now while I still had some momentum going.
Maybe go as Dieter?
No, if I let Dieter go, we’d probably stop off in some secret back alley kitchen for midnight menudo. My tongue needed the night off.
I’d let Dennis do it.
Dennis was an old disguise. I could put Dennis on in my sleep. Being Dennis reminded me that there would be the GP Ink computers to poke around in! He couldn’t wait to get his hands on them. Who knew what neat stuff they might have squirreled away over the years?
Curbing his enthusiasm a little, I pushed our disguise down a level by disguising Dennis as a janitor in tan overalls. I looked Dennis over from head to knees in the long mirror on the washroom door. The nerdy guy who sweeps up. I gave him a big thumbs up.
I locked the office and walked down the hall to the janitor’s closet and borrowed a mop and bucket. I had never seen anyone in my building use them. I only knew they were there because no matter where I am, I like to know what’s behind every door. I’d found this closet the first day I rented the office back in … well, a long, long time ago.
I made the short walk around the corner and down the street to the Baltimore building. The night was cool and cloudy, the dark mall all echoes and whispers, shadows and night eyes.
The service entrance was locked, of course, but it didn’t take me long to get inside. I wondered if the real janitorial staff would be bumping around in the building. If my building was anything to go by, janitors at the Baltimore might be purely mythical.
When I got to suite 317, I looked for light under the door, and just because I didn’t see any, I didn’t pick the lock right away. Instead, I put my ear to the door and spent some time listening. Nothing. So I went to work on the lock.
Once I’d gotten the door open, I walked directly to the door of the inner office to check for light under it. No light. I did some more listening. I did some sniffing. It’s a fact that most bad guys would be more elusive if they showered more often.
I eased the inner office door open. Listened. Sniffed. All was quiet and everything smelled inorganic.
By the time I flipped on the lights, I was pretty sure I was alone. I put on my hey-don’t-hurt-me face and held up my mop just in case, but there was no one there.
The inner office contained two desks. I’d had the impression there was only one desk when I was here so briefly last time, and that was because the desk to the left was turned sideways and pushed up against the wall. Maybe Gerald or Pablo had been trying to get a little privacy. I wondered if they had gotten along. I wondered why they’d never thought to put some kind of barrier between the two desks. The current arrangement would have driven me crazy.
I went quickly through the drawers of the desks and found nothing interesting. Address books and the like had either been taken by the police or maybe had not existed at all. The big filing cabinets back against the wall between the desks were empty.
I peeked behind the posters taped to the walls. I flipped through the books on the shelf running around the room just a foot or so from the ceiling. Nothing.
It made sense, I suppose. If there were anything to find in a place like GP Ink it would be on computer media. The police had evidently taken all the CDs, floppies, removable hard disks, and tapes that must have been everywhere in an office like this. That left only the hard drives on the computers. The police would have copied the data, but I doubted they would have erased it. My one hope was that I would see something they had missed, or maybe make some connection they hadn’t made.
There were three computers—one in the outer office and two back here. Computers always made it easy to be Dennis. He decided to call the computer in the outer office computer number 1. Facing the back wall of the inner office, the machine on his left would be computer number 2 and the machine on his right would be number 3. That meant we could choose one of six (three factorial) orders of search—123, 132, 213, 231, 312, or 321.
Because we lived in this universe and not some other universe, the stuff we were look
ing for, if it existed at all, would be in the last place we looked.
Knowing that, Dennis figured it should be possible to fool the universe and save some time.
He turned toward the front office as if he were going to go for 123 or 132, then at the last minute he spun around and sat down behind computer number 2. At this point in the procedure, the information would be on computer 1 or 3 (it would all depend on which one Dennis chose next), so he could get up now and skip number 2.
He got up and walked over and sat down behind computer number 3. Now the information we needed would be on computer number 1.
He got up and walked out to the front office and sat down behind number 1. He switched on the computer and started in on the files.
A half an hour later, we decided the universe had not been fooled by our little game of musical chairs. There was nothing but routine day-to-day outer office stuff on the hard drive of computer number 1. Dennis turned if off and walked back into the inner office.
Just pick one, we told him, and he walked to the computer on the right (number 3) without further debate.
There was some interesting stuff on this one—Gerald Moffitt’s machine as it turned out, technical stuff and personal stuff. Dennis had a lot of experience looking at the organization of information on hard drives, and it soon became clear to him that there were some holes in Gerald’s stuff—sections ripped out. Hastily ripped out as if someone were scanning files, maybe copying stuff, and then erasing what they’d read. For instance, Gerald had kept a directory for important e-mail organized by date. But there were dates missing, and some of the existing subdirectories were empty.
My Sky side popped up and offered the theory that the big guy in the foreign shoes had been in the process of searching and trashing Gerald’s hard drive when we’d surprised him.
So what had he missed? Well, there was no e-mail subdirectory for the day of the murder. None for the day before either. And so on back to five days before the murder. But there was a place for e-mail six days before the murder. Dennis opened it up. There were three messages. Dennis figured that meant the big guy had been here, too. Who gets just three pieces of e-mail a day? No one. So Mr. Cheap Suit may well have been poking around in that very directory when we interrupted him.
The Man of Maybe Half-a-Dozen Faces Page 5
