Hot Storage (19 page)

   Another man interrupted and John excused himself. I stayed put but my eyes roamed the office. So familiar. So warm and welcoming. I had decorated it myself, from the carpet to the plants to the paintings on the walls. Even the rug behind the counter that was now a splotch of dark brown. Through the window I saw the ambulance leave. No siren, no lights.

   John was back shortly. “Come on, let’s step outside,” he said, a hand on the back of my waist turning me towards the open front door.

   When we were outside I took a deep breath and blew it out. “What happened, John?”

   “Here, Marlie, sit down,” he pointed at the bench.

   I sat and he took a seat beside me, picking up my hand and holding it.

   “Steve Harris is dead. He was shot.”

   Tears squirted into my eyes and I blinked. That nice old man. His only fault was talking too much. Because he was lonely. A single hot tear slid down my cheek.

   “Was it a robbery?”

   “You’ll have to tell us. We don’t know if anything is missing. From the looks of it Steve was either carrying a stack of paper or fell back into one. Those pages on the floor are blank.”

   “He was probably loading one of the printers or the fax machine. We keep reams of blank paper in that cupboard, the one with the door open.”

   “Is there a backup for the recorder? In another room?”

   “No. There’s only one. In the cabinet.”

   John shook his head. “It’s smashed. The disk is gone. The forensics team is going to take it, see if they can get anything off of it. Doesn’t look good. We’ll canvas the customers, see if anyone heard anything.”

   “If they did I’m sure they would have reported it.”

   “No one has come forward yet.”

   Tears flooded both eyes. “Did he suffer?”

   John squeezed my hand. “No. It was quick.”

   I sat there, my hand folded inside John’s and sent up a prayer for Steve. In a few minutes I freed my hand to wipe my eyes and my chin where tears dripped freely down the front of my shirt.

   “Come on, let’s get you upstairs. There’s nothing for you to do now. We’ll lock it up when they’re through in there. A hazmat team will come clean up when forensics is done.” He stood up and took my arm. “Come on, Marlie.”

   I let him guide me upstairs.

   I put on a pot of coffee, my answer to every situation, and got down some mugs. When the coffee finished I filled a couple of mugs and joined John in the living room.

   He put away his notebook when I sat down and picked up his coffee. “Thanks, I needed this. I only had one cup this morning. My brain doesn’t function till about the third one.”

   I nodded. “I know that feeling. When did you get here?”

   “A little after eleven.”

   While I was lying in bed eating warm muffins Steve Harris was being killed.

   “Do you know when it happened?”

   John set his mug on the coffee table. “Sometime this morning. I got the call and came right over.” He gave me a dark look. “I thought it was you. Scared the hell out of me.”

   “Me? I wasn’t even here.”
   “I know that now. The guy that called it in just said the manager was hurt.”

   “What could have happened? Steve couldn’t offend anyone with a three week head start.”

   “How long have you known him?”

   “I hired him. I didn’t like the woman that was here so I let her go and hired Steve.”

   “Anyone have a problem with him? Ever complain?”

   I shook my head. “Only about his talking.”

   “He talk a lot?”

   “Always. I had to warn him a couple of times.”

   “About talking?”

   “Yeah. He’d get bored in the office and lock it up to go out and visit with a customer. For a couple of hours at a time.”

   “That the only problem you had with him?”

   “Pretty much.”

   “You sure? Marlie I need anything you’ve got right now. Were there other problems with him?”

   “I got on him a couple of times for giving out too much information.”

   “In what way?”

   “My dad had a heart attack last year and I took off to see him. Steve told everyone that came in, to explain why he was in the office. A dozen customers sent me sympathy cards.”

   “No harm done,” he said. “Nothing else?”

   “Just the talking. He was the loneliest man I’ve ever known. He didn’t so much talk to you as at you. You know what I mean? He wanted an audience not a conversation. I think he talked to the plants.”

   “That’s common with the elderly. Nothing else?”

   “Not that I can think of. I had to warn him several times not to volunteer information unless he was asked. He’d start filling out a contract and the customer would ask if he was the owner and off he went, telling the history of the Murphy family from the time they got off the ark. If he didn’t know the answer he made one up.”

   “He lied?”

   I shrugged. “It wasn’t a deliberate lie, you know? He wanted to have something to say, to keep it going.”

   “Could he have made up a story?”

   “Any time,” I said. “I can’t think of a one that would get him killed.”

   “What kind of stories did he make up? Can you remember them?”

   I sighed and thought about it. “One I remember was him telling a customer my husband was killed in Afghanistan, a war hero.”

   “Harmless,” John said.

   “By itself, yes. The lady kept bringing me cookies and flowers ‘for my loss’. I didn’t ‘lose’ him – I divorced him.”

   “He was in Afghanistan?”

   “The closest he ever got to sand was Pismo Beach.”

   “Why did Steve say he was a war hero?”

   “Something to say. He had no reason. He just wanted to talk, to keep talking. I swear that man would talk himself to death.” I stopped, realizing what I said.

   “Is there a chance he told someone something that got him killed?”

   “I don’t know, John. Most of his stories were harmless exaggerations. Who knows what he told people? I know once he told Randy he was in the ‘newspaper’ business. Turned out he was a paper boy.”

   “Randy another customer?”

   “Um-hmm.”

   “Did Steve have a favorite customer?”

   “Only the slow ones.”

   John smiled and set the notebook down.

   “Who called it in? Do you have a name?”

   “I don’t, no. The station will have it. Why? Is it important?”

   “I have no idea. I wondered who it was, that’s all.”

   “I can get it,” John said.

   “Probably doesn’t matter. Just curious.”

   John checked the notebook, flipping pages for something.

   Suddenly there were shouts, loud voices. Someone was pounding up the stairs, then banging on the door.

   John moved like a huge cat, edging me out of the way to get there first. His gun was in his hand by the time he cracked the door open to look outside.

   Burke shoved hard, pushing John back a step and came in.

   “Are you all right?” He grabbed me and yanked me against his chest, his arms so tight I had difficulty catching my breath.

   “Let go, Burke,” I said, trying to get my arms between our bodies. “I can’t breathe.”

   Finally wedging a hand between us and shoving against his chest, he loosened his hold. Sliding his hands up to my shoulders he held me and looked into my face.

   John holstered his gun and took my elbow, tugging me away from Burke.

   “Come on, Marlie, sit back down and drink your coffee.” He guided me to the couch while Burke followed, running both hands through his hair. The blond locks stood on end. I saw his hands shaking when he brought them down.

   “That’s some entrance,” John said, once I was seated. “What’s all the uproar?”

   Burke literally fell back into the chair like a deflated balloon. His head dropped to the back of the chair and he closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath.

   “The call on the radio said the manager was shot and DOA. I thought it was Marlena.”

   A closer look showed him pale beneath his tan, like the tan had been badly sprayed on. As I watched the color came back much like one of my blushes.

   Burke leaned forward and reached for my hand. “Are you okay?”

   I was getting a little tired of that particular question.

   “I’m fine. I wasn’t here. It was Steve.”

   “The old man?”

   I nodded.

   Burke looked at John, who sat beside me holding his coffee cup. He might have come for tea from his demeanor as he watched Burke.

   Burke shook himself and sat up. “That scared the crap out of me. You have any more coffee?”

   “Kitchen,” I said. “I’ll get it.”

   “I will,” John said, standing. “You sit and try to relax.”

   While John went into the kitchen Burke squeezed my hand between his. “Are you okay? Were you hurt?”

   “I wasn’t here,” I said.

   “Where were you?”

   I looked at him. “Gone. What difference does it make? That kind, gentle man was killed. In the office. Minding his own business. He never hurt a soul in his life.”

   “Someone thought he did,” Burke said, letting go of my hand to take the cup John held out.

   “You think someone was after Steve?” John asked, sitting beside me again.

   “Had to be that or money,” Burke answered. “A robbery?”

   John shook his head. “Marlie hasn’t counted the money yet to see if any is missing. She doesn’t think there was more than a couple of hundred on hand.”

   Burke scrubbed his face with the hand not holding the cup before taking a sip and setting the cup on the coffee table. I noticed his hand shook a little.

   He took in a load of air and blew it out. “What happened?”

   John’s turn to shake his head. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out. What brings you here?”

   “I told you. The radio. Call said the manager was shot.” He looked at me with warm, dark eyes. “I thought it was you. My heart tried to beat its way out of my chest all the way here.”

   “Where were you?” John asked. Was I the only one noticing the interrogation?

   “On the freeway,” Burke replied. “Coming back from Paso.”

   “You live in Paso?”

   Burke shook his head again. “No, why?”

   “Just wondered,” John said. “Where do you live?”

   “I get it,” Burke said. “Okay, fair enough. I live in a motor home most of the time. It is currently parked out back in Space 29. I was in Paso for my niece’s birthday party yesterday. I stayed over. I was coming home down the 101. Anything else?”

   “No, that’s good. You live in a motor home? No permanent residence?”

   Burked sighed. “Am I a person of interest? Is there some reason for these questions? Why aren’t you looking for the guy that did this?”

   “Was it a guy?”

   Burke picked up his cup with both hands and took a noisy drink. “I don’t know what your problem is. I told you where I was. Where were you?”

   John smiled at him. “I was home. I live in Monarch, just over the hill.”

   “Well, do you have any idea what happened?”

   John nodded. “I know what happened. I just don’t know why.”

   “You think maybe you could share?” Burke’s voice sounded tight. A little muscle in his jaw jumped.

   “Could,” John said and sipped coffee.

   “Damn it, man, what the hell happened?”

   John smiled the coldest smile I’d seen on a human. Looked like one of those cartoon snakes in a Disney movie. “Someone,” he said, stressing the word, “shot and killed Steve Harris in the office downstairs.”

   Burke snorted and sat back, closing his eyes. After a minute he opened them and looked at John. “Thanks, that’s a big help.”

   “Welcome.”

   When nothing else was forthcoming Burke looked at me, again reaching for my hand. “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want to go to the hospital?”

   I tugged my hand free and picked up my own mug. “I wasn’t shot. I wasn’t even here. I’m upset and I’m mad as hell but I’m all right.”

   The three of us sat there then, no one saying anything, each in his own thoughts. I finally broke the silence getting to my feet. “Anyone want more coffee?”

   “I’ll take a refill,” John said.

   “I’ll take a beer,” Burke said.

   “No beer, Burke. I haven’t been to the store. I have Diet Coke or juice?”

   He shook his head. “That’s all right. I need to get home anyway. Get cleaned up.” He stood up and took his cup into the kitchen. When he came back he paused to give me a look. “How about dinner? Can I bring dinner by? You’re not going to feel like cooking.”