Private Sector (26 page)

“There’s a reason for that.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I just moved to D. C. three weeks ago.”

“Is that right?”

“From San Francisco. I was living with a guy, Paul, but we broke up.” He paused and worked a little pain into his voice. “Actually. . . Paul dumped me. For a movie critic. I, uh, well, I had to move, you know. Everywhere I went reminded me of him.”

She started to say something and he kept talking, sounding whiny. “And the guy he dumped me for was a queen, too. A goddamned queen. I never took Paul for the flaming queen type, you know?”

That should help, he thought. Just a big dopey guy troubled by a broken heart. Toss in a little fag jargon and sound like a real queer. Establish his credentials and get her to let down her guard.

Any minute and another bicyclist was going to come careening down the path and ruin this thing.

She shrugged. She glanced at her watch, apparently wishing the three minutes to end.

He said, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What do you do?” He scratched his head, as though struggling to recall, then guessed, “Cathy, isn’t it?”

“Anne.”

“Sorry.”

“Well, you know, Mike, that’s none of your damned business.”

If he could only get her to put that damned pistol back in her fanny pack. Christ, she was making this hard. He said, “God, you’re unfriendly.”

“Yeah, well, tough shit. Guess you bumped into the wrong Good Samaritan.”

“No. You’re being very generous, and I appreciate it.”

“Move back over, asshole,” she ordered, noting that he and his bike had strayed toward the middle of the path.

“Sorry.” He did as she ordered. “Geez, I’m woozy. I think I hit my head pretty hard. I can barely walk straight.”

“Try harder, Mike.” She glared over at him, and said, “My first shot, you’ll be peeing out your asshole. You’ll still be able to date, but the end of the evening’s gonna be a big disappointment . . . ’cause you’ll have no dick left.”

His mouth hung open. “Wait a—”

“I wondered if you’d come for me, you fucking ghoul.” Her pistol was now pointed directly at his groin.

“Anne, I don’t—”

“Think I don’t hear the news? Think I’m too stupid to put two and two together? You fucked up, Mike.” She ran a hand through her hair, and said, “Though it’s not really Mike, is it?”

A half mile ahead a bike was speeding quickly toward them. The bicycler was bent over the handlebars, cutting the drag and pedaling fiercely. Anne gestured toward the figure and said, “You got a real problem, now, asshole. Company’s coming.”

He stopped walking and faced her. She had been playing with him until somebody else came along, he realized.

He had badly underestimated her.

He smiled. “I am really looking forward to breaking your neck, dyke.”

“Too bad.”

“How did it feel to be raped, dyke?”

Her face reddened. “Up yours.”

“What I have planned for you, dyke, you’ll beg me to break your neck.”

“God, you’re disgusting.” Anger was creeping into her voice.

They stood in silence and glared at each other with mutual hatred as the bicyclist drew nearer and nearer. The pistol barrel remained pointed at his groin.

The newcomer hit his brakes and his bike glided to a stop a few feet from them. The man was young, twenty-one or twenty-two, possibly a student at Georgetown or GW University, blond-haired with a frizzy goatee, goggle glasses, and the thick, trunklike thighs of a persistent biker.

He stared inquisitively at the gun in Anne’s hand and asked, “What’s going on? You need help?”

Anne’s lips were just parting as Mike threw his arms up in the air and announced, “Boy, do I ever. I’m so glad you came along, man. This crazy bitch thinks I’m the L. A. Killer.”

“What?”

“She’s nuts. I’m riding along and I move up to pass her and she kicked me over. Could’ve killed me. Hurt like hell.”

Anne said, “Shut up.” Then to the stranger, “He’s lying. He faked a spill. He is the L. A. Killer.”

The newcomer studied him. Mike shrugged his big shoulders and shook his head at the sheer absurdity of the charge. “Bullshit. Complete bullshit. You know how women around here are right now. She’s completely paranoid.”

Anne was shaking her head, like she really didn’t need this crap. She said, “Nice try, you murdering asshole. You’re gonna fry.”

Mike said, “See what I mean, man? The lady’s gone over the edge. For Godsakes, please, see if you can talk some sense into her.”

The newcomer appeared completely clueless. “I . . . uh. . . Christ, I’ve got no idea what’s going on here.”

Mike said, “Shit, look at me, man. You’ve heard the description of the L. A. Killer, right? It’s all over TV and the radio. Short and stocky, with a ponytail, right? Do I look short and stocky? Where’s my ponytail?”

The young man turned toward Anne and said, “It’s true. The description’s all over the news. Like he said.”

She faced him. “I don’t give a shit. This is the guy.”

“Did he attack you?” the man asked, making no effort to disguise his skepticism.

“Not yet. But only ’cause I didn’t give him the chance.”

Mike’s hands got a hard grip on the crossbar of his bike. The young man said to Anne, “Well, if he didn’t attack you, how can you be so sure?”

Anne was becoming flustered. “I just know. I thought he’d come for me, and this is him.”

“You thought he’d come after you?”

The young man and Anne were now facing each other.

Anne had just opened her mouth to explain, when suddenly Mike’s bike flew through the air, an ill-shaped javelin hurtling straight at her. She turned and threw up her arms, but the twenty-four-pound rocket crashed into her torso and face.

Mike came right behind it. He leaped across the path and dove straight for the pistol. Her arm was trapped under the bike and he pried the gun out of her fist then bashed her forehead with it.

The newcomer was yelling, “Hey, man, take it easy! You don’t have to do that!”

He threw the pistol aside. Anne was stunned and moaning, and he climbed off her. He began walking toward the biker, saying, “Look, man, she gave me no choice. The chick could’ve shot me or something.”

“Yeah, but—”

“No buts.” Mike shook his head. “She’s crazy. Jesus, I was scared.”

He was two feet from the biker. He could’ve just shot him but the loud noise could draw more nosy guests. He swiped a hand across his forehead and said, “You see how it was, right? I couldn’t take the chance.”

Suddenly his fist lashed out and hit the biker on the nose. A spray of blood and the young man flew off the rear of the bike. Mike calmly walked over and easily lifted him off the ground. He yanked the helmet off his head and let it drop to the ground. The young man weighed about 160 pounds, but Mike was terrifically strong and he held the howling man under his thick arms and sprinted full-speed toward a large oak tree beside the trail. Like the tip of a battering ram, the biker’s head went straight into the bark and split open like a melon. His body went completely limp, and Mike dropped it at the base of the tree. He bent over and checked the man’s pulse—definitely dead.

Anne was just shoving the bike off her body when he returned. A deep gash on her forehead and another cut on her right shoulder were pouring blood. She looked at him and started to scream, when he leaped forward, slapped one hand over her mouth, and lifted her into the air with the other.

He murmured into her ear, “Hey, Anne, we got off on the wrong foot. No more lies between us. This is going to really, really hurt.”

Her eyes bulged with understandable terror as he dragged her with one arm and began picking up the discarded bikes and hauling them into the thick underbrush.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

M
ONDAY MORNING—SEVEN O’CLOCK SHARP, INDIAN SUMMER HAD COME and gone, and I was seated behind my desk at the firm, booting up the computer. The numbers had been crunched and recrunched, the final audit was being drafted, and I was left with a few hours to kill.

So I thought I’d use the opportunity to make a more thorough examination of Lisa’s file. I wasn’t buying into Janet’s suspicion, but the possible theft of Lisa’s computer and briefcase did raise an eyebrow. We had searched her e-mail, and now I thought I’d check her general work file, noodle around, and see if anything struck a chord. It was this or spend the morning with the accountants. So it was this.

The two little boxes appeared, I typed in Lisa’s name, then “J-A-G,” and that pesky “Incorrect Password” message popped up. This was odd.

I was thinking about how odd it was when my phone rang. I lifted it up, said, “Drummond,” and a voice curtly demanded, “Turn off your computer and come see me. Now.”

“Who are—”

“Hal Merriweather. Ninth floor. Three minutes or I’ll send a security officer to get you.”

He hung up. I hate it when people do that.

I walked down the hallway to Elizabeth, who sort of blinked a few times as I approached. But I think she was starting to look forward to our occasional encounters. In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king, or whatever.

I smiled. “Morning, Elizabeth. You look stunning today.”

She giggled. “Oh, you are a flirt, Major Drummond. Rob any banks lately?”

“Gave it up. Too many cameras and security guards.”

“Found a new hobby, have we?”

“Not yet. But I’m looking into overbilling and corporate graft. The boys upstairs swear that’s where the big bucks are.”

She laughed.

I leaned across her desk and asked, “Hal Merriweather?”

“Hal, is it?” She diddled with something on her desk. “You haven’t managed to land on his bad side, have you?”

“Who is he?”

“Our superintendent of administration. Not one to have mad at you, I should say.”

“Why?”

“He’s quite powerful, really. My supervisor. In charge of security, administration, personnel.”

English people tend to speak in these odd half-sentences, like only an idiot needs a fully expressed thought. Well, I’m an idiot.

I tapped a finger on the desktop.

“Oh, let me see. He’s youngish, early thirties I should think. Very efficient and quite competent, though I should say a bit difficult to get along with.”

Subtlety is another English trait, and I translated this to mean Hal was a type-A asshole. I had reached this conclusion already. I told her, “I need the key to go up and see him.”

“Ring you up, did he?”

“He heard what a great guy I am and wants to meet me.”

She laughed. “Be on your toes, Major. Hal’s manners could stand a bit of polish.”

So she handed me the stairwell key, and actually, Hal’s office wasn’t that hard to find. His name was inscribed in gold letters on his doorway, like the partners’, and happened to be located in the connecting corridor between the junior and senior partners. Given that all kinds of people downstairs with law degrees were killing themselves to get an office on this floor, and that the rest of the administrative staff were packed on the seventh floor, it struck me that Hal’s stature within the firm perhaps exceeded his title.

The door was locked, so I knocked, a buzzing sound emitted, and I entered. Nobody was present, just two vacant desks in what appeared to be a narrow outer office. I walked to the next door and knocked again. Maybe this was like one of those dozens of boxes inside a box thing, and I’d keep walking into smaller and smaller rooms, and Hal was actually a midget who worked inside a tiny drawer.

But another buzzing sounded, and I entered what appeared to be the inner sanctum, where a guy who looked like he was named Hal was seated behind a desk. He was, as Elizabeth warned, in his mid-thirties, short and pudgy, with balding dark hair, flat black pig eyes, and a thick, imperious nose.

He also wasn’t alone. Harold Bronson, the managing partner, and Cy, my titular boss, stood directly behind him. From Cy I was getting the old avoid-my-eyes routine. And from Bronson the-old-happy-guy-who-wasn’t-happy act.

Hal was scowling and ordered, “Take a seat.”

So much for pleasantries. I stood.

“Suit yourself,” he said.

“I always do, pal.” Regarding Hal’s office, the desk, files, and bookcases appeared to have been purchased from an Office Depot sale. No paintings of ships or lush oriental carpets, nor was there any of the general clutter you associate with a real working office, suggesting Hal either didn’t have much of a job, or was one of those anal neat freaks. Also of interest were the video monitors mounted on wall brackets. One showed the entryway, where sat Elizabeth, energetically buffing her nails. Another showed an empty stairwell, presumably the one that led to the partners’ floor. And last, the interior of the elevator.

Among his other talents and duties, Hal appeared to be the partners’ watchdog. He probably had a gun inside another drawer and would love nothing more than to cap somebody for trespassing, or farting in the partners’ elevator.

Anyway, I smiled and reminded him, “You called me, Hal.” I looked at my watch. “My time is billable. You’ve got thirty seconds and I go back to work.”

It seemed clear that we were on the verge of a nasty little power spat, and I wanted to get in the first blow.

An eyebrow twitched, he flopped open a manila folder, and studied something with great care and interest. With no preamble, he mentioned, “At 5:46, on Thursday night, you signed a Miss Janet Morrow into the firm. Correct?”

“Does it say that on the sign-in form?”

“It does.”

“Then why are you asking?”