The Pandora Directive

Chapter Seven

“Coffee, wheat toast, eggs over easy.”

Mac Malden leaned way back in his chair and pulled a Merit out from under his moustache.

“What do I look like, Murphy? A damn waiter?”

“Okay, then, a cup of coffee and a doughnut.”

“There’s nothing here to eat.”

He reached around his gut and stuffed the cigarette butt into the hollow centre of a ceramic dog. Slumping back in his chair, he folded his hands atop the lumpy dome that ran from his sternum to well past his belt. No shame, no attempt to camouflage. Oh, they warned him about high cholesterol, a heart attack risk. He even cut back on a few things, like pastrami, egg rolls. But Mac loved his gut and was damn proud of it. Never in a million years would he turn his back on his gut.

“No doughnuts?”

Mac shook his head and reached for another cigarette.

“You’ve got to be yanking me. A huge building, full of cops… no doughnuts?”

“You know, Murphy, I get so damn tired of those half-ass doughnut gags, I could puke. I’m not serving breakfast here. All I wanna do is ask you a few questions, listen to some of your stupid jokes, maybe get a couple coherent statements out of you, and kick your but out of my office. Then you can buy your own breakfast.”

He stared at me, looking for all the world like a Basset hound, she exhausted from a trip to the slippers. “What d’ya say?Are you gonna play along?”

It was late, at least 10:30am it had been five or six hours since Emily’s would-be murderer hit Chandler Avenue. I was still on the roof in mid-lucky when the cops showed up. They called me down, and I got a look at the face of the Black Arrow Killer. It was the same mug I’d seen in the photo at 771 Santa Cena, shaking hands with President Linderman.

The cops took a statement, then asked me if I’d like to come with them and try the new coffee blend down at the station. I happen to know that the coffee tasted like camel spit — they were just being civil. At the SFPD complex, I was politely asked to take a seat and enjoy one of the many fine magazines available. Some of them were no more than two years old.

There was no smoking allowed in the waiting room. Instead, they had a TV. It was a crappy trade-off. I made one attempt to step outside for breath of unfilled refreshment, but the sergeant assigned to keep an eye on me didn’t like the idea much. Damn nonsmokers.

After what seemed like an eternity in cold turkey/ Network TV purgatory, I was escorted to Mac Malden’s office. By the time the sergeant closed the door behind me, I had my Lucky Strike in hand, already half smoked. Two other men were in the room, nice suits, standing in the corners. Being outnumbered always brings out the antagonist in me.

It turned out that Mac had been investigating a homicide all morning and it was now almost 11 a.m. — way past his bedtime. He always did the questioning whenever I got pulled in. Threatening with me with jail time always seemed to cheer him up, but now he was too sleepy to enjoy it.

Mac planted his elbows on the desk and leaned forward. “Okay. Let’s forget about breakfast and get this over with. Take it from the top. And for God’s sakes, not too many details. I should be in bed, dreaming of egg rolls.”

I recounted my story completely, leaving out any minor details, like Fitzpatrick, Malloy, the mysterious Vid-phone call, and the jaunt through 771 Santa Cena. After I finished, Mac didn’t seem to be satisfied with my version of things. The two suits didn’t move.

“So that’s the whole story.”

“Yup.”

“You’re sure.”

“Absolutely.”

Mac burned another Merit. I glanced down and saw that he’d left another one half smoked in the ceramic dog. Poor sap. Obviously a helpless slave to nicotine.

“Did you know the victim?”

“Who, Emily?”

“No, the one you threw off the roof. The girl’s gonna be fine.”

“Good to hear. What about Leach?”

“The big mutant? I guess a slug nicked him, nothing serious. Now answer the damn question — did you know the guy you threw off the roof?”

“I didn’t throw anyone off the roof. Like I told you, we were rollerblading… things got out of hand. He jammed his front wheel, and… well, you know the rest.”

“Knock it off, Murphy. You seemed to forget I’m a cop. A tired, hungry, pissed off cop. If you don’t get off my nerves, I’ll toss you in the drunk tank, and we’ll try again tomorrow.”

Lord, he was a grouch at this hour of the morning, and the well-tailored statues in the corners didn’t seem to be helping his disposition. To ease the tension, I proceeded to tell him what actually happened on the roof. Mac glanced through a sheaf of papers, then waved his hand toward the door.

“Okay, get outta here. Your story matches up.”

I got out of my chair. “Matches up? With what?” Fife

Mac looked up at me wearily. “We have a witness. You’re clear… hey, Robinson!”

The door opened, and the young cop who’d kept me from losing at least another seven minutes of my life poked his head into the office. “Yes, sir?”

“Escort Mr Murphy out of my office. He’s free to go.”

The young cop nodded. “Oh, and while you’re at it, find Ms Madsen and tell her she can go, too.”

I started after Officer Robinson.

“By the way, Murphy! Don’t go on any sudden trips for a few days. We may want to ask you some more questions.”

“Why would I take a trip, Mac? Around here, every day’s a vacation.”

Mac waved me out. I stopped by a vending machine and spent $2.50 on a cup of hot camel spit. As I passed the waiting room, Officer Robinson was speaking to an extraordinarily attractive woman. The young cop tipped his hat and walked away, leaving her to gather her coat and purse. According to Mac, this woman had been my star witness. It was fate. I moved in. Destiny had a smell; it was warm and musky. I doffed my fedora.

“Good morning.”

“Hello.”

My future partner in eternal bliss seemed to be uninformed of, or at least oblivious to, the aura of destiny that surrounded us. Laying her coat gracefully across her arm, she prepared to walk off with my heart crammed into her handbag.

“I hope you won’t think I’m being forward.”

She glanced up at me with clear eyes. “I won’t. Excuse me, please.”

She glided past me. I move quickly to intercept her before she could reach the automatic doors. “Listen. My name’s Tex Murphy, and I understand that you just did me a real big favour. I’d like to, you know, repay the debt.”

“Thank you, but I’m really not interested.”

She was cool. Very cool. Charm was exuding from every pore. Yet somehow she resisted. It was only a matter of time.

“You want to have dinner tonight?”

“I was planning on having dinner, just not with you.”

Ouch. Deep in my Psyche, Commander Hormone called for a retreat. I moved aside. The beautiful woman swept through the sliding doors, down the steps, out of my life and into the shuttle entrance.

Breakfast or sleep? Food generally takes a back seat to almost everything. I took a taxi back to my office and caught a quick power nap. When I woke up, it was late afternoon, and my initial hunger had passed. It was just as well; I always think more clearly on an empty stomach. After firing up a pot of Java and breakfast Cubana, I sat down at my desk and ran through a mental list of things to get done.

I needed to find out the identity of the man I’d run into last night. For now, I’d call him…Bob. between the clandestine caller at the Twilight and the photographs of Sandra Collins, I had to conclude that Bob was not just a run of the mill pervert. The fact that he appeared to have been searching Emily’s apartment implied another agenda besides serial killing. And what about the mysterious Black Avatar speeder? No, Bob was a part of something bigger. Much bigger.

I also needed to make a stop at the Fuchsia Flamingo. I needed more information about Malloy, and it seemed Emily was the only person I knew who could help. And what about the object Bob had been carrying last night? Something told me that it was important. Maybe Emily could give me a lead on it. What kind of shape would she be in after last night’s experiences?

My voice messaging unit beeped. I took a sip of coffee and leaned over to check the display. Five messages. I hit the play button and settled back into my chair.

The first voice was Chelsea’s. “High, Tex. Chelsea. I just wanted to see how you’re doing. Bye.”

The next was a hang up.

The third was from Fitzpatrick. “Hello, Mr Murphy. Please call me at your convenience.”

Number four was Chelsea again. “Hey, Tex. Just wanted to see if you got my first message. Call me.”

The final message was from Lucas Purnell. “Got something for ya. Get a hold of me ASAP.”

I hit the reset button and finished my cup of coffee. Three more things to do. I prioritised: clients first, love interests second, informants third. After refilling my coffee mug, I pulled out Fitzpatrick’s business card and entered the phone code.

“Hello?”

Fitzpatrick’s disconcerting eyes and transparent face flashed onto my view hearth screen.

“Mr Fitzpatrick. I just got your message. I assume that you called to get an update on the investigation.”

“If it’s not too much trouble. I certainly hope I’m not inconveniencing you.”

“Not at all. Keeping the client informed is a part of the deluxe investigative package.”

“Wonderful! So tell me, how are your efforts progressing?”

“Very well. I’ve been able to track down a girl Malloy was seeing recently. I’m about to go see her. I have high hopes that she’ll give us some useful information.”

“Excellent! Anything else?”

I paused to take another sip of coffee. I have several other leads, but I won’t know how valuable they are until I track them down.”

“Well I won’t take any more and more of your time. If it’s not an annoyance, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me informed as you progress.”

“I’d be happy to.”

“Thank you, Mr Murphy. Goodbye.”

The screen went black. Fitzpatrick’s obvious impatience was equalled only by his monumental politeness. Though he’d never said anything about a time limit, his tone implied that there was one. My PI instinct said the Fitzpatrick hadn’t told me everything. Not by a long shot.

Chelsea either wasn’t home or wasn’t answering. I left a short message. Concise, yet caring. Romantic, yet non-committal. I liked Chelsea a lot. Hell, maybe I was even in love with her. Unfortunately at the moment I was too occupied to decide. Anything had been so much easier back when she’d just blow me off every time I asked her out. This new phase in our romantic development was throwing me for a loop. Maybe she should move to Phoenix for a while. Give us time to sort things through. Besides, I couldn’t stop thinking about that knockout at the police station — even though she hadn’t seemed too knocked out by me.

I’d think it over later. For now, I was working. I found Pernell’s card and punched up the phone code. Two chimes, and the journalist’s haggard mug appeared on the screen.

“Just got your message. What’s up?”

“Big doin’s, Murphy. You got some time?”

I glanced at my watch. It was still pretty early. “Sure. Where?”

“I’ll let you know,” he growled. “I hate talking on the damn vid-phones. Too easy to wire.”

“Okay, but make it soon. I’ve got a full dance card today.”

“No problem.”

I filled and down my third cup of Joe, satisfy my USDA-recommended caffeine requirement. I was wide awake and rearing to go. The fax machine beeped and belched. I tore off the sheet. Liverpool Club. 15 minutes.

The Liverpool Club was a hidden gem in an open slag heap. It was more of a social club than a bar, though I didn’t hold that against it. Solid oak billiard tables, boar-bristle dart boards, tin panelled ceilings. A nice place. If I hung out with Pernell for any length of time, I might get to know every watering hole in the city. Not an unpleasant thought.

Pernell was lurking in a dark nook. He seemed to have an aversion to bright lights. A lot of my business associates had photophobia. Two bourbons were already breathing on the table. It was a little early for the hard stuff, but I decided to call it lunch and move on to more important things.

“What’ve you got?”

Purnell’s voice hissed out of the corner of his mouth. “Remember the story I told you about Kettler?”

My mouth was full of bourbon. I nodded.

“I’ve still got a contact down in Nevada. He found a cop that knew enough to be useful and was willing to talk. It’s huge.”

“Unbelievable. And unethical cop. In Nevada, of all places.”

“Well, it cost us a bit, but he came through. I’ve got a copy of his sworn statement locked away in a safe deposit box. I’d let you see it, but I enjoy being alive. If certain people caught me with the goods, I’ll be pushing up daisies by the weekend.” Pernell took a hearty slug off his bourbon. His hands were shaking. I couldn’t tell whether it was fear or excitement. Probably both.

“Our cop was in on Kettler’s arrest. He also sat in on the initial questioning, before the Feds showed up. Ketter confessed to everything. The local boys made up a deposition, and Kettler signed it. The problem is, after the Feds took over, the deposition disappeared, never to be found.”

I tried to sort out what Purnell was saying. The Feds knew that Kettler was guilty but didn’t want that information to get out. It didn’t make sense. It did seem to connect to the curious fact that the Black Arrow Killer, who was dead, had supposedly gone back into business, this time in the Bay area.

I gave Purnell a run-down of what had happened the night before, hoping that bouncing it off him would give me a fresh perspective, a new lead or two. He listened avidly through another round of Jack Daniels. When I finished, Purnell leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. “Can I bum another cig off ya?”

I handed one over and lit it for him. He smoked like he’d just had sex with Marilyn Monroe. And Jayne Mansfield. At the same time.

“You know who uses Black Avatars? The military.” He blew out a long stream of smoke and rejoined the ranks of the carnally deprived. “Tell me again about what this guy, Bob, was doing in the girls’ apartment.”

“Like I said, he came out of her bedroom, holding an object of some kind. Then he hid by the door and waited for her.”

“And this object… it wasn’t a jewellery case or something similar — something of value?”

“Didn’t look like it. A plain metal box. Like a box you keep recipes in.”

“But the girl had valuables in the apartment?”

I tried to recall. “I think so. I seem to remember some jewellery, a couple of things worth stealing.”

Pernell leaned toward me. I could hear the wheels turning. “So the bottom line is, his primary reason for being in the apartment wasn’t to murder the girl. He wasn’t even to rob the place. It was to find this object.”

It seemed logical. Then a thought occurred to me. “Well, if that’s the case, why didn’t he just leave? He had what he came for. Why would he try to kill Emily?”

Pernell thought it over and shrugged. “She knew about the box. Maybe the guy wanted to kill her to keep anyone else from finding out about it.”

The implications were huge. If what Pernell had told me was reliable and Kettler had been the serial killer, some group was mimicking the crimes in order to cover the murders they committed in the course of doing their business. And it was possible that some branch of the Government was that group. And I’d become a fly in their ointment. I looked around. I already knew that someone had been watching me. I wondered just how many eyes were on me now.

“I’ve gotta checkin with Emily. Thanks for the drinks.”

Pernell was scribbling furiously on a steno pad. He didn’t seem to hear me.