Under a Killing Moon

UAKM — CHAPTER NINE

It was only the third time I’d ever been handcuffed, and the first two times had nothing to do with the legal process. My hands were going numb as the cops escorted me into the holding area of the police station. It was 9:30, and the usual assortment of vagrants, ladies of the night, and frightened-face teenagers were seated on the benches. The air inside was tinged with the queasy odors of weak coffee, stale cigarette smoke, and vomit. A trio of hideous and unsanitary-looking hookers sat bunched together like Charlie’s Angels from a parallel universe. They cackled as the cops led me past them, and I felt like the title character in some contemporary, inner-city production of Macbeth.

When my handcuffs were removed, I was asked to take off my shoes, coat, hat, and all personal effects, after which I went through the delights of the booking process.

Everyone involved was unnecessarily jovial, acting as if they were the helpful staff in some hellish resort spa. There was only one belligerent cop, as allowed by law. I told him I had to call his wife and tell her I wouldn’t be able to make it over till later. This seemed to offend him, and he took it upon himself to make sure I didn’t loiter at the door to the drunk tank.

I picked myself up off the floor and looked around at my fellow inmates. Surprisingly, or not, most of them weren’t much different from the guys I’d played poker with in college. A little older and more damp. There were a couple of vintage bums, drunk on some cousin of Lysol and focusing on nothing in particular. The odd man out was a young man, no more than twenty years old, wearing a Polo sweater and dress slacks. He was sweating like a pimp in Sunday school.

The benches were filled, so I took a seat on the concrete floor. On top of everything else, the cops had made me leave my smokes and lighter with me personal effects. Taking my shoes I could understand. Shoelace suicides were a rich tradition in prison lore. But what did they think I’d do with a pack of Lucky Strikes? Smoke myself to death? Stage a prison riot while brandishing a red hot cherry? It’d been less than an hour, and I was already experiencing nicotine withdrawal. From somewhere outside the cell, I heard pitiful wailing. Maybe the cops were working off some empty calories. I drew my knees up to my chest and rested my forehead on them.

This was not the greatest night of my life. It’d probably been stupid of me to go to the Colonel’s office. Except for the surveillance disc, the contents of which might turn out to be completely worthless, I’d ended up with nothing but smudged fingertips and a criminal record. Drysdale now had his scapegoat in custody, and it was just a matter of due process before I was taken to trial and an impartial jury of my peers found me guilty and handed down a life sentence complete with a one-way ticket to the lunar penal colony. Not that it wouldn’t be an improvement over the existential quality of my past few years. At least I’d get three meals, some time to read, and rent-free accommodations. I was already celibate, so that wouldn’t be a problem.

“Scuse me!”

A loud and warm gust of pickled breath blew into the side of my face, interrupting my bleak introspection. I turned my head to see a tiny wino sitting beside me and leaning close. He was old and rail-thin. With his spiky white hair and five-day beard growth, he resembled a toilet brush.

“The name’s Rusty.” He extended his hand, which I ignored for sanitary reasons. He paused, then looked from me to his hand, before wiping it on his pants. “I ain’t seen you here before.”

I nodded curtly, trying to discourage further conversation. Rusty went on, oblivious.

“Me, I been in here quite a bit.” He thrust what was left of his jaw in the direction of a loudly snoring sack. “Not as much as old Quentin there. Ain’t that right, Jerry?”

Another watery-eyed denizen nodded unsteadily. “Dat’s right.”

Rusty clapped me on the back. “So what they got you for?”

I cleared my throat. “They say I waited for my grandparents to fall asleep, then hacked them into little pieces with a shovel.”

Rusty stared at me for several seconds, then got up and staggered across the cell. Behind me, a goodsized space had appeared on the bench. I climbed up and stretched out leisurely.

I’d been resting for about thirty minutes when the cell door opened and a burly prison guard summoned me. I followed obediently through a maze of corridors until we reached the door to the commissioner’s office.

Commissioner Armon Drysdale was a mean son of a bitch. He was one of the few men I’d ever met who could make full-grown adults feel like they were back in the principal’s office, mired in a bucket of fresh manure. All the cops were scared to death of him. He and I had only spoken a couple of times and, I had to admit, hadn’t hit it off particularly well. I seem to remember making an unflattering remark about his lack of social skills. Malden had said I was lucky I didn’t end up in the drunk tank for a week.

The guard knocked lightly on the door, and I was ushered inside by a young, crew-cut man wearing the kind of dark blue suit that comes with two pairs of pants. Drysdale sat regally behind his desk, arms folded across an Armani suit and an intolerant expression on his stone-cut face. He fixed his dark, unblinking eyes on me.

“That’ll be all, Blake. Go back to your post and do something useful.”

The large man mumbled something subservient and unintelligible and marched back out the door. Drysdale motioned for the young man behind me to leave as I stepped toward the chair in front of the desk.

“I didn’t invite you to sit down, Murphy.”

The office door closed, and I casually stuck my hands in my pockets. The commissioner unfolded his arms and crossed his legs precisely. “I assume you know why you’re here.”

“Yeah. Something about a parking ticket.”

Drysdale didn’t smile. “Colonel Roy O’Brien disappeared six days ago. When the Missing Persons’ report was filed, we searched his home, then his office. When the investigators went in, they found your name and address written in an appointment book. We’ve been trying to find you ever since. Now that you’re here, we can proceed in a variety of ways. You can tell me why your name was there and everything else you can think I’d want to know. Or, you can be a smart-ass. In which case, I’ll throw you back in the drunk tank, and we’ll try it again next week. It’s up to you.”

I considered for a moment. “I guess I’ll take the first one.”

Drysdale looked down at the sleeve of his fifteen-hundred-dollar jacket and delicately picked off a piece of lint. “I’m waiting.”

“There’s not much to tell. I hadn’t seen the Colonel in years. The other night, he shows up in my office. We chat for a few minutes about nothing in particular, then he leaves.

That’s it.”

“Which night was it that he came to your office?”

I tried to recall.

“I’d guess it was about two weeks ago. Give or take a day.”

The commissioner fixed a glare on me and held it for probably twenty second, though it seemed substantially longer. “What did he talk about?”

I found a small hole in the bottom of my pocket and thought about how good a smoke would be. “Like I told you, nothing in particular. He said I looked like hell, mentioned something about retiring to a tropical island, then told me to shape up. He didn’t say a thing about his upcoming murder or who the killer would be.”

Drysdale held up a finger as a subtle warning. “Don’t test me, Murphy. I don’t like you.

And if you push me, I’ll kick your ass so hard, only dogs will hear you fart.”

He reached into his sleeve and pulled down the cuff of his dress shirt to exactly a quarter inch below the hem of the jacket.

“The Colonel was a good friend of mine. I’m going to find whoever killed him and blow his or her brains out. From what I’ve heard, the only thing you’ve been capable of killing over the past few months is brain cells. But that isn’t a viable alibi. Where were you last week ago?”

I didn’t appreciate the cheap shot, but he had the home-field advantage. One thing was for sure — if I ever caught him on neutral ground, he’d get a verbal beating he wouldn’t soon forget.

“I was in Mexico City, working on a case.”

“Can anyone verify that you were there?”

I’d been afraid it would come to this. “Probably not.”

“Who hired you?”

This wasn’t going to sound good. “I don’t know. I was set up. When I got back, my client had pulled a disappearing act.”

The commissioner stared at me for some time, an incredulous expression on his face.

“You’re either a bigger idiot, or a lot more clever than everyone thinks. Your story is too unbelievably stupid to be fabricated.” Drysdale shook his head. “Either way, I’ve got you dead to rights for breaking and entering, as well as tampering with a crime scene.

And, while I can’t prove it, a jury could probably be convinced that you threw the rock into the store window. Put all the charges together with the Colonel’s appointment book and the bad blood between the two of you, and I’ve got a reasonable body of circumstantial evidence.”

Drysdale said it like he actually believed it. I wasn’t about to say anything, but I suspected that he’d have a hard time convicting me on even one of the charges.

Unfortunately, the cop was probably betting I couldn’t make bail, and that would allow him to detain me until my court date, which he could push back indefinitely. I had one blind card in the hole, and it was time to play it.

“I found something at the Colonel’s office.”

Drysdale’s cool façade lapsed for a split second. He leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk. “I’m listening.”

“The Colonel had a surveillance camera set up in his office.”

The commissioner sat back in his chair, a smirk on his face. “You’re lying.”

I shook my head, mirroring the smirk. “That’d be a pretty stupid thing to lie about, don’t you think? There was a secret chamber through the side of the coat closet. There was videodisc recorder inside, and I took the last disc out of it.”

Drysdale didn’t want to believe me, but I had his attention. “Where’s the disc?”

“Drop the charges, and I’ll tell you.”

“You’re in no position to barter, Murphy. Where the hell is the disc?”

Anyone but Drysdale would’ve been willing to bargain. All I could do at this point was tell him where it was and hope it panned out. “It’s with my personal effects. In a Gordon Lightfoot CD case.”

Keeping his eyes trained on me, Drysdale activated his vid-phone and requested that the envelope with my things in it be brought to his office. After he disconnected, he raised a finger. “This better be on the level. If you’re jerking me around, you’d better have someone send you a lifetime supply of soap-on-a-rope.”

We waited in silence until the young nazi entered the room and handed a large manila envelope to Drysdale. The commissioner removed the disc and stood up. Crossing to a side table, he inserted it into a videodisc player and turned it on. Drysdale pulled a chair to the table and sat down, giving me a clear view over his shoulder.

The monitor flickered, and then a view of the Colonel’s empty office appeared on-screen. In the lower right corner was a time and date display. It was 10:15 A.M., December 1. The Colonel stepped into the picture from the direction of the coat closet.

He walked through, then reappeared a moment later with a cup of coffee in hand.

Drysdale fast-forwarded for a few seconds until we saw the Colonel welcome a middle-aged woman into his office. Drysdale turned up the volume, and I could hear the Colonel discussing a job.

Drysdale resumed scanning. The Colonel stayed in his office for the remainder of the morning and then had another visitor around 12:45. He left after the second appointment, and the office was deserted throughout the afternoon. The empty office grew steadily darker as the image fast-forwarded. The commissioner glanced at me over his shoulder. He seemed impatient. It didn’t appear that this was going to do me any good.

The image slowed to real time when the office lights came on and the Colonel reappeared. Behind his desk, he put on his jacket and tightened his necktie, then sat down. It looked as though he was expecting someone. Drysdale fast-forwarded until the Colonel rose from his seat and crossed the room, out of camera range. He returned a moment later, exchanging pleas-antries with a slightly built, dark-haired man, who was wearing a long overcoat and carrying a valise. The Colonel gestured toward a chair on the near side of the desk and started walking around the desk with his back to the man.

He seemed to be on his guard, but it didn’t matter. With a lightening-quick move, the stranger whipped something out of his overcoat and brought it down viciously on the back of the Colonel’s head. The sickening thud was clearly audible and made me wince involuntarily. As the Colonel hit the floor, the other man pounced and slapped a pair of handcuffs on him. Then, with surprising strength, the stranger pulled the Colonel around the desk and into the chair where the Colonel had been sitting seconds before.

Drysdale was leaning forward, and I moved a step closer. We watched as the unconscious Colonel was secured to the chair. His captor was wearing delicate-looking gold spectacles and had a jet-black mustache too large for his face. His skin was dark -

he looked like he might be Middle Eastern, though he could have been wearing makeup and a false mustache for all I knew. Other than his complexion and facial hair, he looked nondescript, average. His would be a difficult face to identify. One thing was certain, though — he was much too short to be the man who’d posed as the countess’s butler.

Within thirty seconds, the dark-haired man had the Colonel thoroughly fastened to the chair. There hadn’t been one wasted movement — this guy was obviously a professional.

He lifted the Colonel’s rag-doll head and waved what appeared to be smelling salts under his nose. With a jerk, the Colonel’s head snapped back, eyes blinking wildly.

The dark-haired man turned calmly to the Colonel, who was shaking his head, trying to clear away the cobwebs. Almost breezily, the man removed a small silver case and extracted a cigarette. As he methodically lit what I presumed was a now-familiar French cigarette, he spoke softly to the Colonel, too softly for me to make out the words. After a moment, the Colonel looked up. “I know who you are. I’m just wondering what took you so long.”

The words were clear, but the voice sounded far away. I couldn’t catch what the stranger said in reply, but he went on speaking for some time. The Colonel moved slightly, testing how securely he was tied down. It was hopeless. He wasn’t going to escape.

“You and whoever you’re working for can kiss my ass.”

In a blur, the interrogator slashed his hands across the Colonel’s face. After several seconds, a red line appeared on the Colonel’s cheek, and blood began to seep out of the wound. The Colonel stared back defiantly. “You might as well go ahead and kill me. I haven’t got anything to say to you.”

The soft voice continued, now more menacing. The Colonel interrupted with a spiteful laugh. Again, the attacker lashed out, and the Colonel began to bleed from both sides of his face. He continued to smile as blood ran into the corners of his mouth. “You got the wrong guy. How should I know anything about the Winter Chip. Why don’t you check with someone at CAPRICORN? It’s their chip. Oh, I forgot. You blew the place up.

Looks like you’re just out of luck.”

The stranger walked around the desk and picked up the valise he’d dropped when he’d made his attack. Setting it on the desk, he opened it, and I saw something inside gleam as it caught the light. Out came a hypodermic needle and a small bottle. Slowly and deliberately, he filled the needle and walked back behind the Colonel. The stranger spoke for some time, his voice so low as to be almost imperceptible. When he finished, the Colonel took a deep breath. “Go to hell.”

The answering voice rose slightly, and I detected a slight accent. The Colonel looked straight ahead and didn’t respond. His interrogator held the hypodermic up to the light and pressed until a stream of liquid spurted out the end. Leaning down, he inserted the needle into the Colonel’s neck. The Colonel struggled at first, then slowly relaxed.

Finally, his head lolled forward, onto his chest.

The dark-haired man put away the needle, then left the room. Moments later, he reappeared along with another man whose face I couldn’t get a clear look at. Together, they released the Colonel from the handcuffs and carried his limp body out of the room.

It was impossible to tell if he was still alive. The small man returned and walked past the camera. The lights shut off, and the screen went blank.

Five minutes later, I was standing at the checkout counter, collecting my wing tips, overcoat, and fedora. The old cop working the counter handed over my clothing, as jolly as a sub for Santa doling out gifts to an impoverished child.

“Now here’s a nice hat. I used to wear a hat like that. That’s how I lost my hair.” He guffawed loudly. I ignored him and emptied the contents of the manila envelope onto the counter. Keys, wallet, lighter, cigarettes (thank God), several envelopes (one full of cigarette butts), the blue index card, and the Perry Mason book. As I returned the items to the appropriate pockets, I noticed something sticking out between the pages of the paperback.

It turned out to be a picture of the Colonel, who was dressed like a pirate, and a beautiful young woman, who was wearing a neon-pink bikini and holding a trophy. I flipped the photo over and read “Happy Halloween! Love and Kisses, Melahn.” The bald cop contorted to get a look at the front side of the photo.

“Here, son. Mind if I take a look at that?”

I handed it over and continued distributing. The cop whistled. “Haven’t seen this one for awhile. What a piece of work she was.” Through the snickering, I took back the photo and looked at it again. So, the Colonel had found himself a little plaything. I had to admit, she was an eye-popper. I wondered whether the cops had found anything linking the Colonel to this Melahn person. Maybe if I could track her down, she’d have an idea why someone had cut her sugar daddy’s finger off. It was worth a try. I slipped the picture into my pocket along with the paperback and went looking for Mac.

Malden, despite his seniority, had been stuck in the late shift for as long as I’d known him and still hadn’t been able to adjust his internal clock. He was slumped against a coffee machine, eyes closed, waiting for his cup to fill. I walked over, pulling out a cigarette. Bilge water gurgled from the bowels of the machine, filling the air with a wet ashtray smell. Mac heard me approaching and opened his eyes grudgingly. “Coffee?”

I lit my smoke. “I’d love some, if you have any.”

Mac shrugged apathetically. “Suit yourself.”

He extracted the cup of pond scum and aimed his tired girth in the direction of his office.

Just as we’d gotten seated, Mac’s vid-phone beeped, and he answered it. From the tone of the conversation, it was his wife Joanne.

I pulled out the photo of the Colonel and Melahn and looked it over again. The old man always had a taste for younger girls — not too young in the legal sense, but young enough to offend churchgoers. I inspected the photo closely. With my vague recollection of what the Colonel had looked like a few months ago, the picture was taken recently.

Maybe he’d still been seeing this girl.

She was beautiful in a slightly soiled way. The Colonel had always preferred his playmates a little trashy, and this one certainly fit the bill. But even under the fashionably excessive makeup and overenlarged breasts, there was something undeniably appealing about Melahn. She was the kind of dame that got men into trouble.

I wanted to meet her.

I knew that Drysdale would pursue every angle to find out who the Colonel’s abductor had been, but I was planning on making my own inquiries. At one time, I’d felt a real affinity for the old man, and I couldn’t just stand by knowing that he’d been murdered.

Besides, if I found out who the killer was, it might get me in good with Drysdale, who’d be a considerably more useful contact than Mac Malden.

The fat cop disconnected from the vid-phone and looked at me pathetically, like a dog on his last trip to the vet. I’d never met Joanne… I only knew the effect she had on her poor husband. I decided to change the subject.

“You look great, Mac. The extra weight sure suits you.”

Mac pulled a soggy Merit out from beneath his yellowed mustache, sprinkling ash on his tie. He was obviously too tired to care about friendly provocation. He looked exhausted and irregular, and his scalp glistened beneath a thinning layer of blond hair.

“Looks like you worked things out with Drysdale.”

I nodded. “I owe you one for the tip. It bought me just enough time.”

“I didn’t give you a tip, so shut up about it.” Mac dropped his cigarette into a pool of stale coffee at the bottom of a Styrofoam cup, then reached into a brown lunch bag and pulled out a doughnut. His jowls jiggled as he took a bite. Another doughnut was the last thing he needed. I felt a need to express my concern for his health.

“I think there should be a warning printed on doughnut boxes: Eating these can result in double chins, tight pants, and will kill you as fast as cigarettes.”

Mac stared at me like a beef cow as he slowly chewed his cud and swallowed.

“For your information, this is a Diet Donut. Fat free, cholesterol free, forty calories, and ten grams of fiber. It tastes like a dog toy, but Joanne’s forcing me to eat ‘em. She makes these surprise visits to the office, and if she catches me with an actual pastry, she’ll rip my head off.”

“Well, you know what they say, Mac. Be good to your bowels and they’ll be good to you.”

“Go to hell.”

The lump of a policeman downed the last of the snack and reached for his pack of Merits. “What’s on your mind, Murphy?” Mac picked up my Zippo like it was his and held it to the end of a poorly packed cigarette. The tobacco seemed to cleanse his palette, and he looked somewhat refreshed. I was happy for him.

“Take a look at this for me.” I handed over the photo I’d found in the paperback.

Mac stared at it apathetically and tossed it onto the desk in front of me. “Nice looking broad.”

“You recognize her?”

Mac shook his head. “Should I?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got a hunch she has a police record. Her name’s Melahn. That’s all I know about her.”

Mac turned on his computer, pointed and clicked several times, then typed in his name.

He leaned over and picked up the photo and held it up to the screen. “Tode. T-O-D-E.

Melahn Tode. Been picked up twice for soliciting and once for possession. She got suspended sentences for all of them, but she’s still on probation. Here’s an address. No phone number.”

Mac rotated the monitor, and I made a note. Now, there was one other item of business.

“Tell me, Mac, how busy is your crack investigative team at the moment?”

The fat cop reached for another Merit, then consulted a desk calendar.

“Well, Lenny’s wife is visiting her mom over the weekend, so he’s hosting the poker game on Friday. Don’s hair plugs got infected, so he’s out sick for a few days. And, of course, Wednesday is our bowling league night down at Lois Lanes.” Mac leaned back in his chair. “Looks like we’re booked. Why?”

“I’ve got something of a mystery on my hands, and I was hoping your guys could help out.”

Mac shrugged. “Let’s hear it. Try to make it exciting… I’m barely awake.”

“OK, in a nutshell, I was hired by someone calling herself Countess Renier. I went to her house, which turned out to be a mansion in Pacific Heights. 2429 Fillmore.”

Mac wobbled forward and made a note.

“The details of the case aren’t important, but I ended up in Brownsville, Texas, where someone played jai alai with my head and put me in the hospital for a couple days.

When I got back in town, I went to see my client, and her house was cleaned out. Turns out, it’s been up for sale and supposedly empty for months.”

Mac focused his eyes, now more alert. “A scam.”

I nodded.

“And you want me to have the boys look the place over.”

“If they can fit it into their hectic schedules.”

Mac leaned his head against the back of the chair and blew a smoke ring toward the dingy ceiling. He took his time finishing the cigarette, then sat forward, elbows on the desk.

“Tell you what, Murphy. Things are a little slow around here. We haven’t had a good murder case in months. Every day it’s the same old thing — some Mutant’s been beat up, a gang of Norms broke into some Mutant’s store, some old Mutant shot a Norm on the subway. Mutants, Norms, Mutants, Norms. I’ll tell ya, I’m so sick of this crusade crap I could puke. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned crime?”

I shook my head sympathetically.

“I’m with you, Mac. The world’s going to hell. But this case is a real mystery and doesn’t have a thing to do with Mutants or Norms.”

Mac doused his Merit.

“OK, Murphy. We’ll check this place out for ya. I just got an anonymous tip that someone broke in there. I’ll let you know if we turn anything up.”