Shelly's new office was nearly indistinguishable from her old digs. It still had a door and an outside window. Actually, two windows that came together like the prow of some boat that levitated five stories above the marginally landscaped parking lot. Granted, the southern exposure was not the best in terms of a view. The choice offices faced to the east. They overlooked the long winding belts of greenery and foliage that comprised Myrtle Creek Park. From Shelly's new turf, the visual grandeur of the mountains, some forty miles distant, was unavoidably diminished by the squalor and decay oozing outward from the south side of Burley Avenue. As far as she knew, no one of her relatively modest salary grade had ever been granted the privilege of an outside office on the fifth floor, let alone in a corner with floor to ceiling glass. Just scant months ago she had managed a move from the squad room to a private office on the third floor.
The first order of business had been to move-in a new desk. For a person of her obviously elevated influence and stature, the standard, government-issue sheet-metal monstrosity was definitely taboo. She had spent the better part of the weekend locating this symbol of corporate potency. The Lincolnesque behemoth had set her back more than three month's salary. A minor financial setback that would certainly be remedied as soon as the small matter of Gustafson's catalyst was resolved. The desk, in classic oak parquet inlaid with simulated ivory, would probably even make Oxford just a wee bit jealous. She hoped so.
Gazing through the windows of her boat-office she ruminated on the promotion that would most certainly accompany her new office--
Her intercom buzzed.
"Ms. Talbert, you have a call on line one. Its the Coroner. And there is a Ms. Barbara Huddleston waiting here at my desk. She's here to see you for a nine o'clock. Shall I send her in?"
"Ahh, yes. No. Just a minute. I'll buzz you back."
Shelly was taken aback at the anonymous voice on the other end of the squawk-box. The concept of a receptionist to field her calls and visitors was as new and foreign as the expansive view from the prow of her new boat. The receptionist was shared by a dozen other occupants in this part of the building, but it certainly was an improvement from shouts over bullpen partitions in the detective's squad room.
She punched line one and put Oxford on her speaker phone. "Yes, Mr. Oxford, what can I do for you, sir?"
"Good morning, Ms. Talbert. First, my dear, please be so kind as to disconnect the speaker phone. This is a private conversation."
"Sorry, sir." Damn! He did it again, she thought to herself, biting her lower lip. Oxford always managed to catch her off guard and put her in a mentally subordinate attitude. Shelly made it a personal policy not to call anyone 'sir'.
"Thank you, Ms. Talbert. Now, as you suspected, it appears that both recipients of your hospitality have indeed been guests of the county morgue for the past few hours. Your Mr. Gustafson was discovered by a beat cop and brought in as a hit-and-run. The imbecilic flat-foot didn't inspect the cadaver with enough care to reveal numerous bullet wounds to the cranium. The John Doe that you so sloppily dispatched in the garage has also been examined. In addition to the through-and-through bullet wounds to the upper chest, Mr. Beemer reports that there are no teeth and no discernable fingerprints. The explanation for the last two items have been conveniently omitted. The anonymity of the body along with the lack of any missing persons inquiry, leads me to surmise that immediate disposal of the remains is the preferred action at this time."
"And the report," Shelly asked just above a whisper. "What about the report?"
"Ha-ha-haww!" Oxford's bellowing laugh left a ringing imprint in Shelly's ear and filled her office with a volume that rivaled the speaker phone. "Report? My dear Ms. Talbert, there is no report." Oxford hung up.
On the sixth floor Oxford gently rocked back and forth behind his desk. E-mail from the morgue was still displayed on his monitor. The button bar at the top of the display had four selections highlighted:
SAVE EDIT PRINT DELETE
The fat man leaned forward in his chair so as to extract a cigar from a rosewood humidor. He selected a hand-rolled president with his left hand. He pressed DEL with his right hand.
Shelly manhandled a cardboard file box from the desktop and placed it out of sight beside her black Naugahyde executive chair. Anxious to anoint her new office with a lived-in appearance, she fished around inside the box for some personal items. A mahogany-and-brass nameplate faced outward, front and center. To the left of the nameplate was a chrome plated plastic trophy. It proclaimed Detective Sergeant Michelle Talbert as a member of the five 'man' team that took third place in the state law enforcement officer's combat pistol competition. On the right side of the desk, she positioned a gun-metal grey Rolodex between a large cut crystal ashtray and a small NO SMOKING placard. A thick stack of manila folders was split in half and positioned symmetrically at the right and left extremes of the burgundy leather writing surface. She scooted her chairup to the desk and buzzed the receptionist.
"Send Huddleston in now."
Both Bobbie and the receptionist got the message. Just the message and nothing more. The voice at the other end of the intercom was not nice. It was not mean. It was not cold. It was not warm. It was just nothing. No emotion, no inflection, no hint of a message other than what the words themselves conveyed. Bobbie was directed down the hall to the corner office. Her knuckles rapped a Morse 'S' on the steel casement. The announcement was not necessary. Shelly's attention was riveted on the threshold and on Bobbie as she filled it.
"Morning."
The only response from behind the desk was a slight gesture of her head. Bobbie took it as a command to enter and take a seat in a severe straight-backed office chair.
Shelly shook a smoke from a box of Marlboros. She reached for her desk lighter that wasn't there. Picking through her purse, she pulled out a no-nonsense Parkerized Colt Officer's model .45 automatic and slapped it on the desk. The next item out of the purse was a book of matches. She lit up, inhaling deeply. The match, followed by a contrail of stuttering smoke, nose-dived into the crystal ashtray. She offered the pack to Bobbie.
"No thanks," said Bobbie, shaking her head and pointing to the NO SMOKING sign. "Besides, I thought this was a no-smoking building."
"Suit yourself." Shelly croaked through a throat full of blue exhaust. "It's my office, and I'm the police. Who the hell is going to arrest me?"
Bobbie was mute. She sat bolt-upright in the chair, her hands gripping the chipped enameled steel beneath a brown vinyl seat cushion. Her expression telegraphed uneasiness as she watched Shelly watch her.
Shelly picked up the Colt, depressed the magazine release, and caught the six rounds of Winchester 185 grain Silvertips in her left hand. She cycled the slide, sending the seventh round skittering across her desk, sparkling in the sun like a piece of jewelry.
"We had a chat with Gustafson Saturday night," Shelly announced between a drag on her cigarette and a swallow of coffee. "He was able to fill us in on some badly needed details."
Bobbie's face blanched to an even whiter shade of pale. Her lips visibly clamped together as if to repel a flood of rising bile.
"Are you feeling okay? Can I get you something?"
Bobbie opened her mouth to speak, but instead of words all that emerged was a desperate gasp for air. She had stopped breathing for some seconds. No doubt her heart had also quit pumping from its new location in her throat.
Without waiting for an answer, Shelly punched a key on the intercom. "Kris, will you bring in a carafe of coffee and a mug for Ms. Huddleston?"
"Ah, right. Be right there."
Shelly had arranged in advance for Kris to bring the coffee. It had cost her the promise of lunch this afternoon. Kris was by no means her private secretary, and the request for coffee delivery was above and beyond the call of duty. The impact of this overt display of corporate power was having its calculated effect on Bobbie. The mere fact that Shelly was sitting behind a piece of real furniture in a coveted corner office, spoke volumes. Her ability to summon room service at the touch of a button was approaching the limit of credibility.
Kris and the coffee arrived. She set an insulated plastic jug and a stack of Styrofoam cups on a two drawer file cabinet. She left the room without comment.
"Help yourself, Barbara," Shelly commanded, "and close the door while you're up."
Bobbie stiffly stood and went to the door, pushed it shut, and stepped back to pour herself a cup.
"Bobbie, I really must thank you," Shelly continued, "I doubt we would have been able to locate Gustafson for several more days without your help. Frankly, I didn't expect this kind of result quite so soon. I've asked that you be transferred to this department post-haste. You will, of course, be reporting directly to me. I'm looking forward to having you under me again."
"No! I mean, I have a lot of work backing up and I don't think that they'll be willing to cut me loose with such short notice. Besides--"
"Perhaps I haven't made myself clear." Shelly lunged forward in her chair and viciously stabbed her butt into the ashtray. "You will be reporting to me. It's a done deal. I want you to be moved onto this floor by the end of the day. Talk to Kris. She'll find a cubicle for you as soon as we're through here."
Shelly shifted gears like Mario Andretti. "Now that we have been able to have a little chat with Gustafson, there are few more questions to be answered. I believe that our mutual acquaintance, Mr. Beemer, may be just the one to shed some light on this investigation. Judging from your skill--or luck--in finding Gustafson, and your discretion with the incident at the garage, I'm going to bring you up to speed on what is going on. Of course, I'm bringing you on board with the full expectation of your complete discretion. I have your phone call from the garage on tape in my answering machine, along with the records of your phone calls that night."
"My phone?" Bobbie pleaded in protest. "How did you get the records on my phone?
"What do you mean, 'my phone'?" Shelly asked sarcastically. "Where do you think that damn phone came from anyway? That's my phone. It was issued to me, for my use and City Hall pays the bill. It's officially checked out to you under your signature. Accounting forwards a complete list of each and every call, both outgoing and incoming, to my office each and every month."
Shelly settled deeper into her chair, and propped her feet onto the desktop. Her beige pumps dropped noiselessly to the new carpet as she lit up another smoke. "You see, Huddleston, I can prove that you were in on that nastiness in the garage. I can show that you called in the hit. You're in this up to your tight little ass. A lot of time has passed and you've been withholding information on a murder that the department doesn't even know was committed. Your beau, Max, made sure of that by falsification of the cause of death down in the basement of--"
"He is not my beau!" Bobbie screamed, spilling her untouched coffee. "You don't have the slightest--"
"Shut up! And clean up that mess, goddammit," the Prune barked. "There's also the matter of the patrol officers that visited the scene of the crime."
Bobbie looked and sounded confused. "But they left, they didn't have a clue. They didn't know what was going on so they just left. And besides, they didn't even see me. There's no way they'll say I was there."
"Those two officers will say or do just about anything that I pay them to. Dispatch didn't send them. Nobody sent them. They were there, waiting, just in case things got out of hand. Things did get out of hand, but nobody in that God forsaken neighborhood ever called the police. I told them to cruise by and act cool, just for insurance. Face it, girlie, you and Beemer are working for me now. You know it, and Max will know it none to soon. And by the way, I trust that your relationship with Max will be kept on a professional level. And even if it's not-- Frankly my dear, I don't give a shit."
Bobbie's mouth opened and closed like a goldfish vacuuming flakes from the top of a fish tank.
"Yes ma'am, there were three other vehicles in the garage," officer Matson continued. "One of them was Beemer's beater, one was a hearse from the Coroner's Office. And the third one was a dark green or black Buick Roadmaster. Looked like a `55 or `56."
"Did you get the plate number?"
"Yes, ma'am, we did. The Falcon's plate was--"
"Not Max's car, you idiot," Shelly interrupted impatiently, "the Buick."
"Uh, yeah. Sorry. We got that, too. It was a vanity plate, DTHANGL. You know what that's supposed to mean?"
"Good! Run it, and get me the R.O. And I mean get him. I want the driver of that car ASAP. And be discreet for a change, huh? No radios, no cell phones. Call me when you get him."
Shelly slammed down the receiver and returned her attention to Bobbie. She appeared to be in the grips of a catatonic trance. Shelly's newest accomplice was trying to digest the macabre concept of Max as some kind of a high-tech vampire, sucking out the brains of corpses and peddling a vile gruel of ground gore to all sorts of night-crawling vermin and dope fiends.
"For crying out loud, snap out of it!" Shelly ordered. "You'd better face up to the fact that, from here on out, we're all in this together. I don't care if you do what you have to do to keep your butt out of jail, or for your cut of the profits."
"Okay," Bobbie whimpered, blowing her nose into a rough paper napkin. "What do you want me to do?"
"Max. Find Max. Gustafson is gone, and Max is our only chance of getting our hands on the catalyst."
"Gone? What do you mean, gone?"
"Forget it, Barbara. You don't want to know."
The Prune refilled her coffee mug, wiping a dribble of java from the gold-leaf Metro-Dade emblem that emblazoned a cobalt-blue ceramic background. The mug was part of a collection of several dozen. The rest of the accumulation, along with two wooden display shelves, had been one of the first items unpacked this morning. She thought that the mugs from twenty two states, three federal agencies, and four countries made a very appropriate statement. Definitely a bit more original than the nearly obligatory display of police department badges or patches that adorned the walls of nearly every other cop shop in the country. Of late, the Metro-Dade had been her cup of choice. It had been her latest acquisition. She had picked it up at a conference in Atlanta last month. Sheriff-cum-TV celebrity Nick Navarro had been the keynote speaker. He had spoken on drug traffic interdiction and the public's perception of corruption in law enforcement.
Quite appropriate, considering the present circumstances, she thought, chuckling to herself.
"We didn't really think that Max was directly involved with Gustafson up until we talked with him." Shelly saw the look of confusion returning to Bobbie's face, "Gustafson, that is. We never have talked with Max specifically about this. Max and myself hadn't as much as laid eyes on each other for weeks until Saturday night. As far as I was concerned, he was merely a disconnected contact to use in nabbing Gustafson."
"What about the old man?"
"Old man? Oh, shouldn't be much of a problem. As far as I can tell we're in the clear on that one. Looks like your newfound friends sanitized the corpse and dumped it. He'll end up being written off as the just another casualty of south-side fun and games. He has already been processed through the morgue. No inquiries and no I.D. so far. It didn't even make a ripple in the news. Therefore, no interest in following-up from upstairs."
Bobbie was starting to blubber again, reaching for another napkin. "But what about him? He was a sweet old man. Didn't have an enemy in the world, from what Max tells me. No family and not many friends either. Why did you have to kill him?" She honked her reddening nose again, and wiped her eyes with the sodden mass.
Shelly slammed her coffee onto the desk, sending a hot geyser up, out, and all over a yellow legal pad. "Get off it, will ya? I never intended to kill anyone. That pea-brained idiot O'Keefe brought along will pay for sure. I'll see to it that he learns the meaning of the word 'discretion'. As far as snuffing the geezer..., like I said, there's been no inquiry. No reason to suspect that there will be any. As far as I know, the old goat is probably nothing more than a cold pile of ashes on its way to potter's field."
"Max didn't come into work today. According to Oxford's answering machine, he is taking a couple of days off. 'Mental health days' he calls them. He was working in the morgue at Oxford's request until sometime Sunday evening. Oxford actually went down to the morgue and talked with Max about 4:00 Sunday afternoon." Shelly leaned across her desk, folded her hands, and put on her sincerest face. "Bobbie, I just want to talk with Max. Just do the same thing that you did for me on Saturday night and nobody needs to know that you were ever involved."
"The same thing I did before!" Bobbie exploded out of her chair, both fists were clenched tight and pressed to her temples. "Jesus Christ, Shelly, two men are dead! I'm not going to do anything like that ever again. I don't care who you tell or what you do to me." She spun on her heel, reaching for the doorknob. "And that's final."
Shelly's voice low and throaty blocked Bobbie's move toward the door and held her attention like the drone of a snake charmer. "Just one more minute. I've told Little Ed to find Max too. His instructions are to bring him to me without as much as a scratch. But, those are the same instructions that I gave him when he went after Gustafson." She paused, snapping the magazine back into the Colt. The .45 snuggled into a nut-colored Bianchi pancake holster that caressed the small of her back. "The choice is up to you. Either you can find Max, or Little Ed will."
Shelly paused for effect. "And believe me.... Edgar O'Keefe always... always...delivers."