Marcia Muller - Locked In

Weathers also had not aged well; although he was only in his forties, his face was deeply lined. A scar from a knife fight in Bangkok cut crazily across his forehead, and Hy had noticed a limp as he approached. A few more years and he’d look like an old man.

What happened to you, Weathers? What happened to me that I’d be standing here about to ask you to do this thing?

Well, he knew what had happened to him. McCone had been shot and might die.

“Okay,” Weathers said after a moment. “You want me to take him or her out?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because this person is mine. But I want to know if I can call on you if there’s a problem.”

“Call on me any time you want. I’ve got to warn you-I don’t come cheap.”

“I don’t care about price; it’s dependability I’m after.”

“Deal.” Weathers held out his hand.

Hy took it, thinking, My God, I feel as if I’m shaking hands with the Devil.

He’d spent the afternoon replaying the videos he’d taken from Harvey Davis’s condo. Young women and major players in state and city politics, engaging in all sorts of explicit sex acts. No clue as to who the women were-save one-but surprise and outright shock about the male participants. By the time the doors opened and closed in the rooms to either side of him, he felt both grim and outraged. Dirty all over again.

He picked up the earpieces to the listening devices he’d earlier installed.

Supervisor Amanda Teller sighed, unzipped her travel bag, and ran a bath.

Representative Paul Janssen went out for ice, opened a bottle and poured into what sounded like one of the plastic glasses provided in the bathroom. A chair groaned.

Teller bathed. Janssen drank. Craig fiddled with the volume on the earpieces and their connections to his recorders.

The phone rang in Janssen’s room. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”

Noises from Janssen’s room; his door closed and his footsteps went toward Teller’s unit. He tapped on the door, and seconds later was admitted.

“Good trip down?” she asked.

“As if you care.”

“No need to be hostile in these beautiful surroundings.”

“Why not? Did you hear about Harvey Davis being killed?”

“Yes. Poor man.”

“That’s all you can say? Don’t you understand what his murder means to you and me?”

“Suppose you spell it out.”

“Harvey knew, or maybe only suspected, what was going on. But he was an insatiable information gatherer; the reason he was shot is that they knew he had those videos. If they know you’ve figured it out-”

“Don’t be nonsensical, Paul. I didn’t tell Harvey anything he didn’t need to know.” Teller paused, and there was a rustling of papers. “I have the document right here. I’ll go over it with you.”

“I’m perfectly able to read legal documents by myself.”

“Whatever.”

Silence. Pages being turned.

“This clause-it’s vaguely worded.” Janssen.

“Let me see… Oh, yes, of course. Go ahead and insert clearer wording and initial it.”

“All right-you bitch.”

“Paul, do you have to be so unpleasant? Let’s have a drink-I have a bottle of good single malt.”

“I wouldn’t drink with you-”

“But you used to.”

“Much to my disadvantage.”

“You should learn to hold your liquor a lot better.”

“There are many things I should learn. You too, Amanda.”

“Meaning?”

“You think you’ve pulled off a big coup, but these people are dangerous. Consider what they did to Harvey.”

“You’re an alarmist, my dear. The document will remain safe with me, so long as you hold up your end of the bargain. Speaking of that…?”

“The transfer will take place Monday morning.”

“Good. Now sign the document.”

“Gladly. It may be your death warrant.”

“You know, Paul, you really ought to get some help for your paranoia. It’s beginning to cloud your judgment and make you unpleasant to deal with.”

“I ought to tear this up and shove it up your ass!”

“Just sign it.”

A long pause and then, “Done.”

“How about that drink now?”

“I’d sooner drink with Hitler.”

“Whatever.”

A chair moved. Footsteps went toward the unit’s door.

Teller said, “In spite of your insults and acid tone, it’s been a pleasure.”

“Go to hell!”

Door opening and closing. Janssen returning to his room.

Teller was silent. Then Craig heard her laughing softly.

Something thudded into the wall between Janssen’s unit and his.

“Filthy bitch! Cunt! I hope to God you get yours!”

In her room, Teller was pouring a drink. Then she called a pizza delivery service. No sound except ice clinking and liquor pouring from either unit until the pizza arrived. Then Janssen’s room went totally silent, and Teller switched on the TV to a cop drama. Craig ate the deli sandwich he’d brought with him, continued to monitor both rooms, and when the TV went off in Teller’s, he went to bed with the earpieces on.

He’d been up since seven on Friday morning, and he sank immediately into a deep sleep.

It was after midnight, but he couldn’t sleep. He wished he’d brought along a good book. TV was miserable at this hour.

He’d followed Craig to Big Sur on an impulse, and now he considered the foolishness of it. If Craig found out, he’d be pissed and probably never let him assist in any of his lines of investigation. And he’d heard nothing from the next room but the door opening and closing, a muted conversation, the door opening and closing again.

What a super sleuth he was. No good in the field. That was why Shar kept him chained to his desk.

Shar…

He had the Brandt Institute’s number on speed dial. He pressed the button and, when someone answered, asked about his aunt’s condition. No change, but she’d had a few visitors and, while tired, had seemed to enjoy them. Was Mr. Ripinsky there? Mick asked. No, he’d left a while ago.

No change. Would there ever be a change?

Had to be!

Mick booted up his laptop and began-obsessively, as he had ever since he’d been told of Shar’s diagnosis-to search sites about locked-in syndrome. When that yielded nothing new, he put in a disc of a favorite film- The X-Files: I Want to Believe -hoping it would lull him to sleep.

Pop!

The sound brought him awake slowly, as if he were surfacing from the depths of a swimming pool.

Another pop, then silence. A door, the one to his unit’s left, swung closed on squeaky hinges. He was off the bed and fully alert within fifteen seconds.

Outside it was still dark and a chill sea wind blew fog inland. At first Mick saw no one, then another door opened and a man stepped out. Craig. His astonished eyes connected with Mick’s; he rushed over, grabbed him by the elbow, and shoved him back into his room.

“What the hell’re you doing here?” Craig demanded.

“Same thing you are. What’s happened?”

“I don’t know. A popping sound in the next unit-could’ve been a gunshot.”

“I heard it, too.”

Craig peered through the partially opened door, his head swiveling from right to left. “Don’t think anybody else did. No lights, no people anywhere.”

“Then let’s check it out.”

The door to the unit was unlocked. They pushed through, and Craig nudged the light switch on with his elbow.

Two figures lay sprawled on the bed, naked. They were facing each other, and their heads were destroyed, blood and brain matter splattered on the linens, headboard, and wall. The man held a gun in his limp hand, and the smell of cordite was strong in the small room. No signs of a struggle, just two people… shot. Shot dead.