Steve Martini - The Enemy Inside

What bothered Herman was the lack of noise outside. Whoever was at the door had not come out of a vehicle in the parking lot. Otherwise he would have heard the engine as they pulled in, and a slamming door as they made their way to the stairs. Even with all the laughter, Herman had one ear primed for the van.

He bent down low so that any light streaming in from the back of the condo wouldn’t cast his shadow against the peephole in the front door. He moved quickly across the entryway, down the hall to his own room and into the bathroom. The small six-inch window high on the wall with its sliding translucent glass was open just a crack. Up on his tiptoes Herman peeked out.

There was one man at the door. Herman could see all the way to the end of the balcony in that direction. There was no one else there. He couldn’t see in the other direction unless he slid the window open further and pressed his head into the corner to look back.

The man was wearing a bright red polo shirt with a yellow collar and trim down the three buttons at the center of his chest. There was a small DHL logo on the shirt. He was wearing tan shorts. Black hair, dark complexion, Herman assumed he was Mexican. He carried a flat box, yellow and red like his shirt and a clipboard in one hand. He knocked on the door with the other.

Herman wasn’t buying it. If there was a package, why didn’t they give it to him at the shop? Still, the only people who knew he was here were Harry and Paul. They had agreed not to send anything to the condo unless it was an emergency. Maybe it was. With Graves dead perhaps they thought there was something Herman needed to know. But why a box? There was only one way to find out.

He moved back to the front door, stayed low and moved toward his suitcase. “¿Quién es?”

“DHL. Entrega. ”

He might have been making a delivery, but his tongue was paralyzed. There was no trill to the word as he spoke. Whoever he was, Spanish was not his first language.

Herman zipped open his suitcase, reached inside, and found the Springfield Arms.45. He slid the pistol out of the case. But he hesitated to rack the first round. The guy outside the door would hear it.

“Who is it for?” Herman figured why play games?

“Ah, señor, you speak English. Delivery for Mr. H. Diggs.”

“Who is it from?”

“Ah, ¿cómo se dice? Ah, how do you say, abogado ?”

“Lawyer,” said Herman.

“Ah, sí, señor. ”

“The name, what’s the lawyer’s name.”

“You open the door, I show it to you.”

“Just read it to me. I’m not sure I want it.”

“You want, I could take it back to the office.”

“You do that,” said Herman.

“The name is, I could spell for you if you like.”

“Go ahead.”

“First name Pablo, how you say?”

“Paul.”

“¡Sí! Last name M-A-D-R-I-A-N-I. How you say?”

“Madriani,” said Herman.

“Then you know the man?”

“Just leave it outside the door. I’ll get it in a minute. I’m not dressed. Taking a shower,” said Herman.

“Cannot,” said the man. “Requires a signature.”

Herman didn’t answer. Instead he slowly stood up, off the side of the center of the door and looked through the peephole. The fish-eye lens gave him a panoramic view of the man’s face, pockmarks and a ruddy complexion. “Hold up the waybill. I want to see it.”

“ Señor, I don’t have time for this.”

“I guess not, you’re making deliveries and you’re on foot. Where’s your truck?”

“We don’t use a truck here, señor. Here we use automobiles. We don’t have the equipment you have up north.” As he spoke he held up the waybill so Herman could see it through the glass lens. “Hold it still,” said Herman. He could see the law firm’s name and address neatly printed in the “Sender’s” block. But this could have been gotten by anyone with access to the Internet. Then he saw the firm’s account number printed in the block. And near the bottom the clincher, Brenda Gomes’s signature, the “gate watcher” at the firm. Nothing went in or out of the office without her seeing or touching it. Herman had seen her scrawl her name enough times to know it.

He stuck the gun in the front of his pants and covered it with his shirt. Then he swung open the security latch on the door and opened it.

The guy outside was all smiles. He handed the box to Herman and laid the clipboard on top of it, then gave him a pen and showed him where to sign.

Herman clicked the pen, went to fix his signature, and discovered that the ballpoint was dry.

“Ah,” said the man. “I don’t have another pen.”

Herman fixed him with a stare. The guy was still smiling. “I’ve got one in the kitchen. Stay here.” Herman handed everything back to him. As he turned for the kitchen, Herman slipped his right hand under the front of his shirt and grabbed the handle of the pistol. With his left hand he knocked Alex’s empty coffee cup onto the floor. It shattered on the tile, sending bits of glass everywhere.

At the same time Herman turned quickly and dropped down behind the island in the center of the kitchen as if retrieving some of the broken pieces. Instead he pulled out the pistol and racked a round.

When Herman stood up the guy was still standing in the open doorway, holding the package and the clipboard, tapping his foot on the cement outside the door like he was in a hurry.

Herman felt like a fool. Fortunately he’d kept the gun below the counter where the man couldn’t see it. He laid it on an open shelf down low. “Where is that pen?” Herman saw it over near the sink, went over, and picked it up.

He signed for the package and a few seconds later the guy was gone.

Herman closed the door and swung the security U-bolt back into place.

This morning I look at the documents open on my desk. Harry has already read them. It’s a court-ordered status conference, early on to see where the case is going. It’s set for the end of the month. The prosecutor has offered Alex a plea bargain, what in California is called a “wet reckless.”

Like a camel without humps, it’s a strange animal, reckless driving but with some alcohol involved, perhaps smelling the cork. Because the level of blood alcohol in Alex’s system is well below the presumptive limit of intoxication, the D.A. has doubts about his own case. If he only knew the half of it. The problem is we can’t tell him, not without hard evidence, and we have none. Still it’s a crazy offer because of the vehicular manslaughter charge. You can bet that ain’t going away. Which means this camel won’t hunt.

But that’s not the problem. The judge has ordered us into chambers to discuss the matter. He has also ordered that we bring our client to sit outside in his courtroom so that we can run any offer by him in hopes of a deal. Judges are often the most optimistic people in any room. They can afford to be. This one ought to be wearing white robes and singing in a choir.

Yesterday I checked out the caterers, the name given to me by Becket for the company that worked the party that night. Trousdale and Company. It was a dead end. No one remembered a thing. My guess is that when you’re paid to work that many parties serving alcohol, discretion requires a flexible memory. The company could be on the hook if they overserved.

I step out of my office and head down the corridor to Harry. He is chipping away at the computer inside his den when I peek in.

“You want to grab some coffee?” Harry is still looking at the computer screen. I am standing in the open doorway.

“Did you see it?” Harry means the notice-of-status conference.