Joel Goldman - The Dead Man

"Then he invites her and orders the others," I said.

"That would work. But where's the party?"

"Someplace private, no walk-in traffic."

"Not one of their houses. The cops have been there," Lucy said. "Then where?"

"I don't know but I know where to look. Grab your coat. If Corliss persuaded Maggie, Janet, and Gary to meet him somewhere, there might be something in his office about that location, maybe a calendar entry or a handwritten note like the one with the victim's initials on it. "

The lobby was quiet, as if Tuesday's turmoil had taken place in another dimension of time and space. Nancy Klemp was on duty, nodding as we passed her desk, the starch in her back replaced with a defensive crouch across her shoulders, afraid and ready. Her comparison of the institute to the valley of the shadow of death had been prophetic.

I swiped my master key card across the lock sensor for Corliss's office and swung the door open. It had been stripped bare, desk drawers, file cabinets and bookshelves empty, and his computer gone. There was nothing left but the furniture. I picked up the phone on the desk and called Sherry Fritzshall's office.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"In Anthony Corliss's office. What happened to all of his stuff?"

"The police took it."

"When?"

"This morning. What are you doing in his office?"

"My job. Were you here when they took everything?"

"Yes. They had a search warrant. There was nothing I could do."

"Did the warrant cover anything else besides Corliss's office?"

"Yes. It included the offices of Maggie Brennan, Janet Casey, and Gary Kaufman. They took everything that wasn't nailed down."

"Next time, call me."

"If there's a next time, it will be too late to call you."

We checked Maggie's office and the one Janet and Gary used to be certain no scraps had been left behind. A swarm of locusts couldn't have done a more thorough job stripping a field.

"What now?" Lucy asked.

"The IT department. If Corliss is like most of the rest of the world, he exists as much in cyberspace as he does on the ground. It's impossible to cover all those tracks."

We found Frank Gentry at his desk. He stood, stifling the impulse to salute, instead straightening and tightening his regimental striped necktie.

"I need your help," I said.

"Then you've got it."

"I assume all the institute's computers are networked."

"They are. Desktops, laptops, Blackberries and iPhones, anything that's wired or wireless. If we provide it, it syncs to the network."

"What about backup?"

"I won't bore you with the details, but if it was done on one of our machines in the last twelve months we've got it."

"Except for everything Sherry Fritzshall told you to dump," Lucy said.

Gentry's face burned but he didn't flinch or duck Lucy's shot. "Except for that."

I said, "The police took Anthony Corliss and Maggie Brennan's computers and the ones that Janet Casey and Gary Kaufman used. I need you to print their calendars for the last year."

"What are you looking for?"

"Meetings they may have had somewhere besides at the institute."

"Then I'll check expense records too. If they spent any money for it, there will be an expense voucher and a reimbursement record."

"Great. How long will all that take?"

He glanced at his watch. "Give me an hour."

It took him fifty-three minutes.

"Here you go," Gentry said, handing me a sheaf of papers. "Calendars and expense records."

"Anything jump out?" I asked, knowing that he would have studied the records before giving them to me.

He plucked Corliss's calendar for October of last year from the middle of the stack and put it on top, reading the entry for the twelfth. "Art gallery, noon, lunch."

"What art gallery?"

"It's not really an art gallery, at least not one open to the public. We just call it that. It's where Mr. Harper keeps the pieces of his art collection that aren't on display here or in one of his homes or that aren't on loan to a real gallery or museum. He also uses it for off-campus meetings and retreats."

"Where is it?"

"In the Crossroad's District near Twentieth and Oak. It used to be a brewery," he said, jotting the address down on the calendar.

"Would Corliss have been allowed to use it?"

"Sure, subject to availability. It's one of the perks for the project directors. All he had to do was make a reservation. There's also an expense record for that day," Gentry said, thumbing through the pages. "Lunch for four people, thirty-eight dollars."

"How would Corliss get in?"

"You need a key card, just like here. There are several of them. Ms. Fritzshall's secretary keeps them."

I called Sherry. "How many keys are there to Harper's art gallery?"

"Why? What's this about?"

"I'll explain later. How many keys?"

"Four."

"Where are they?"

"My secretary keeps them. She hands them out if someone reserves the gallery."

"Ask her if anyone reserved it in the last day or two."

"Hold on," she said, coming back on the line a moment later. "Anthony Corliss reserved the gallery for yesterday. Gary Kaufman picked up the key Tuesday afternoon and hasn't returned it."

Today was Thursday. I checked Corliss's calendar for yesterday. He had nothing scheduled. Neither did Maggie, Janet Casey, or Gary Kaufman.

I reconstructed what I knew of their movements over the last two days. I had talked to Corliss on Tuesday morning just before Kent and Dolan took a crack at him but I hadn't seen him since. I rode down the elevator Tuesday evening with Maggie, commenting what a good thing it was that the employees had been given Wednesday off, Maggie replying that a day of rest suited her. Neither had said anything about a meeting at the Gallery. I knew less about Janet and Gary's movements since I'd last talked to them on Monday.

Kent's and Dolan's interrogation may have convinced Corliss that the walls would soon come tumbling down, pushing him over the edge. He could have reserved the gallery by phone and instructed Gary to pick up the key, using the fact that the institute was closed on Wednesday as a reason to meet there.

I got a key to the gallery from Sherry's secretary and called Quincy Carter after Lucy and I were in the car. He didn't answer, confirming Rachel's warning that he had cut me off. I left him a message telling him about the gallery and that Lucy and I were on our way there.

"I know why you called Carter but why make sure he knows that's where we're going?" Lucy asked.

"Motivation. Even if he doesn't think it's a good lead, he'll want to get there before we do. All things considered, I'd rather he go through the door first."

My back arched as I spoke, wedging me against the headrest, spasms genuflecting me in my seat, my gun pressing on my spine.

"Hey, Sparky," she said. "Remember me. Lucy Trent. Kick-ass in the clutch."

"You'd like that, being first through the door, wouldn't you?"

"Damn straight I would."

We were northbound on Main, climbing the long, steep hill from the Plaza. The snowplows had done their best, but the ice was stubborn and cars were stranded on the slope, turning our drive into a slow motion slalom. Lucy goosed and cajoled the car, keeping the tires rolling but not spinning, cresting the hill with a broad smile.

A few blocks later, we did the downhill run on Main, a sweeping descent, the Liberty Memorial on the left, Hallmark Cards' headquarters and Crown Center on the right, Lucy nudging the wheel and working the brakes, turning right on Twentieth, grill smoke coming from the Hereford House cutting the late morning air.

"Stop here," I said, after we crossed Oak.

Lucy eased to the curb half a block from the gallery. We walked the rest of the way. There were no cars, civilian or police, parked along Twentieth. The street had been plowed, obliterating tire tracks that would have been left by anyone going into or leaving the gallery and there were no footprints in the snow on the sidewalk or on the three steps leading to the entrance.