D. Schmidt - They Ate the Waitress?

Opening his trunk, he pulled out a large, steel tank labeled “Danger – Insecticide – Poisonous Gas – Not to Be Used to Inflate Pool Toys.” He strapped the tank to his back and headed for the gate. Stopping at the intercom, he said, “Someone call for an exterminator?”

The intercom buzzed and a frantic woman’s voice said, “Oh, thank god! Hurry up and get in here! They’re everywhere!” The gate squeaked open. He stopped at the front desk, where Judy the receptionist was busy panicking. “I can’t believe you got here this fast!” she said gratefully.

“I happened to be in the neighborhood. An office building down the street was infested with lobsters. So, what’s the problem here?”

“Bugs!” she squealed. “A team of bike messengers came by this afternoon, and they delivered packages to half the people in the office. The packages were full of crickets! We caught what we could but, by now, they’ve gotten into the air vents. Ooh, I hate bugs!”

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” he said, tapping his tank. “I’ve got plenty of poison for all of them.”

“Is it safe for us to be in here while you’re spraying?”

“That depends – how often do you like to breathe?”

He strolled through the office, squirting random objects with gas. The employees pulled their shirts over their noses and fled to the break room. Soon, the main hall was empty. Finding himself alone, he shoved the hose under Reid’s door and turned on the gas. After a few minutes, he heard a loud thump . Warning labels to the contrary, he had actually filled the tank with surgical anesthetic. He kicked open the door and found Reid collapsed on the floor, drooling a map of Bolivia on the carpet.

An oak filing cabinet was bolted to the floor in the back of the office. Nick dropped to his knees, examining the lock. “Hardened steel casing, eleven pick-resistant spool pins, extra-narrow keyway… Looks very secure.” He lifted the gas tank over his head and hurled it at the cabinet. The wood shattered, oak splinters flying.

Digging through the files, he found some credit card numbers that he thought might come in handy later. A thick, manila folder was marked “Financial Records.” He laughed to himself. “Mason probably kept this in here to keep it safe from computer hackers.” There were records of several small payments made to Gordon Dunmore, a large payment made to Clayton West, and two very large payments sent to someone named “Donald Canard.” These payments had been mailed to an address in an office building just blocks away from Renée’s apartment.

There were also records of donations made to Scunner Consulting. Tens of thousands of dollars, deposited every few months.

“These dates look familiar,” he thought. “Wait, these are the same days on the ledger I found at Gabrielle’s. She was making deposits into Reid’s bank account, not her own! Looks like she’s been funding Reid’s crusade against Hand to Mouth. …Renée yelled at Gabrielle for harassing the waitresses. Was she upset enough to want revenge? If so, was she just trying to destroy the restaurant, or did she want something more? If someone in the group is responsible for Renée’s murder, Gabrielle may just be an accessory.”

He checked his watch. Reid would be unconscious for another hour at least, but there was nothing else in his office to search. “Well, Gordon’s the first suspect on this list. I should find out how he earns his pay.”

On his way to the door, he noticed he still had some anesthetic left in the tank. He slipped the hose under the break room door and turned on the gas. He strolled back to his car, happier than he had been in days.

Nick set his navigation system to drive him to Gordon’s apartment. It was late enough that Gordon would be home from work. Hopefully, he would go out for the evening. Nick parked across the street and waited. Finally, Gordon’s blue pickup pulled out of the lot and rolled down the street. Nick switched his headlights from “bright” to “nonchalant” and followed at a safe distance.

Gordon pulled into the gravel parking lot of a small bar. Nick watched him go inside, waited a few minutes, and then went to the door. Neon tubes flashed the words “The White Horse.” A drug bar. Usually, there would be the logo of a drug testing laboratory in the window, showing that an independent body had examined the business for drug purity, safety, and other important consumer issues. The only thing The White Horse had in the window was a sign reading “Official meeting place of the Vancouver Solipsism Club – Join us now! Meet interesting people!”

Nick walked inside, scanning the room for Gordon. Heavy smoke and bad lighting made it difficult to see. He decided to try a flashlight. The walls of The White Horse were gray stone covered in graffiti, stains, dirt, and what appeared to be blood. The unfinished pine tables looked as if they had been taken from a prison cafeteria. Inexplicably, the ceiling was covered in footprints.

Sitting at the bar was a familiar-looking, blue-skinned woman: Heather, the RA from Jessica’s school. “Oh, holy hell,” he moaned. “I can’t let her see me. …Wait, it looks like she’s paying her bill. I should hide somewhere until she leaves.” He turned off his flashlight and ducked into the men’s room. It was empty but smelled strongly of recent guests. He drummed his fingers on the wall and counted the seconds. The door squeaked open.

“Nick! I thought I saw you come in here. Listen, I need to talk to you.”

“I know. I forgot to release you from the bed.”

“I was there for fourteen hours, Nick. By the time one of the girls found me, I had already wet myself. Twice. It was the most erotic experience of my life.”

“I’m so sorry. I needed your key card so I could get into a friend’s dorm room. I’ll understand if you want to have me arrest– Wait, did you say erotic ?”

“Oh yes,” she breathed. “It was amazing! I had never had much experience with bondage before, but you showed me a whole new world of sensual pleasures. The only downside is, now that I enjoy being restrained, I’ll have to buy all sorts of equipment. Do you know where I can get a straitjacket?”

“I know a place where they might give you one… You know, we never did get a chance to make love. Come over here.” He took her hand and led her across the room. Pushing her against the wall, he slowly, seductively, handcuffed her to a urinal. “I’ll be back in a day or two. Don’t go anywhere!”

Nick stepped out of the men’s room, spotting Gordon immediately. He was sitting on a stool in front of an enormous, coin-operated hookah. “Well,” Nick thought, “it doesn’t look like he’ll be clear-headed enough to recognize me from our brief meeting the other day.” He took the stool next to Gordon and said, “Hey, pal, do I know you?”

“Don’t think so,” he mumbled.

“Oh, my mistake. What’s in the hookah?”

“Some Vietnamese stuff, very nice,” Gordon said, jabbing a thick finger at the huge, green marijuana leaf painted on the side of the hookah. “They said it’s a strain originally brought over by vets coming back from ‘Nam.”

“Sounds great.” Nick put a five dollar coin in the slot and wiped the end of his hose. There were no disposable mouth pieces. He would have to put his lips where many, many mouths had been before. “It’s disgusting now,” he thought, “but in a few minutes, I won’t care anymore.”

The two men smoked in silence. Nick watched Gordon closely, attempting to judge the fine line between “loss of inhibitions” and “can’t follow a conversation, let alone remember anything helpful.” Their smoke floated up to join the great cloud at the ceiling, where it was sucked into the ventilation system and released out a vent on the roof. The wind carried the smoke to a nearby tree, where several squirrels suddenly became hungry and confused.