The Answer Man (10 page)

“Sabini's stuff isn't worth that kind of money,” Ken said. “It's months old. What else are you going to do with it?”

“Five thousand.”

“Three.”

“Deal.”

After making arrangements to meet Keogler the next night, Ken left the shop.

The trail was heating up.

“You look like hell. You should get a car with air-conditioning.”

The receptionist leaned forward in her chair as she finished folding a paper airplane. She sent the plane sailing into Ken's chest.

“Nice to see you too,” he replied as he unfolded it. “What's this?”

“A cancellation. Your two o'clock won't be showing up. He got scared and quit his job. Guess some people really believe in your stuff.”

“Imagine that.”

The receptionist smirked. “You have a guest waiting outside your office.”

“A guest? Who?”

“A cop.”

Ken went still. “A cop? What does he want?”

“If he'd told me, I wouldn't be sitting here right now. I'd be out spreading it all over the building.”

Ken quickly walked toward his office, trying to smooth out the wrinkles in his shirt. It was like being called into the boss's office. He rounded the corner, only to see Lieutenant Thomas Gant seated on a bench.

“Hello, Mr. Parker.” Gant rose to his feet, his face crinkling with a smile. “I need to talk to you. Is this a good time?”

Ken shook the lieutenant's hand. “As good a time as any. Come in.”

He unlocked the door and flipped on the lights as he and Gant stepped inside. One of the fluorescent bulbs flickered with annoying vigor.

“Catch any liars lately?” Gant asked as he stepped around the polygraph stand.

“A few. And you?”

Gant shrugged. “Don't know yet.”

“Maybe I can help.”

“Maybe. Tell me how you knew Burton Sabini.”

Ken froze for an instant, just enough to send a clear signal of recognition to Gant. Ken cursed his own reflexes. The cop had blindsided him.

Damage control. “I know the name.”

“You know more than that, don't you?”

Ken's mind was racing. How much did Gant know? And how much should he admit? Too much could land him and Myth in all kinds of hot water, but too little might just get him a murder rap.

Time to roll the dice.

“I think he called me a few weeks back. He was thinking about taking a polygraph test for some kind of court case. He had a million questions. He wanted to know how reliable these things are, that kind of stuff.”

“That's all?”

“Yeah. That's it.”

Gant pulled a grainy photocopy from his pocket. “We found your office number and address written in the message pad of Sabini's Day-Timer. He wrote it there sometime in the last couple weeks of his life.”

“He's dead?”

“Murdered. Very much in the same way as your buddy Carlos Valez.”

As Gant unfolded the copy, Ken suddenly became aware of the pile of newspaper clippings and papers relating to Sabini. It was the file Myth gave him, and it was sitting on the desk behind Gant, in full view. The lieutenant hadn't seen it. Yet.

Gant showed him the office number and address written on Sabini's message pad. “You never actually met with him?”

“No.”

Gant folded the photocopy. Ken tried to hide his anxiety as the detective turned toward the desk, toward all those clippings, and—

—right past them as his attention went back to the polygraph.

The lieutenant seemed fascinated by the device. As he did on his first visit, he picked up the sensors and examined them.

Ken suddenly felt his nervousness give way to a rush of anger. Dammit, this shouldn't be happening. A murder investigation wasn't part of the bargain.

Gant cocked an eyebrow at him. “How much training did you have on this thing?”

“Six-week course.”

“Six weeks? You're deciding the fate of entire careers based on six weeks of night school?”

“It's a living.”

Gant shook his head. “I don't need one of these machines, Mr. Parker. When you've been at this job as long as I have, you pretty much know when you're being lied to.”

“Is that right?”

Gant was staring intently at him. He nodded. “Sometimes I
pretend
to believe them so they can trip themselves up later, but I almost always know.”

Another moment passed.

Gant turned toward the door. “You know how to reach me. If you think of anything else, get in touch.”

“Sure.”

Gant smiled and let himself out. Ken let out the long breath he didn't realize he had been holding.

A spring thunderstorm drenched Ken as he sprinted from his car to the awning of his apartment complex. It was almost ten
P
.
M
., and his head hadn't stopped throbbing since
Gant's visit. When was the last time he had been able to relax? He couldn't remember.

His head only felt worse as he walked past the spot where Carlos Valez may have been murdered.

Murdered the same way as Burton Sabini.

Coincidence? Gant sure as hell didn't think so.

Ken inserted his apartment key into the hole, but the door creaked open before he could turn the lock. Startled, he stepped back, his wet hair dripping onto the concrete walkway. He peered cautiously into the dark apartment.

He knew he had locked the door.

Several moments passed. He took one step inside and stopped, trying to get accustomed to the darkness. His eyes darted in every direction, but shadows still cloaked the apartment.

He listened, but all he could hear was the driving, hammering rain.

He made his way to a lamp. He turned it on, and—

“Hello, Ken.”

He whirled around, almost knocking the lamp over in the process. His visitor entered from the bedroom, strolling casually into the light.

It was Myth.

“Did I scare you?” She walked over to the still-open front door and closed it tight.

“I wasn't expecting company.”

“I let myself in. Hope you don't mind.”

He shrugged.

“You really should do something about this lock. I slid my ATM card down the door frame and opened it in about two seconds. But I'm afraid I scratched off my magnetic stripe.”

“What are you doing here?”

She stepped closer. “I missed you.”

“I thought we couldn't see each other.”

“You want me to go?”

“I didn't say that. But what about the police? And all that stuff about Sabini's life going under the microscope?”

“The police talked to me about him. I don't think it's that big a deal. I think this will be worth the risk. Don't you?”

She stepped closer and unfastened the top two buttons of his shirt. She lightly kissed his chest. “Is everything okay?”

He nodded.

She slid her hand inside the shirt and stroked his stomach. “If you don't want this, I can leave.”

“I want this.”

“Okay, then.”

They lay there on his futon, massaged by the sound of the drizzling rain.

She pulled herself up on her elbows and gently blew on his chest.

“I guess you
did
miss me,” he said.

“Yeah. I didn't think I would.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“No, it's just—I don't get attached to people very easily.”

“I can believe that.” He rolled over on his side. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

“I've been flooded with calls since Sabini died. There are a couple of interesting cases I may take on. I need to look into them a little more.”

“Good.”

“What about you? Anything going on?”

“The police visited me again.”

She sat up with a start. “Why?”

“They found Sabini's Day-Timer with my name and number in it. I told the detective that Sabini called and asked a few questions, nothing more. But it looks damned suspicious with me being connected to two men who were murdered the same way.”

Myth bunched the covers in her hands. “I can't believe it. You did the right thing, though.”

“I lied to a cop who's conducting a murder investigation. I wouldn't call that ‘the right thing.' Maybe we should admit what we did with the polygraph.”

“That's not a good idea. Just stay the course, and everything will be fine.”

“That police detective didn't believe me.”

“Sure he did. You've seen enough liars to know how it's done.”

Ken sighed. “I never thought I was one of them.”

“If I had known you were getting this kind of scrutiny, I never would have come here. Is there anything else I should know? Anything at all?”

Like what? he wondered. Like how he was looking for Sabini's stolen money?

“No,” he said.

“I shouldn't be here.” She settled back slightly.

“What's wrong with wanting someone?”

Myth didn't answer.

“I think it's because then you'd be more vulnerable.”

She nodded. “I guess that's part of it.”

“Who in your life ever made you think the world's that terrible, that scary?”

“You should talk.”

“I'm not gonna pretend that I'm some kind of Pollyanna. But at least I'm not so afraid of the world that I don't know how to live.”

“I'll tell you how I've lived. When I was thirteen years old I lived with a stepfather who one day realized he couldn't provide for his family. So he came home, took his hunting rifle off the rack, and put a bullet into my mother.”

He might have thought she was joking, so casual was her tone. But as he looked into her eyes, he could see pain and raw emotion there.

She continued, her voice still steady and strong. “His name was Tim. After he lost his job, he killed my mother, then shot me. I played dead. I just lay there on the kitchen floor and watched him turn the gun on himself.”

“Christ.”

She was facing in his direction, though her eyes were not focused on him or anything else in the room. She spoke dreamily, as if from another time. “He didn't kill himself right away. He sat there with the gun at his head for a long time. Must have been hours. He kept trying, and I kept waiting. Finally he did it. For a while, I didn't think he was going to have the balls. But you know, if he hadn't been able to shoot himself, I would've grabbed the gun and done it for him. I really would've.” She paused. “Tim was a real go-getter. He was a ruthless man in a lot of ways. Nothing I did was ever good enough for him, but there was a time when his approval meant everything to me.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't say you're sorry. Just don't try to tell me what living is all about. I know what it's about.”

She rolled over, away from him.

He tried to think of something to say, but nothing seemed right. After a story like that, it was no use even trying. He leaned back on the futon and put his arm around her. Her body stiffened at his touch.

It was going to be a long night.

K
en walked toward the main entrance of Club Renaissance, a Piedmont Road dance club that had changed hands, and names, several times in the past ten years. It was the location Dennis Keogler had chosen to hand over the contents of Sabini's data files.

With the sudden attention from the police, Ken debated the wisdom of continuing to track Sabini's loot. It was riskier than ever to associate himself further with the case. He'd have to be careful. As long as he remained on the periphery, things would be reasonably safe. But the deeper he delved into Sabini's life, the greater the chance of getting caught in Gant's sticky web.

Ken knew his quest would come to a crashing halt if he confessed to Sabini's polygraph training. That fact, more than anything, was keeping him quiet. Myth probably thought he was doing it for her, but he knew better.

She had risen at five-thirty that morning, dressed silently, and kissed him before leaving his apartment. He had no idea when he would see her again.

Ken paid the dance club's stiff cover charge and walked inside to find the place practically empty. But it was early yet. Eight-thirty
P
.
M
. The club was creepy with its throbbing music, pulsing lights, and no dancers.

Keogler was seated at a booth, drinking Bud from the bottle. He waved Ken over.

“I picked this place so we'd be lost in the crowd. Some genius I am, huh?”

Ken sat across from him. “Do you have the cartridges?”

“Do you have the money?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

Ken produced a microcassette recorder, held it against Keogler's ear, and pushed play.

The kid's eyes widened as he heard an incriminating snatch from his and Ken's conversation from the day before. They were making the deal for Sabini's data files.

“You son of a bitch,” Keogler said.

Ken pulled the recorder away and returned it to his pocket. “Play nice. This could get you into a lot of trouble.”

“It doesn't prove anything. No money changed hands. And you can't prove I really have the data.”

“If I were a cop, you'd be in cuffs now and I'd be checking out that rectangular bulge in your breast pocket. How much a year do you make selling off this stuff? Two, three hundred thousand? More?”

“What do you want?”

“The way I figure it, you didn't use this information to rip off Sabini's company. I doubt you'd still be at your job. And I don't think you're connected enough to pull it off.”

“Then why are you hassling me?”

“Who else have you sold this information to?”

“No one.”

Ken studied Keogler, examining him for the slightest hint that he might be fibbing. Almost everyone had subtle, almost imperceptible cues they exhibited when cornered into a lie. It was different for each person, but the day before, Ken had been able to read Keogler only minutes into their first conversation. Maybe he'd get lucky again.

Keogler began breathing through his mouth.

Gotcha!

“Who else?” Ken repeated, pounding the table with his fists.

“Who are you?”

“I'm not a cop and I'm not a fed. That's all you need to know. But I can play this tape for your boss, and I can slip it to the local papers and television stations. Can you see the headlines? ‘Computer Technician Steals Secrets from Atlanta's Biggest Corporations'?”

“Aw, man…” Keogler nervously ran his hands over the tabletop, as if fingerpainting an imaginary piece of abstract art.

“I don't give a damn if you want to keep ripping off your customers. That's your business. And theirs. But I do want to know who else you sold this data to.”

Keogler looked up. “That's all you want?”

“That's all I want.”

“You won't tell anybody I told you, will you?”

“That would be bad manners.”

“My customers are kind of touchy about this stuff. If it gets around that I'm not discreet, I'm in trouble.”

“Your secret's safe with me.”

Keogler bit his lip. “Sabini worked for a metal-works company. I looked up its competitors and made some phone calls. A VP at Crown Metals bought the stuff from me.”

“What did he want with it?”

“What do they
ever
want with it? Sabini was a financial officer. Crown could see what Sabini's company had bid on contracts, what the financial arrangements were, and so forth. Then they could swoop in and make better deals. That's what I figured anyway.”

“What was the guy's name?”

“Don Browne. With an ‘e' at the end.”

Ken jotted the name down on a cardboard coaster.

Keogler grinned. “You can look through this data all you want, but there's nothing here that could have helped
anyone steal that money. No access codes, no electronic funds transfer numbers. If that's what you're looking for, you're out of luck.”

“We'll see about that.”

“Carlos Valez was an animal. He got what he deserved.”

Liz Benton walked toward the spacious center court of the Packard Hills Shopping Center, inspecting the kiosks and pushcarts before the mall opened for the day. Gant kept pace with her.

“Ms. Benton, is there anyone here who may have wished him harm?”

“Besides me?”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I. He scared the hell out of me. I didn't know if he was going to come back and kill me, or just slice a few fingers off.”

“You should have called the police.”

“I did. They wouldn't even send an officer out. He didn't make an explicit threat. Apparently, ransacking my office and advancing on me with a wound-up phone cord wasn't enough to justify your department's time.”

“I'm sorry.”

“To answer your question, no, I don't know of anyone who had any reason to kill him. I didn't know him well, but I never heard of any problems.”

“What made you suspect him of stealing the video equipment?”

“It was a combination VCR/TV unit used for training tapes, and at the time it was stolen, only half a dozen employees had access to it.”

“Including Carlos Valez.”

“Right. So we sent them all in for polygraph tests. I have to tell you, I don't have a lot of faith in polygraphs. Anyone who watches
60 Minutes
will tell you those things are unreliable. But our developer swears by them, and I have to follow company policy.”

“Tell me, how did you come to choose the polygraph company you did?”

“Luck of the draw. We had been using an older gentleman downtown, but the last few times I talked to him, I got the distinct impression he had been drinking. So I decided to try someone else.”

“Ken Parker.”

“Yes. I just stabbed a finger in the phone book. I figured one of those guys is as good as the other.”

Gant watched as the woman kicked an unsightly power cord underneath one of the pushcarts, out of sight. Convinced that the cart was now presentable, Liz continued her inspection.

“Were you satisfied with the job Ken Parker did for you?”

“Well, he returned my calls, did the exam, and promptly sent over his report. In that sense, yes, I was satisfied.”

Gant sensed hesitancy in her voice. “But…?”

Liz stopped and turned toward Gant. For the first time, she seemed to be giving him her full attention. “Something interesting has happened. Something I should tell you about.”

What do you say to a thief?

Ken shoved a quarter into the pay phone and punched Don Browne's office number. He still wasn't sure what he was going to say.

Hey, how ‘bout those stolen data files?

A secretary answered, and Ken identified himself only as a friend of Burton Sabini's. She put him on hold, and Browne picked up almost immediately.

“Don Browne.”

“Hello, Mr. Browne.”

“Who is this?”

“I want to talk to you about some computer data you purchased. They belonged to Burton Sabini.”

“What?”

“Let me guess. You don't know what I'm talking about.”

“No.” Browne practically choked out the word.

“Don't bullshit me. Let's get together and talk about it.”

“Not until I know who this is.”

“We'll talk about that later too.”

“Are you trying to blackmail me?”

“All I want is information.”

Browne paused. “Like what?”

“We'll talk about that when we meet. I'd like to see you today.”

“Today?”

“Yes.”

Another pause. “I'll meet you tonight,” he said. “Call back here at seven-thirty. I'll tell you where I'll meet you.”

“Seven-thirty.” Before Ken finished speaking, Browne hung up the phone.

The fax machine hummed and shuddered as the halftone transmission slowly uncurled into the tray. Hound Dog held the end as she cut the thermal paper loose with a pair of scissors. It was a photograph from a fellow scanner geek in Colorado, sent in response to her query a few nights before. A handwritten note came with it. Hound Dog held the photo up as Mark looked over her shoulder.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It's her. The same woman. I knew I'd seen that face before. She's younger here, but it's definitely the same one.”

The photo was a crime shot of Myth Daniels being led away by police from what looked like a condominium complex. She appeared to be in her early twenties. Hound Dog almost shuddered. She now remembered the photo, and what had struck her about it.

The woman's cold, unforgiving face. There was no pity, no regret, despite the fact that she had just killed someone.

Hound Dog picked up the accompanying note. It read simply, “Call me.”

“Who sent it?” Mark asked.

“A guy named Gary Conway. He lives in Colorado. I met him at a photography convention about a year and a half ago. I guess that's where I saw this photo of her.”

She omitted the fact that the scanner geek had made several overt passes during the course of the convention, all rebuffed.

Mark returned to the kitchen table, where he was doing his homework. He was almost half finished with a bachelor's degree in accounting, accumulating credits through correspondence courses. By the time he would have to attend actual classes, he hoped to have enough money saved so he could quit his job as a bouncer.

Still holding the fax, Hound Dog picked up the phone and dialed Conway's number.

He answered on the first ring. “Hi, Hound Dog.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“I just sent you the fax. I figured you'd want the scoop on it.”

“And you knew nobody else would be calling? Get a life, Conway.” Hound Dog looked at the picture again. “Well, that's definitely her. What
is
the scoop?”

“This was a while back, maybe twelve or thirteen years ago. In Denver. That woman had just shot a man in cold blood. Killed him.”

“I remember that.”

“Yeah. She had tried to charge the guy with rape a few weeks before, but it didn't stick. The next thing everyone knew, he was dead on her doorstep. She said he'd broken the door and was coming in with a knife.”

“So she blew him away.”

“You got it.”

“You get any shots of the stiff?”

“Nah. It was all taped off by the time I got there. This made some headlines, though. There was some question whether or not it was really self-defense.”

“What do you mean?”

“It could have been a setup. She knew the guy, she could have asked him to come over. You know what she looks like,
I
would have gone over.”

“Was she ever charged?”

“No. Just a lot of speculation. What's the story with your Madeleine Walton shot?”

“Who?”

“Madeleine Walton. Isn't that who we're talking about?”

Hound Dog flipped through her pocket notebook. “The name
I
got was Myth Daniels.”

“Check it again.”

Hound Dog crinkled her nose as she looked at Conway's photo next to her own. It was unmistakably the same person. She wrote the name “Madeleine Walton” in her pad with a large question mark beside it.

“I'll look into this. Anything else?”

“Yeah. When are you gonna dump that big, dumb brute of a boyfriend of yours and give me a chance?” He paused, then added, “I'm not on a speakerphone, am I?”

“Lucky for you, no. Thanks, Conway. I'll be in touch.”

She hung up and stared at the two pictures for a moment longer. Mark stood, approached her from behind, and massaged her shoulders.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“I don't know,” she said, still staring at the photos. “But it's time I found out.”

Ken walked down a long ramp in the building that housed Crown Metals, Don Browne's company. It was seven-twenty
P
.
M
., and his telephone appointment with Browne was only ten minutes away. It was an appointment Ken was going to miss.

He decided to drop in on Browne instead. There was no way to tell how deeply involved Browne was, and it didn't seem like a smart move to let him call the shots and arrange their meeting. Surprise was the best strategy.

Ken made his way past the empty attendant booths until he found himself in the building's subterranean parking garage. Cool. Dark. Not particularly inviting. He could have walked through the front door, but he wanted to avoid the guard desk in the lobby. He preferred to arrive unannounced. Ken's footsteps echoed in the nearly empty parking level.

He found the elevators and rode up to the eighth floor, where most of Crown's corporate offices were located. The reception area was empty. Good. No one to intercept him. Ken scanned the directory and found Browne's office number. Suite 8023.