The Answer Man (21 page)

“He told you this?”

“We picked him up last night. He got real talkative after we showed him tape from a security camera on the building
behind yours. It's aimed at your rear entrance. Revenge, pure and simple. He also admitted to stealing the boat that tried to sink you at the lake last week.”

What a relief. The attacks were totally unrelated to Myth and Sabini. But before he could get too euphoric, he thought about what Gant had said.

A security camera aimed at the rear of his building.

Ken tried to remember if he, Sabini, or Myth had ever wandered within its range. He wasn't sure. Shit.

“You're lucky to be alive. He really had it in for you,” Gant said.

“Now all I have to worry about is you.”

“Only if you're guilty.”

“I'm not. But that didn't keep me from almost getting killed. Twice.”

“Mistakes happen.”

“Thanks for the comforting words.”

Gant studied the polygraph. “This doesn't look any worse for wear. At least you still have your livelihood.” He chuckled. “The first time I saw one of these gadgets, I swore it was going to electrocute me if I lied. It was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life.”

“Maybe that's why you tested so poorly.”

“That's not supposed to make any difference, is it?”

“A lot of examiners will tell you it doesn't. I think it does.”

“That's refreshing to hear. I've always wondered how I'd test now.”

“You'll never know unless you try it.”

“Is that an invitation?”

Ken paused. “Actually, no. I don't know what it would prove.”

“You're probably right. It would be more interesting if I hooked
you
up to this machine.”

“Me?”

“Yes. I already know what it's like to take a test, but I have no idea what goes into
giving
one.”

Ken looked at the examination seat and forced a smile.
He had never taken a polygraph test in his life. He had tried on the sensors when designing Sabini's training exercises, but that was the extent of it. “Examiners make the worst possible subjects,” Ken said.

“Why is that?”

Because we know how to beat the damn things, Ken wanted to say. Instead, he just shrugged.

“Let's try it,” Gant said. “It'll be a learning experience for me
and
you.”

“You're serious?”

“Of course.”

Ken let out a long breath. “I don't think so.”

“Why not? I don't see any customers here.”

Ken thought about it. Gant wasn't an examiner, and even if he was, this machine couldn't get the better of him.

“You're not afraid of anything, are you?” Gant asked.

Ken rolled up his left shirtsleeve and sat in the examination seat. “Put that blood pressure wrap around my arm.”

Gant threw the wrap over Ken's left bicep and fastened it with the Velcro ends. He squeezed the bulb until Ken motioned for him to stop.

“That's good enough,” Ken said. “We don't want to cut off
all
the circulation, unless it's one of the really tough cases and you need to torture a confession out of the subject.”

Gant smiled and followed Ken's directions for fastening the respiration sensors around the torso and the perspiration sensor to the finger.

“What now?” Gant asked.

“Turn on the power. It's on the front lower right-hand corner.”

Gant flipped the switch and watched as the chart paper began rolling across the trembling needles.

Ken pointed to the desk. “Somewhere over there you'll find a standard test I use for employee theft cases. Just fill in the blanks.”

Gant picked up the test and read from the sheet. “Is your name Kenneth Parker?”

“Yes.”

Gant looked at the graph paper as Ken pointed to the sensor needles and told him what each one represented. Gant nodded before reading the next question. “Are you employed by Polygraph Associates?”

“Yes.”

“By the way,” Gant said, looking away from the page, “did you ever really have any associates?”

Ken shrugged. “No, it just sounded good.”

“I see. Okay, is there any information pertaining to the Burton Sabini case that you have withheld from me?”

Ken glared at Gant. “I don't think that's on the page.”

“No, but it didn't seem right to ask if you embezzled from yourself.” Gant looked at the needles. “Looks like I got a rise out of you with that one.”

“No,” Ken said. “The answer to your question is no.”

Gant nodded. “Have you ever lied to keep from getting into trouble at work?”

“No,” Ken said. Jesus, why did he ever agree to this? He thought he was building up goodwill with the lieutenant, but this was turning into an interrogation.

“Did you murder Burton Sabini?”

What the hell was he doing?

Gant smiled and checked the needles.

“No,” Ken replied.

“Interesting,” Gant said as he examined the readings.

Ken tore off the blood pressure wrap. “I think that will do it for our little demonstration.”

“I'm sorry. I thought it would give me a truer picture of what this test is all about.”

“I hope it was informative.”

“Oh, it was,” Gant said as he walked to the door. “It's amazing. I practically accused you of murder, and your blood pressure didn't budge.” He smiled. “Maybe you can explain that to me sometime.”

Gant left the office.

Ken yanked off the perspiration sensor and pushed the door closed. Shit.

Shake it off, he told himself. Gant was just trying to get under his skin. And the man had come with good news.

At least he knew Myth wasn't behind the attempts on his life. There was no reason not to meet her. He could now face her at the pier with a little more trust.

W
hile in daytime the Gower pier possessed a friendly, almost quaint atmosphere, its character was transformed completely at night. As the fog rolled in, swirling over and around the choppy waters of Lake Lanier, the pier's wooden planks grew wet and slippery, and they reflected back only moonlight from the night sky; there was no other source of illumination. Nearby pine trees cast eerie, threatening shadows onto the pier's entrance, like gargoyles lording over a Gothic manor. Wind whistled through the understructure, creating a chorus of low howls and frantic, desperate shrieks.

It was five minutes to ten as Ken walked from the dirt road next to the entrance. His eyes were quick in adjusting to the moonlight. He stepped onto the wet planks. They creaked and groaned with each step.

At the end of the pier, Myth was leaning against the railing. She was looking out at points of light miles away, dotting a hillside on the lake's north shore.

She spoke without turning to face him.

“Trust not before you try,

For under cloak of great

goodwill

Does feigned friendship lie…”

He stepped closer. “What?”

“I'm sorry, Ken. I'm sorry I got you mixed up in this.”

“I'm sorry too. But we can still make it worth my while.”

“You don't understand.”

She turned and leveled a silver snub-nosed revolver at his chest.

“This isn't easy for me,” she said.

He stared uncomprehendingly at her. His first reaction was not of fear, but of overwhelming anger.
Why hadn't he learned?

He had trusted her. And now it was going to cost him everything. Never before did he actually think he was about to die. Not when the boat tried to sink him, not when his office was firebombed. But now he knew it was all over.

“Why?” he finally asked.

He expected her to respond by pulling the trigger, but she answered, “Because you're dangerous.”

“
I'm
dangerous?”

She nodded. “As long as you're alive, as long as you can talk, I can't be completely safe.”

“How do you figure that? You know I'll keep my mouth shut.”

“Maybe, maybe not. If the screws start to tighten, I can't predict what you'll do. And, Ken, the screws are tightening.”

“Whose fault is that?”

Still she did not fire. She was stalling; maybe she really didn't want to do this, he thought. He turned slightly and slid his hand toward his jacket pocket.

Slowly, a bit at a time…

“You already have Sabini's money, don't you?”

Myth did not reply.

He slid his hand a little closer, in what he hoped was an imperceptible movement…

“Then you have what you want. You don't have to do this.”

“There's no other way. I've tossed it around, looked at it from every angle. This is the only way it gels.”

His fingers stretched for his pocket. Just a little more…

“There's another way. Make me a partner.”

“A partner?”

“Give me a cut of the money. Just what Sabini owed me. You'd be buying my silence. That would make me an accessory after the fact, wouldn't it? I wouldn't be in any position to give you away.”

She shook her head. “The frame's already been built, Ken.”

“What frame?”

“The frame that pictures you as Sabini's murderer.”

The nails of his right hand clutched at the fabric of his jacket, pulling the pocket closer.

She continued. “And for that frame to work, it has to look like you disappeared with the money.”

“I can't believe it.”

“The evidence has already been planted. It solves both of my problems. Someone to take the murder rap and to distract the authorities from finding the money.”

“It won't work.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm not gonna die tonight.”

He drew his gun.

Her eyes widened in horror. “No. It's not what you think!”

“Then, what is it?”

Before she could say another word, a gunshot rang out, exploding in the night air.

Her blouse ruffled slightly. A dark stain spread from her chest. She stumbled backward.

But Ken had not fired.

Another shot echoed across the pier, and she twisted violently. She fell to the wet planks, trembling, choking, and gritting her teeth.

Then she lay still, her agony dissipating in one long, last sigh.

There were pounding, running footsteps on the pier behind him.

He whirled around.

It was Michaelson. The P.I. was holding a gun. “Christ, kid. Are you all right?”

Ken was too stunned to speak. Michaelson leaned down to examine Myth, feeling her neck for a pulse.

“I'm sorry.” Michaelson shook his head with regret. “I knew she was up to something, but I couldn't tell you. I didn't know if you were in on it or not. So I followed you.”

“You killed her….”

“It was her or you. Don't think I didn't consider letting her finish you off. She still might have led me to the cash.” Michaelson looked up. “By the way,
you're welcome.
”

“Goddamn.”

“You got that right.”

Ken couldn't summon any gratitude; he was still too angry. Angry with Michaelson for being right about her.

“Do you have a phone in your car?” Ken asked. “I'll call the police.”

The P.I. shook his head. “Wrong. They get into it, we lose all that money she died for.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“You're not thinking, Parker.” Michaelson's smile showed more gums than teeth.

“You killed her. Are we just supposed to ignore that?”

“She was going to kill you. Before you go bringing the police into it, don't you think you'd better undo what she's done? She's framed you for murder, remember?”

“How?”

“I'll tell you. After you take care of the body.”

“Go to hell.”

Michaelson picked up Myth's small handbag and rifled through it. “You don't have much choice. If you go to the police, I'll deny everything. Remember, I'm still Vikkers' official investigator on this case. And believe me, this lady did a good job of setting you up for Burton Sabini's murder.”

Michaelson threw the purse aside. “Do we have a deal?”

Ken cursed at the night sky. From beyond the grave, Myth was
still
screwing him over. Except that she didn't have a grave. He was being asked to provide that too.

“We can turn this around,” Michaelson said. “We can find the money, make it look like
she
skipped town with it. But to do that, we can't just leave her here. I have to do a job for another client in less than an hour. That means
you
take care of the body.”

“What about the frame-up?”

“I'll take care of it. But I gotta know I can count on you.”

Ken looked at Myth's body. She was still beautiful, as if she were sleeping.

The next few minutes were almost surreal to Ken, as if someone had inhabited his body and was directing it to do things beyond his control. He found himself helping Michaelson roll Myth's body into a blanket and found himself being struck by the sight of her thick, lustrous hair spilling out of the end as they carried the blanket to his MG.

He was only vaguely aware of Michaelson's sick jokes as they crammed the body into the small trunk.

His vision almost blurred as Michaelson fished around in his own trunk and came up with a rusty hoe. Ken settled behind the wheel of his car, and the P.I. handed the gardening tool to him.

“What you wanna do,” Michaelson instructed, “is head up Highway 92 until you think you're in East Bumblefuck, then you go
another
twenty minutes. You dig, you bury her deep. Got it? She's gotta vanish.”

Ken kept the top down as he drove, hoping the wind would slap him back into reality. It didn't work. Her betrayal, her death, and now this had all happened so fast. He was too angry to grieve, and yet he felt he had lost a part of himself on the pier that night. Or maybe he was still losing it.

He drove as Michaelson had instructed, until he found himself on an isolated gravel road miles from anywhere. He finally came to a stop near a densely overgrown field.

He didn't want to do this.

He cut the engine, climbed out of the car, and paced back and forth. The gravel crunched beneath his feet. He stopped, lit up a cigarette, and inhaled.

Who would have guessed that he'd end up here? Miles from anywhere, a woman's body in his trunk, and a murder investigation still hanging over him.

He rubbed his sweaty hands on the legs of his jeans. Time to get on with it. He took a deep breath, inserted the trunk key, and turned. He hesitated before lifting the lid.

He took another breath, threw up the trunk lid, and…

Myth was staring at him.

He took a step back.

Then, slowly, she sat up.

“Don't panic,” she said.

He drew his gun, wondering if he had finally gone insane.

“You're panicking.”

He waved the gun in front of him. “What the hell is going on?”

“I'm sorry to have put you through this.”

“What exactly have I just been through?”

Myth climbed out of the trunk, rolling her cramped shoulders. “Didn't you hear me? I've been yelling for the last half hour.”

He shook his head as Myth unbuttoned her blouse. She reached inside, and he raised his revolver. She slowly, carefully, produced two tape-lined plastic packets.

She held them up. “Explosive blood packs.”

“What in the holy hell—?”

She motioned toward Ken's gun. “You don't need that.”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don't.”

“Let me explain.”

“Please.”

She stared at his gun, but there was no way he was going to put it away. “Michaelson and I have been working together. He's a dangerous man. He shot somebody the other night, almost killed him. And it was my fault.”

“Are we talking about Mark Bailey?”

She gave him a surprised look. “How did you—?”

“Never mind. Keep talking.”

“I got a call from that number. Someone identified herself as Madeleine Walton. I asked Michaelson to check it out. I didn't know he was going to break in and search the place. I didn't want anybody to get hurt.”

“Christ. Then what is tonight all about?”

“It's supposed to be about me killing you out here, in the middle of nowhere. That's what Michaelson thinks.”

“You could have done that back at the pier.”

“We could have, but do you know where most murderers mess up?”

“Excuse my ignorance.”

“Disposing of the body. It's easy to kill someone, but the real risk comes afterward. The old French crime bosses knew that. When they wanted to rub out one of their men, they'd give him the task of disposing of a body. So this person would take all the precautions and make sure he wouldn't be seen. Once he got to wherever he was going, the supposed ‘body' would rise up with a garrote and kill him. It was perfect. The victim himself picked his final resting place before a murder had even been committed.”

Ken was fascinated in spite of himself. “You and Michaelson—”

“We embellished it a little. If we had killed you at the pier, there would always be a chance we'd be discovered disposing of your remains. This way you take the risk before there really is a murder.”

“So you're supposed to—”

He stiffened warily as she reached into the trunk. She pulled out her gun by the barrel and tossed it to the ground near his feet.

“I was supposed to kill you out here. Preferably after you had already dug my grave.” She leaned back against the car. “I could never do anything like that, Ken. Not to you or anyone…There's nothing more horrible than seeing a life taken away. You never forget it.”

“You didn't kill Sabini?”

“No.”

“I'm having serious trouble absorbing this.”

“You gave me a scare tonight. We hadn't counted on you having your own gun. I was afraid you'd shoot me before Michaelson could
pretend
to shoot me.” She shook her head. “The whole plan just got out of hand.”

“ ‘The whole plan'? Look, I want you to tell me everything. About you, about Sabini, about Michaelson. What the hell is going on?”

“Let's go. I'll tell you everything you want to know.”

They climbed into Ken's car and drove back down the dusty rural roads with the ragtop up. Wisps of fog snaked in front of them, enveloping the car as the engine's roar attacked the quiet surroundings.

“Michaelson first approached me when I was researching Sabini's case,” Myth said. “I like to know
everything
about the people I work with. Information was something he had plenty of. After a while, we started having discussions.”

“What kind of discussions?”

“He and I were sure Sabini took the money. So while Michaelson worked on tracing the funds, I worked on Sabini.”

“Did you sleep with him?”

She didn't answer. They drove in silence.

“Shit,” he muttered.

“I didn't sleep with him. Some men are more turned on
if you keep just out of reach. Sabini was that type, even if he didn't know it.”

“So what happened?”

“I got Sabini to tell me how he got the money back here from Europe. He bought some rare letters. One of them was even signed by Napoleon. He smuggled them back with some business memos. I told Michaelson.”

“So Michaelson killed Sabini and took the letters.”

“That's what I thought. But he said he didn't touch Sabini. Michaelson did find the letters, but it turns out they were worth only a fraction of the twelve million.” Her lips curled into an ironic smile. “Sabini lied to me.”