The Answer Man (6 page)

Sabini smiled as he threw his card down. “Yeah.”

The next few days were a blur to Ken. He spent his mornings and afternoons exploring different methods of beating polygraphs, his nights training Sabini on the machine.

He taught Sabini breathing exercises calculated to smooth out the jagged respiration readings. As Ken had expected, this proved to be the easiest response to control. Sabini had almost mastered it by the end of the second day.

More problematic were the skin perspiration readings. Sabini would have to smoke for a week or so to deprive his skin of enough oxygen to make a difference. That alone, however, wouldn't be enough. Ken would have to think of something else.

For the pulse rate, he turned to the methods of biofeedback, the seventies-era relaxation technique in which subjects monitor their own heartbeats and even brain waves to bring them under control. He showed Sabini his indicators on the rolling graph paper and designed several exercises that allowed his student to consciously manipulate the readings.

Since the training sessions didn't begin until after ten every night, Ken and Sabini always worked until two, sometimes three, in the morning. It was a punishing schedule, made worse for Ken by the lingering soreness from his beating. And as hard as he tried, he could never get past
how wrong it all was. It gnawed at him every minute of the day.

He couldn't wait to be finished.

It was a slow night on the streets.

Hound Dog revved her Harley, cruising up and down the city's major thoroughfares as her belt scanner crackled through the headphones. The scanner wasn't picking up anything interesting—some minor fender-benders, a robbery, a bar fight, all of which were decidedly unphotogenic after the fact.

For the past couple of days she had racked her brain trying to remember where she had seen the woman in that newspaper photo. Maybe it was in a shot taken by another scanner geek.

She checked her watch. One forty-five
A
.
M
. It was a bit early for “lunch,” but since she was using more gasoline than film, it would probably be good to knock off for a while. At that hour, the best prospect was the Varsity, a cavernous fast-food restaurant located near the Georgia Tech campus. An Atlanta institution for over half a century, the establishment was geared toward high-volume traffic. The counter personnel always barked quickly, “What d'ya have, what d'ya have?!” and slammed the counter impatiently if the customers so much as hesitated to place their orders. This, of course, was nothing compared to the treatment in store if the patrons didn't have their money out and ready to give. This was true if the restaurant was packed with over a thousand or just a scattered half dozen. The Varsity's brand of customer relations reduced some to tears, but it added character to the place, and the food was delicious in its own greasy, artery-clogging way.

Hound Dog rolled up the ramp to the restaurant's parking structure, cut the engine, and dismounted. She could already smell those onion rings.

After getting her food, she held the red tray, glancing around for a place to sit. There were several large rooms,
each of which had a TV blaring. She spotted a group of five scanner geeks sitting in the newer wing. Normally this would have prompted her to walk the other way. Tonight, however, was different. She headed toward them and took a seat at their table.

“You must really be bored if you're hanging out with us,” said Vince, a thin, spike-haired young man with wire-rimmed glasses.

Hound Dog shrugged. “Just as long as I don't have to listen to you guys whine about how little sex you're getting.”

Freddy, a portly man in his early forties, snickered. “What makes you think we're not getting our share?”

“If you guys were getting laid, you wouldn't be out doing this every night.”

Freddy leered at her. “So I guess that means
you're
hard up.”

She shook her head. “No, I get plenty, and I
still
do this. Which means I'm sicker than any of you.”

She took a sip from her Frosted Orange as she pulled the newspaper photo of Myth from her camera bag. She tossed it onto the table in the center of the group.

“Any of you guys shoot her before?”

The men passed the picture around, making various “hubba-hubba” and panting noises, reminding Hound Dog why they were called scanner geeks rather than scanner enthusiasts.

“Where did you get this?” the smallest of the guys asked. His name was Laszlo, and his preppy appearance contrasted with the others' grunge look.

“Sunday paper. She looks familiar to me. I thought one of you guys may have shown me her picture in your book.”

Freddy tossed a worn pocket-sized photo album on the table. “Speaking of which, I have something to show you guys.”

“You have her picture?” Hound Dog asked.

“No,” Freddy said. “But I have some awesome shots of that ambulance accident in Roswell the other night.”

Vince leaned excitedly toward Freddy. “
That
was a pile-up!” He turned toward the others. “Some guy had a fender-bender, minor injuries, and the ambulance was taking him to the emergency room. But then it jumps the median on Holcomb Bridge Road, and
wham
!” He clapped his hands for emphasis. “It hits the pole of a Burger King sign. Everybody's okay except the patient—he gets a broken back!”

Laszlo shook his head. “By the time he's through with the ambulance company, he'll be a millionaire.”

“What good is it if he can't move?” Freddy asked.

“Please,” Hound Dog persisted, trying to get back to the original subject. “I know I've seen this woman somewhere before. None of you have shot her?”

“Even if it were fifty million dollars, it wouldn't be worth it to you?” Laszlo asked.

“To be paralyzed for the rest of my life?” Freddy grimaced.

“Guys…” Hound Dog implored.

“Okay. What if it were just the waist down?”

“That's the best part!”

It was no use. Hound Dog took the photo back, picked up her tray, and moved to another room.

“Idiots,” she muttered.

Carlos Valez slumped against a brick wall facing the Inman Park apartment complex. He'd been there only a few days before, the night he kicked the shit out of that lie detector guy. Now he was back, sitting next to the Dumpster, smoking a joint he had found in his buddy Jesus's bathroom. He had been hiding out with Jesus since being thrown out of his father's house.

It had been a nasty scene between him and his father. When the lie detector test came back and he lost his job, his father yelled and slapped him around. Alicia and the baby can stay, the old man said, but you're outta here.

Carlos got him back. He beat the hell out of him.

Stupid old man reported him to the police.

Maybe Ms. Benton had reported him too. She was the manager who fired him from the custodial staff at the Packard Hills Shopping Center. Carlos exploded when she gave him the news. Didn't that bitch see what she was doing to him? He pushed her desk over, pulled the phone cord between his hands, and advanced on her. Scared her shitless. But after she cried and begged him to leave her alone, he ran out of the office. She wasn't worth the trouble.

Carlos glanced around the parking lot. He didn't think he would come back here. One visit had accomplished all he set out to do. He wanted to scare the lie detector guy, make him hurt, and keep him looking over his shoulder for a few days. But now Carlos wanted more. This guy had screwed him over, and he should pay. How? Carlos wrestled with that one for a while, but at about two in the morning he decided Ken Parker should die.

He played with his long razor, flipping it open and closed. He would take one clean swipe at Parker's throat, and if he was lucky, his victim wouldn't make a sound.

Carlos had never killed a man before, but there was a tightness in his chest, a burning, and it would go away only when this guy was dead. He had to make it stop.

Afterward, he would detour to his father's house, where he'd pick up his son. He knew it was risky, since his wife would report him. Maybe he would tie her up to buy himself some time. Or maybe he would waste her too. She deserved it for believing that lie detector over his word.

He sat still as a young couple stepped outside one of the buildings. The girl was going home, and they stood next to her car, kissing and tonguing each other for a while. Carlos didn't have a watch, but he figured it must be almost three
A
.
M
. Maybe Parker was staying with a girlfriend that night.

Carlos considered giving it up, until he heard the distinctive roar of an MG as it turned into the lot. It was him!
Carlos watched as the examiner pulled into his space and killed the engine. But the couple was still out there. He couldn't risk it. Not yet.

Parker bounded quickly up his stairs, climbing toward his apartment.

Apartment 332, Carlos remembered. It was in the phone book.

He waited another few minutes until the couple finally surrendered their lip lock. The girl drove away, and her boyfriend ambled to his apartment.

Carlos squinted into the darkness. He thought he saw someone several yards away, slinking in the shadows. He struggled to focus. It was no one.

He wished he hadn't smoked the whole joint.

He moved quietly toward the stairs and started the long climb. Only a couple of the landings actually had bulbs lit, so most of the journey was cloaked in darkness. He stopped.

There was a sound.

A footstep.

A rustling.

He couldn't tell if it was above or below him. He climbed a few more steps and listened. Nothing.

He continued up to the third floor, stepping on each stair on tiptoe. Once he reached the top, he glanced over the railing at the parking lot below. It was deserted. He walked toward Ken's apartment, swinging open the blade on his razor.

His face was hot and his mouth went dry.

He didn't want to do this anymore, but he knew he'd hate himself later if he wimped out.

He could break the door open by throwing his weight against it, but he'd have to work fast. Parker would probably be in his bedroom.

If only he had been able to nail him in the parking lot…

Carlos stood still, letting his body adjust to the sudden surge of adrenaline. His head was pounding in time with his heart.

He heard the rustling again.

It was behind him.

He turned just in time to see a glint of steel and the sight of his own blood spurting on his killer's face.

Carlos was dead before he hit the ground.

L
ieutenant Thomas Gant loved his sleep. He worshiped it. His wife, Diane, was a music teacher at the Sprayberry School for the Performing Arts, and she knew better than to wake him when she began her morning routine. Sometimes Gant stirred when she kissed him good-bye, but usually he didn't achieve consciousness until his clock radio blared at seven-thirty
A
.
M
., always in the middle of a commercial.

This morning it was an ad for tires. Gant punched the off button and rolled out of bed. He flipped on the TV and shuffled past the full-length mirror his wife had cruelly placed on the closet door.

Gant was a stocky man of forty-six, and though his dark red hair was giving way to traces of gray, his paunch was covered with fiery red fur.

He brushed his teeth as he gazed wistfully at Katie Couric. The phone rang. Gant continued to watch Katie as he answered it.

“Hello.”

“Good morning, Gant.” It was John Burke, the captain of his precinct. “I hear the TV. How does your heartthrob look today?”

“Al Roker's wearing a blue blazer and striped tie. He looks damn good.”

Burke chuckled. “I need you to make a stop on your way
in. Some garbagemen found a body in a Dumpster. Looks fresh: 1067 Sycamore Creek Drive.”

Gant jotted down the address. “I.D.?”

“Yeah. His name was Carlos Valez. His father had sworn out a warrant for him a couple of days ago. Assault and battery.”

“Think maybe his old man whacked him?”

“Doubtful. He's still in the hospital.”

Gant walked across the apartment complex's blacktop parking lot, approaching one of the many hundreds of crime scenes he had investigated in his twenty-five years on the force. He had been with the Atlanta P.D. since his days as a rookie beat cop. He liked his job and planned to stay through the rest of his professional life. More and more of his colleagues were deserting the force for positions with private investigation and security firms, but Gant had no interest in that. If he had been truly interested in money, he wouldn't have become a cop in the first place. As a homicide detective, he felt he was an advocate, a representative for a constituency that had few champions.

The dead.

Bereaved families all too often were quick to retreat into their grief, chalking up the death of their loved ones to unexplained random violence. And while such crimes were on the upswing, the vast majority were still committed by persons known to the victim.
ORDER OUT OF CHAOS
read a stenciled black-on-white sign tacked to a bulletin board near Gant's desk. That was as apt a description of his job as he had ever heard.

“Hi, Gant. How's it going?” Hound Dog raised her camera.

Gant smiled. Most cops despised scanner geeks, but he had a soft spot for Hound Dog. The year before, she rescued two children who had been kidnapped by a satanic cult. Her photo of a tire tread led her to their location even though a special police task force had turned up nothing.
This did not endear her to the force, however. Cops were furious that the high-profile case was cracked by a scanner geek, and they resented Hound Dog's presence at their crime scenes more than ever. She snapped a picture of Gant as he walked toward her.

“Don't you have enough pictures of me yet, Hound Dog?”

She shrugged. “I want to shoot up the end of the roll before I go in to work.”

“I'm flattered.”

What kind of job could she do after staying out all night? Gant wondered.

He approached the uniformed officers who were taking statements from two sanitation workers. The garbagemen were not happy.

The larger of the two men was practically shouting at the officers. “Goddammit, we got a route to finish! We've been here an hour. You got our addresses. Can't you talk to us later?”

“It won't be much longer,” Gant assured him, knowing it probably would be. “How did you find him?”

The other man spoke. “We hooked the Dumpster, and the lift took it up. I was watching it. When Charles started to dump it, I saw the body tumble down. We fished him out of the truck ourselves.”

Gant walked over to the body, which was covered by a painter's tarp. He lifted the covering and peeked underneath. The corpse was a mess. Besides the stains of dog shit, coffee grounds, and fruit rinds, the face was broken and bloodied, and a large puncture wound in the chest had dyed the white T-shirt with a crimson shield.

One of the uniformed officers stepped closer. “Messed up pretty bad. Stabbed, then maybe run over by a car?”

Gant shook his head. “Not run over. Looks more like a fall.” He glanced at the four stairways situated around the parking lot. “Then he was dragged over here.”

“Right.” It was obvious from the officer's tone that he did not have the slightest idea how Gant arrived at his conclusion.

“Look at the shoes.”

Gant lifted the tarp higher to show the victim's tennis shoes. The backs of the heels were scuffed and colored a dirty yellow. Pollen.

“And it's all over the back of his jeans, down near his calves. It's obvious he was dragged. Whoever dragged him probably wasn't very strong. Or very tall.”

A clicking sound suddenly made Gant aware that Hound Dog was snapping pictures of the exposed body. Gant threw the tarp back over and shot a cold glance in the kid's direction.

He turned back to the officer. “Did you run the victim's record?”

“Yes, sir. He had an outstanding assault and battery warrant, and he had been convicted of one count of vandalism. He was a tagger, a graffiti artist. But that was over four years ago.”

“Okay, I need a door-to-door. See if anyone in the complex heard anything, saw anything. I'll have a photo transmitted. See if anyone here knew the guy.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gant turned from the scene and looked at the small crowd of onlookers gathering in the parking lot. Vultures. Why were they here when they could be home watching Katie Couric?

Sabini wondered about the food in prison. Couldn't be worse than this crap, he decided as he finished his chili burger and fries. Sitting there in a grease pit two blocks away from the motel where he'd been staying since being kicked out by his wife, he imagined what day-to-day life in prison would be like.

Sit-ups before breakfast, an hour of letter writing, a shift in the prison library, dinner, then maybe some TV in the evening.

Oh, and gang-rape in the shower before bed.

He couldn't go there. The weekend he had spent in the
city jail was bad enough. The D.A. had secured his arrest warrant late on a Friday afternoon, meaning that the bail hearing had to wait until Monday. It was intentional, Myth Daniels told him. The bastards hoped that a couple of days in the slammer would persuade him to cut a deal.

He didn't say a word to anyone the entire weekend.

And now, with the trial only a few weeks away, the pressure was killing him. He
had
to pass the polygraph test. Maybe then this hell would be over.

He couldn't wait to see his kid. God, he missed Jeremy.

Sabini threw a few bucks on the table and left the restaurant. As he walked to his car, a black Porsche cut in front of him.

Herbert Decker climbed out. “How are you, Burton?”

It was the first time Sabini had seen his old boss since the arrest. The Vikkers president's thin lips were contorted in a smile.

Sabini stepped around Decker's car. “Excuse me.”

“What's the rush?”

“My attorney wouldn't want me to speak to you.”

“After all that's happened, I think I'm entitled.”

“Your right to talk to me ended when you involved the police.”

“We can help each other.”

“I doubt that.”

“We just want our money back. Give it to us and we'll square things away. We'll take another look at the books and say, ‘What's this?
Here's
the twelve million!' Your reputation will be unsullied, and you'll be free to work for another company to rip off.”

“Sounds like a good deal, if I had the money.”

Redness spread from Decker's face to his ears. “What if I make you a better deal? What if you kept a few hundred thousand for yourself? As sort of a bonus.”

“
Now
you want to give me a bonus.”

“We always treated you fairly.”

Sabini looked at Decker's Porsche. “Tell me, did you buy this car before or after the merger?”

“That's what all this is about, isn't it? The merger?”

“What makes you say that? The fact that twenty-eight-year-old sales managers became instant millionaires, and all I got was a handshake?”

“Stock options were part of their deal. Their guaranteed salary was lower than yours.”

Sabini nodded. “That's what I keep telling myself. But for some reason, it doesn't make me feel better. I wish it did, Herb.”

Decker was losing the battle with his temper. “You pathetic little prick.”

Sabini managed a smile. “This trial will be over before it even begins. You don't have the proof. And you never will.”

“Just wait and see,” Decker said. “Wait and see.”

The forty thousand was almost as good as his.

Ken sat in his office, studying the graphs from Sabini's most recent sessions. His client's progress was amazing. The breathing was flawless and the pulse rate was stabilizing. Even the perspiration levels were evening out. Much of this, Ken knew, was due to the demystification effect that had been noted in the studies. As soon as the interviewee becomes comfortable with the polygraph and aware of its limitations, the device's effectiveness diminishes.

Beyond that, Sabini was an apt and willing pupil. He remembered everything and applied his lessons immediately. On the rare occasions he made a mistake, he softly apologized, then proceeded to correct himself. Ken couldn't have hoped for a better student.

Sabini didn't even get rattled when Ken told him about the Reid seat, a chair that was designed to detect the pucker. Not many examiners used one, but if Sabini was asked to sit in such a chair, he was ready to utilize his most powerful weapon against the polygraph.

His mind.

“Psych yourself,” Ken told him. “It's one sure way to beat every sensor they strap to you. When you sit down, you have to
know
you've done nothing wrong. Find a spot on the wall, look at it, and don't look away. Believe what you say. Sit there and tell me you're the pope, and the machine will believe it if you do. You've never done a thing wrong in your life. Anything you got, you earned. Believe it.
Know it.
”

Sabini believed. And bit by bit, so did the polygraph.

They usually took a short break around midnight, and Sabini always talked about his son. The kid's batting average. The songs he could play on his trumpet. The nonstop calls from his little girlfriends. It occurred to Ken that he should have been bored by the stories, but Sabini's enthusiasm touched him.

Ken's thoughts were interrupted by a sharp rap at his door. He threw down the graphs, stood, and opened it. The first thing he saw was a silver badge.

“Ken Parker?”

“Yes?”

“I'm Lieutenant Thomas Gant. Atlanta P.D. Can we talk?”

Ken felt his own sphincter tighten.

“Sure. Come in.”

Gant stepped into the office.

What the hell could he want? Had he found out about Sabini's training sessions?

“How can I help you?” Ken said.

Gant handed him a photograph. “How do you know this guy?”

Ken looked at the photo. “I gave him a test last week. His name is Carlos Valez.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Saturday night. He didn't like how his test came out, so he and a buddy came by and worked me over pretty good.”

“Is that where you got those bruises?”

Ken felt his cheek, which was still a pale shade of
magenta. “Yeah. Why are you asking me this? I'm really not interested in pressing charges.”

“I'm glad to hear it, because he's dead.”

Ken stared blankly at Gant. He tried to understand what he had just heard. Carlos Valez. Dead. “How?” he asked.

“Murdered at your apartment complex. Early this morning. I'm surprised you didn't see us there.”

“I saw the police cars. But there's a couple in the complex who fight a lot. I figured the lady beat up her husband again.”

Gant smiled. “We have four witnesses who saw your Saturday-night fight from their apartment windows. Two of them identified Carlos Valez from his picture. Apparently your parking lot is pretty well lit.”

“People were
watching
? Nice of them to give me a hand.”

“What happened?”

“I told you. He disagreed with his test results.” Ken gave his full account of the exam, the outcome, and the confrontation that followed. The words tumbled out, occasionally sticking in his dry mouth. Was this really happening?

“So you saw him only two times,” Gant said. “Once when you gave him the exam, once when he roughed you up.”

“That's right.”

“Why didn't you report him to the police?”

“I didn't think it was worth it. The guy lost his job because of me. He was upset. I just wanted to forget the whole thing.”

Gant stared at him for what seemed like an hour. “Is there any reason why he would have been at your complex last night?”

“None that I know of.”

“Look, we're pretty sure he was killed near the stairwell just down the hall from your apartment. We found traces of blood, his type, on the walkway. We figure he was stabbed, pushed over the railing to the parking lot two stories below, then dragged to the Dumpster.”

Christ, Ken thought. The cop suspected him of murder.

“The guy had it in for you,” Gant said. “Let's just say he came back to your building and attacked you again. You guys rumbled a little bit, maybe you picked up a few extra bruises, and in the end, he gets stabbed. He's dead. You didn't mean to do it, but you were scared. You panicked. You pushed him over the railing and stuffed him in the Dumpster.”