The Pandora Directive: A Tex Murphy Novel (6 page)

“But why would the Feds want to kill Kettler?”

“Maybe Ketter was a fall guy. I could just be a sucker for a conspiracy story, or the real killer could have been a policeman, or someone in the government. Maybe the government had a reason for getting rid of the victims. I’ve been following that angle, seeing if there’s any connection between the victims. On the other hand, maybe Kettler was the Killer, but for some reason the Feds didn’t want the case resolved. I don’t know. Regardless, there was a cover-up.”

“Mac Malden said that another victim turned up around here. How does that fit into the picture?”

“It doesn’t. The girl was a grad student at Berkeley. According to her family, she didn’t receive any of the notes associated with the other murders. Her mother is sure that she would have said something. The night she was killed, she wasn’t acting nervous or cautious. The next morning, she was found dead in her bedroom, strangled. A note was found in a desk drawer in the bedroom. As soon as the SFPD found the note, the Feds showed up and took over.”

As Pernell described the events surrounding the most recent murder, a tingling went down my spine. Unless my intuition was way off, the case was beginning to resemble a spider web. Threads, seemingly unrelated, were coming together toward an as yet an unknown axis. Fitzpatrick had told me about a girl from a nearby university. A girl who disappeared. My disbelief in coincidences had never been stronger.

“The girl… was her name Sandra?”

Pernell drain the rest of his burden. “Yeah. Collins. Sandra Collins.”

He got up from the table and excused himself. My mind was racing. What was the common denominator between Fitzpatrick, Malloy, Kettler, and this young woman, Sandra Collins? There were too few details, too many implications. I lit a cigarette. It helped, though it didn’t seem to have instant answers.

“Are you Mr Murphy?”

“Yes?”

The which has picked up the bourbon glasses and white down the table.

“Phone call for you. On the payphone… over there.”

Another noncoincidence. Someone was calling me on a payphone in a bar I’d never been in before.

“Murphy here.”

The voice was being fed through modulator. The video relay was off, of course. “Listen carefully, Mr Murphy. You’re on a very dangerous path. I want to see you reach the end of it, but there are many who would do anything to stop you. Even now, your name is reaching the ears of powerful people, people capable of removing all traces of your existence. If you fail, it will be as if you never lived a day on this earth. But there are more important things at stake than your life. Do you understand?”

I really didn’t, but I was just going along for the ride, and this guy was driving. “I’m pretty sure I do.”

“Good. In one hour and four minutes, you will be at 771 Santa Cena. There is a stairwell on the east side of the building. Go down two flights and wait by the red door. At exactly 2:45, You will hear a click. Open the door, enter, and close the door immediately. Move quickly to the third door on the left. Wait for another click, then enter the office. Check your watch. You will have exactly five minutes to search the office. There will be another click, and you will leave the office. The same thing will happen at the doorway you entered. Do you understand?”

I finished jotting down the information. “Yes. But what will happen if I don’t…”

Dial tone. I switched off the Vid-phone receiver. My PI instincts were napping on this one. Was it legitimate, or was I being set up? The mystery caller had known I was here and probably could have killed me, if he’d felt like it — but he hadn’t. That was encouraging… sort of. As much as I hated to, it seemed like the mystery caller would have to fall, provisionally, into the “Friends of Tex” category. I slipped my notebook back into my coat pocket and returned to Pernell. He’d ordered another round of bourbons, pulled out a notebook and pencil, and seemed ready to give me the third degree.

“I don’t suppose you’d tell me the name of your client.”

“Sorry. Confidential.”

“At least tell me the details of how you got the notes.”

“Wish I could. Unfortunately, it would violate my solemn PI oath.”

“How about letting me have the notes?”

I considered it. They probably weren’t going to help my investigation, but they were evidence. I wasn’t sure I should give them up. “What do you want them for?”

“Visual aids, man. This story has Pulitzer written all over it.”

“Tell you what. I’ll give you one of the notes in exchange any other information you come up with.”

“Deal.” Pernell pulled a business card from his jacket and handed it to me. “That number’s current. I know how to reach you.”

I took the card and handed over one of the notes. “I’ve got to get going. Is there anything else you think I should know?”

Pernell rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Your client is certainly in danger. She should have someone with her at all times.”

Either this guy wasn’t as bright as I thought, or I was a lot brighter than he thought. Like smart enough to tie my own shoes.

“Okay. Is there anything you know that I don’t and should know?”

“One more thing. When I was following the story in Nevada, I met a guy like you. PI. He asked a lot of questions. A week later, he had a tag on his toe. Suicide, I think.”

I threw a fifty on the table. “Thanks for the tip.”

The building complex at 771 Santa Cena was no different than a dozen others within a ten block radius. Nicely landscaped, on the plain side. Functional, not flashy. The sign on the front said it AUTOTECH. I found the stairwell on the east side and slipped quickly down the stairs. Outside the red door, I checked my watch. I was early… and nervous. Time for a Lucky.

I heard a parental voice in the back of my mind: do you do everything your friends tell you to? What if they’re all jumping off a cliff? I dropped the cigarette butt and crushed it under my shoe. The door clicked — I opened it and stepped inside. The interior was as sterile as a tyrant oppressor. Grey carpet, grey walls, grey fluorescent lights. No decorative touches inside. I pulled the door closed behind me and hurried toward the third door on the left. I was several paces away when I heard a faint clicking sound. They certainly weren’t leaving me any margin of error. I grabbed the door handle and pulled.

It was an office. I was a bit disappointed. I figured on something a little more, well, startling. I checked my watch. 2:46. Five minutes to search an entire office. Luck and speed. I was hoping for luck.

A computer sat on a desk; I flipped it on and began searching the desk as it booted. I tore open the drawers, rifling as fast as humanly possible. Probably hundreds of important documents, but nothing struck me as relevant to my search. I turned to the first of two tall filing cabinets, quickly checking the time. It was 2:47. I opened the top drawer and leafed through a batch of manilla folders. Photographs, autopsies, receipts. It all looked interesting, but again, nothing useful. I turned to the second filing cabinet. All the drawers were locked. 2:48. The wall was bare, except for a certificate bearing an unfamiliar insignia, and several photographs. I didn’t bother to inspect the certificate, I pulled the frame from the wall and checked the back. Nothing.

One of the photographs showed and middle aged man shaking hands with former President Linderman. I checked it and the other picture and came up empty. 2:49 — less than two minutes left. A waste bucket, bookshelf, and Rolodex turned up nothing obvious. The computer was asking for a password. There wasn’t enough time. 2:50. I swung my head around, scanning the office for something — anything. A laser disc player sat on a table in the corner. A stack of recordable laser discs was piled underneath. I inadvertently brushed against the small tower of discs, toppling them. Instinctively, I glanced over my shoulder to see if the clatter had attracted any attention. When I looked back at the dishevelled pile of discs, I spotted a tiny metal key lying on the floor.

I picked it up and rushed to the locked filing cabinet. 20 seconds left. I started at the top. No… no… no. I jammed the key into the bottom keyhole and turned it. Tumblers fell, and the locks surrendered. I grabbed the door handle and pulled. The interior of the draw was empty except for a small, antique tin with the Camel logo on the cover. I picked it up. Across the room, the door clicked.

Bolting to my feet, I lunged for the door. Cradling the tin, I hit the door with my shoulder; it opened. Like a half-back breaking through the line and heading for six, I spun to my right and raced down the hall. The door clicked a nanosecond before I hit it. I was on the stairs, running like a mad man. Despite the adrenalin rushing through my system, I was sucking air hard by the time I reached my speeder. God, I was out of shape.

The speeder lifted off, and I was screaming back toward the old city. I checked the radar display and decided that I wasn’t being followed. My breathing slowly returned to normal. The Camel tin lay innocuously in the passenger seat. Panic gripped me for a moment. What if I’d screwed up? Maybe the tin contained nothing but match books.

I sat at my desk, the Camel tin in front of me. My office was dark, except for the lamplight. The LCD flashed a “3” on my voice messaging unit. They would have to wait. I pushed my thumbs against the front edge of the tin lid. I felt like Charlie opening his Wonka bar. I lifted the lid. The tin was full of photographs.

I sorted through the pictures, holding one at a time under the lamp. Several of photos on top of the pile clearly showed Emily Sue Patterson in various stages of nudity, but most of the others showed nothing more than close-ups of Emily’s apartment interior. At the bottom of the tin were three photographs of a different young woman. Obviously taken without the subject’s knowledge, two of these pictures showed the girl in front of a large building, apparently on a college campus. The other photo showed her in what appeared to be her bedroom. Sandra Collins?

I examined the photographs of Emily closely. She certainly was a piece of work. God had probably taken the rest of the day off after making her. Good thing it was my job to inspect the pictures thoroughly. I scanned every square inch, then moved on to the other things in the pictures. Except for Emily, there was nothing unusual in the photographs. The shots of the empty apartment were definitely the room above the Fuchsia Flamingo. Where had these pictures been taken from? Finding the source seemed to be the next step.

I lit a smoke and stood at the window, looking down at Chandler Avenue. The pictures of Emily had been taken from a vantage point directly opposite the Flamingo. Rusty’s Fun House. I stared down at the vacant novelty shop. All the windows were dark, though the evil-leering Harlequins that adorned the store’s facade were lit up by a street light. An ancient water tower sat atop the building like a dunce cap. I followed the line starting at the Flamingo and passing through the water tower. The closest building behind Rusty’s was a good quarter mile distant. Technically, the shots could have been taken from the far building, but I doubted it. I needed to find a way up to the roof above Rusty’s. Chelsee’s newsstand was closed. It occurred to me that she might have left one of the messages on the answering machine back in my office. I’d forgotten to check them. The door to Rusty’s was locked, and a sign was posted: SFPD crime scene! Authorised personnel only!

It was just after 4:00 am and the street was still dark. I could hear Emily singing “Misty” inside the Fuchsia Flamingo, but there was no one out and about in the street. I stepped back and kicked the door, just under the lock. A white flash of excruciating pain shot up my leg — I’d caught my toe on the knob. I hopped around for a minute, running through a list creative expletives that would have made my grandpa proud. When the searing pain finally subsided to a dull ache, I tried again. This time shoulder first. The door gave way, and I burst inside.

I’d had the foresight to bring a flashlight. I turned it on and flashed it around the shop. Everything looked the same as the last time I’d been there, except for a strip of yellow barrier tape placed across the doorway into Rusty’s back room. A few months ago, I’d tipped Mac Malden off about the location of Rusty’s remains, which I’d discovered over the course of my last big case.

A two-bit crook named Mick Flemm had dumped Rusty, big shoes and all, into a barrel of toxic acid stashed in Rusty’s dark room. Naturally, Mac took all the credit for wrapping up the previously unsolved murder and parlayed it into a promotion. I didn’t care; my contact in the police force was higher up the ladder, and I was privy to better information.

Nothing had changed in the backroom either, except that the barrel of acid had been removed. I started a systematic search. There had to be a way up to the roof somewhere. Half-an-hour later, I found the entrance, on the wall opposite the front door, under a shelf full of rubber masks. The door was small, like an access panel to a crawl space. I pulled the panel off the wall and flashed a light into the hole. The room behind was pitch black. I set the flashlight on the other side, then squeezed through the opening.

I stood up slowly, moving the beam of light steadily around the interior. The room had odd dimensions, maybe eight feet wide and fifteen feet long. The space above me rose to the level of the roof, at least twenty feet. A few boxes lay strewn about the floor, empty or full of worthless looking novelty items. At the far end of the chamber, a metal ladder was bolted to the wall.

The ladder led to a trapdoor in the ceiling… rusty, naturally. I pushed it open and crawled out onto the roof. The lights of New San Francisco sparkled in the distance. The water tower stood exactly between me and the Fuchsia Flamingo. The tower was old and corroded. A rickety ladder led to a small door, high up on the side. A new looking, sturdy and who chain and large padlock were attached to the door handle. I suspected I’d found the stalker’s lair. It didn’t look like he was home, unless he was some sort of Houdini wannabe.

The padlock wasn’t coming off without a key, and I was fresh out of padlock keys. I decided to look for another way in. The reservoir of the water tower was suspended above the roof on four rusted support legs. It looked like a decrepit, metal shop version of an early lunar landing craft. I walked under the belly of the reservoir and scanned the surface. In the centre, I found what appeared to be an eroded panel. A small handle on the panel was just wide enough to wedge four fingers in. I hung onto the handle, pulling myself up and down. A sudden cracking sound made me hesitate. Either the panel was coming lose, or the handle was going to rip off. Putting all my weight back on the handle, I expected to drop painfully onto my knees at any moment. A few seconds later, the panel ripped open violently, showering me with rust confetti and decades-old dust.