Death on a High Floor by Charles Rosenberg Page A

pale.
    The direct line on my desk rang before I could pick up the phone to dial. It was Stewart Broder.
    “Hi, Robert, how are you?”
    “I’ve been better .” It was so hard not to mimic his speech pattern.
    “Yeah, well, that makes sense. Listen, I know who did it.”
    “You do?” A lead. The first one maybe. Of course, one had to consider the source. “Well, tell me.” I could feel my heart racing.
    “I don’t want to do it in the office .”
    “Call me at home, then?”
    “Not on the phone , either.”
    “Okay. Just name a place.”
    “Meet me at the DownUnder at 7:30 tomorrow morning .”
    “I’ll be there,” I said.
    “They’ve got that great breakfast with beer, you know . ”
    I refrained from saying yuck. “I remember, Stewart. I’ll see you there.”
    After I hung up, I thought about whether I should actually go. What the hell. I’d go, but I wouldn’t put too much stock in it. I also realized that I had become way too tired to return Peter Penosco’s call. Tomorrow morning would have to do.
    Then I remembered the e-mail I’d shoved in my pocket earlier. I took it out and read it. It was from Stewart, confirming our meeting at the DownUnder . Which was odd, because he had sent it before we talked. But then Stewart was an odd fellow.
    I had almost forgotten that Jenna was still there, until she spoke up.
    “Who was that?” she asked. “On the phone.”
    “Stewart Broder.”
    “There’s a weird man. What did he want?”
    “He says he knows who did it.”
    “Yeah, right.”
    “You never know. Maybe he does. I’m going to see him tomorrow morning and find out.”
    “Well, good luck,” she said. “Maybe when your meeting is over you can go out to his house and visit his talking parrot—the one who quotes Macbeth. Anyway, I’m feeling better. But I’m not up to driving. Will you take me home?”
    “Sure. Where are you . . .” Then I remembered.
    “I’m living at your house, remember?”
    “Right. Do you think it’s a good idea for the Blob to see us together as we leave?”
    “They’ve already seen us together. I just want to get out of here. But I’m in no shape to drive.”
    “You could always take the bus.”
    “Oh, Robert.” She smiled that very nice smile of hers. The smile and the “Oh Robert” seemed somehow to sum it up. We were going to be in this together. For better or for worse.
    On the way down to B-Level in the elevator, I again thought about confronting Jenna with what Harry had told me about Simon wanting to dump her, but decided it wasn’t a good time. After all, she was sick. And, perhaps even more importantly, I didn’t think I could take any more news right then, good or bad.
    When we drove out of the garage, the Blob was still there, hovering by the exit. But we varied our routine. This time Jenna gave them the thumbs up sign. We both laughed uproariously. Odd what tension will make funny.
     
     

CHAPTER 11
     
    When I went to bed that night, I set my alarm for 6:00 a.m. I needn’t have bothered. I was wide awake by 5:30 a.m. When I drove out of my garage an hour later, the sun had not yet risen. During the night the Blob had shrunk to a boom mike lying on the ground, a camera, its attendant camera guy, and a reporter in a red parka. I think the two humans were asleep until the sound of the garage door woke them. I waved as I went by. I don’t think they managed to get any footage.
    The DownUnder has a sign that says SINCE 1975 . In other words, since the year after I got to M&M. I recall going to the Grand Opening on New Year’s Eve that year. Even then it had seemed grotty. The place is down a rather dank set of steps, set below ground in what must once have been a basement. The decor is a grain-mismatched knotty pine, of the type found in suburban rec rooms built in the fifties. The booths are emerald green leather of a particularly bright hue. The bar looks rescued from the set of an old gangster movie.
    Stewart was sitting in one of