Prime Witness by Steve Martini

ass.
    “What do you think?” I’m talking to Claude, a little under my breath as I wander toward him in a corner of the room.
    “I think our guy’s on a trip, that he’s not coming back,” he says.
    I wrinkle an eyebrow.
    “State Department informed us earlier today that he holds two passports, one Soviet,” he says, “issued before the collapse, the other Russian, issued by the current government. First thing we looked for. They’ve now gone through all the drawers, his closets, what clothing is left. The passports aren’t here.”
    Except for trace evidence which they won’t know until they examine the little filters under a microscope back at the lab, Sellig informs me that they haven’t found much.
    Henderson has caught up with us, huffing and puffing from the stairs. He wants to know what instructions to give the officers out on the perimeter, the people whose assignment it is to watch for the Russian.
    “Keep ’em in place until oh six hundred,” says Claude. “Then cut ’em free. It’s a long shot anyway.”
    “Do we know if he might be driving another vehicle?” Claude’s asking the plainclothes detective beside him.
    “I don’t know.”
    “Well, check DMV.” There’s an edge to Claude’s voice, like this is something somebody should have thought of earlier.
    Emil picks up on this. “Sonofabitch,” he says. “Why wasn’t that done?”
    “See if he has another vehicle registered besides the van,” says Claude. “If he does, circulate the license numbers, especially to the guys on the perimeter.”
    “I want that done now. Immediately,” says Emil. There’s a lot of cheerleading going on here.
    “I want us to see him before he sees us,” says Claude. “If he wanders back home I want him picked up quickly and quietly.”
    “Damn right,” says Emil. “We don’t need some fucking gun battle on the street with civilians in the middle or hostages taken.”
    I don’t say anything, but my senses tell me this is not likely to happen. Investigators who checked with Iganovich’s employer, Ajax Security, have told us that he has not shown up for work in two days. Notwithstanding the prudent actions of Claude Dusalt to cover our presence here, I think Mr. Iganovich is on the lam.
    Henderson turns, sees a phone mounted on the wall behind me. “Can I use this?” He is a big man, and out of shape. Anything to avoid one more jaunt up and down these stairs.
    Claude has wandered off, in another direction. Emil looks at one of the county evidence techs. Sellig is in the bathroom working through a mirrored cabinet over the sink. The tech shrugs his shoulders. “We’ve already dusted it,” the guy says.
    “Sure, go ahead,” says Emil.
    I glance at it for an instant before Henderson can reach for the receiver on the wall, and something catches my eye.
    “Hold on a second.”
    Henderson looks at me.
    “In a dive like this I would think he’d have a rotary dial,” I say.
    Emil looks at the phone. “You can buy that model at Costco for $39.95,” he says.
    “You’re right,” I tell him. But when Henderson reaches for it again I grab his wrist. I have a little micro-cassette recorder in my pocket, smaller than a pack of cigarettes, which I carry for quick dictation outside the office. I take this out.
    “Let’s keep the noise down, please. Cool it with the little vacuum.” Suddenly the place has gone dead. Sellig is out of the bathroom to see what is happening.
    Claude looks at me. I have a single finger to my lips, like I’m hushing a child.
    Emil is looking at me, wondering if I’ve slipped over the edge.
    I click on the little recorder.
    “Paul Madriani, July twenty-third. The time,” I look at my watch, “is seven forty-three P.M. We are in the apartment of the suspect, Andre Iganovich.”
    I press the pause button on the recorder, pluck the receiver from the phone. But instead of dialing, I punch a single button, centered among others at the bottom of the phone. I hold