connection.
The door hissed shut behind Will, and a fluorescent light blinked on, showing Will the narrow hallway leading further into the jet. Will walked down the passage and opened the door, revealing a couple rows of seats and then the pilot's seat. A private ASP jet, eh? Brownbarr knew how to do things in style.
"Well, well, it's Will Vullerman hisself. How you doih, my man?"
The pilot's seat swiveled around, revealing a West African man with white teeth and a broad smile.
"Immanuel!" Will grinned. "I haven't seen you since the American mission. How have you been doing?" Will shook hands with Immanuel and their fingers hooked together briefly, causing a snap.
"Thank God." Immanuel leaned back in his chair. "So, you bin busy?"
Will sat down in the front row and put on his seat-belt. "Yeah, I just finished a private mission for Director Brownbarr. His relatives were being threatened with insane phone calls."
Immanuel whistled. "A-men. You catch th' man?"
"Mhm. He turned out to be a cigar-smoking taxi driver. I caught him just last night, but Brownbarr ordered me back to HQ for debriefing."
"Hm, he in'a hurry, yeah?"
Will shrugged. "I don't know. He just seemed eager to debrief me."
Immanuel held up a finger. "We go'ring ta take off soon, so we kin talk later. Need ta concentrate'o flyin'."
"No problem."
************
Brownbarr entered the room and glanced at the bare concrete floor of the hotel room where, several days ago, the murder of an ASP agent had taken place. The concrete had been covered with a carpet, but Rolvo had told him that the carpeting had to be stripped because of the blood. The room didn't have much space, just enough for a bed and a desk. The bed looked slept in, on Brownbarr's left, and the desk was in the far right corner of the room. The walls had been painted brown.
Disinfectant. The room reeked off it. Sometimes hotel employees tried a little too hard.
"Not much to look at," Brownbarr said aloud. Mothinghotch came in behind him and nodded, tugging at his shirt nervously.
"Sir, I'm not much for, uh, murder and blood. I have a weak constitution, sir, and—"
Brownbarr glanced back at him. "Most of it's cleaned up, but if it bothers you, step outside."
Mothinghotch bobbed his head up and down. "Thanks, sir." He ducked out the door quickly.
Weak constitution indeed.
Brownbarr examined the room. Most everything had been left alone, except for the carpeting. He studied it for a long while, but he didn't find anything that would help clue him as to the murderer's identity. The only possibility was a similarity in the circumstances between the recent American murders and this one. But no one knew who the murderer was, or why he did it.
Brownbarr crouched down and examined the concrete. Nothing to see there. He glanced at the wall, and was about to stand up when he took a second look.
"Mothinghotch!" he shouted.
Mothinghotch popped into the room, glancing uneasily about. "Yes, sir?"
"You have better eyes than I do. What do you see on the wall, there?"
Mothinghotch peered down at the wall. "Not much, sir. Just something like a reddish stain that's been scrubbed away. Wonder how that—oh!" Mothinghotch gagged, cutting off his sentence.
"That's what I thought." Brownbarr glanced down at Mothinghotch in disgust. "Stand up straight, Mothinghotch. You can't expect to be in the ASP and not see blood every once in a while. Tilt your head, just so. What does the stain look like?"
"Uh...blood?"
Brownbarr resisted the urge to cuff the aide. "No, what does the shape of the stain remind you of?"
Mothinghotch squinted. "The letter A, sir."
"Exactly. That's the wall where Tarent died."
"Oh!" Mothinghotch straightened and backed away from the wall. "What...what does it mean, sir?"
"It means that Tarent must have been too weak to get his comm, so he crawled over to the wall and left a note in his blood. The murderer tried to clean it off so we wouldn't notice. It's hard to see unless you're
The door hissed shut behind Will, and a fluorescent light blinked on, showing Will the narrow hallway leading further into the jet. Will walked down the passage and opened the door, revealing a couple rows of seats and then the pilot's seat. A private ASP jet, eh? Brownbarr knew how to do things in style.
"Well, well, it's Will Vullerman hisself. How you doih, my man?"
The pilot's seat swiveled around, revealing a West African man with white teeth and a broad smile.
"Immanuel!" Will grinned. "I haven't seen you since the American mission. How have you been doing?" Will shook hands with Immanuel and their fingers hooked together briefly, causing a snap.
"Thank God." Immanuel leaned back in his chair. "So, you bin busy?"
Will sat down in the front row and put on his seat-belt. "Yeah, I just finished a private mission for Director Brownbarr. His relatives were being threatened with insane phone calls."
Immanuel whistled. "A-men. You catch th' man?"
"Mhm. He turned out to be a cigar-smoking taxi driver. I caught him just last night, but Brownbarr ordered me back to HQ for debriefing."
"Hm, he in'a hurry, yeah?"
Will shrugged. "I don't know. He just seemed eager to debrief me."
Immanuel held up a finger. "We go'ring ta take off soon, so we kin talk later. Need ta concentrate'o flyin'."
"No problem."
************
Brownbarr entered the room and glanced at the bare concrete floor of the hotel room where, several days ago, the murder of an ASP agent had taken place. The concrete had been covered with a carpet, but Rolvo had told him that the carpeting had to be stripped because of the blood. The room didn't have much space, just enough for a bed and a desk. The bed looked slept in, on Brownbarr's left, and the desk was in the far right corner of the room. The walls had been painted brown.
Disinfectant. The room reeked off it. Sometimes hotel employees tried a little too hard.
"Not much to look at," Brownbarr said aloud. Mothinghotch came in behind him and nodded, tugging at his shirt nervously.
"Sir, I'm not much for, uh, murder and blood. I have a weak constitution, sir, and—"
Brownbarr glanced back at him. "Most of it's cleaned up, but if it bothers you, step outside."
Mothinghotch bobbed his head up and down. "Thanks, sir." He ducked out the door quickly.
Weak constitution indeed.
Brownbarr examined the room. Most everything had been left alone, except for the carpeting. He studied it for a long while, but he didn't find anything that would help clue him as to the murderer's identity. The only possibility was a similarity in the circumstances between the recent American murders and this one. But no one knew who the murderer was, or why he did it.
Brownbarr crouched down and examined the concrete. Nothing to see there. He glanced at the wall, and was about to stand up when he took a second look.
"Mothinghotch!" he shouted.
Mothinghotch popped into the room, glancing uneasily about. "Yes, sir?"
"You have better eyes than I do. What do you see on the wall, there?"
Mothinghotch peered down at the wall. "Not much, sir. Just something like a reddish stain that's been scrubbed away. Wonder how that—oh!" Mothinghotch gagged, cutting off his sentence.
"That's what I thought." Brownbarr glanced down at Mothinghotch in disgust. "Stand up straight, Mothinghotch. You can't expect to be in the ASP and not see blood every once in a while. Tilt your head, just so. What does the stain look like?"
"Uh...blood?"
Brownbarr resisted the urge to cuff the aide. "No, what does the shape of the stain remind you of?"
Mothinghotch squinted. "The letter A, sir."
"Exactly. That's the wall where Tarent died."
"Oh!" Mothinghotch straightened and backed away from the wall. "What...what does it mean, sir?"
"It means that Tarent must have been too weak to get his comm, so he crawled over to the wall and left a note in his blood. The murderer tried to clean it off so we wouldn't notice. It's hard to see unless you're
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