storm drain. If they advertised at all it was after the Japanese movie between the midnight party line and Wazoo Waterbeds. Someone had a TV set tuned to a manic local talk show, entertaining himself between customers. Someone else, similarly unencumbered, yawned bitterly, squeaked his desk chair, and yawned again. Behind Barlow Gregg’s door a hunt-and-pecker plucked without enthusiasm at a manual keyboard, polishing a tort or writing a letter to the landlord in lieu of that month’s rent while his secretary was out filing a claim against her employer for back wages. A story in back of every lettered window, a little tragedy with all the raw dramatic power of a notice under Situations Wanted. An office whose shadow haunted the nightmares of slipping account executives and middle-aging vice presidents with young sharks working just below them. A roof and four walls between the occupant and the line where they gave out surplus food. Chapter Eleven and a Half.
The number I wanted was part of a two-room suite, intended originally as an office and a reception room, one to let the public in, the other to let the busy executive out in case he didn’t like the looks of the public. Now they belonged to two separate businesses. The door on the private office, a corner room, read ANTOINETTE’S ACADEMY OF MASSAGE. The other announced itself as the portal to TRANS-GLOBAL INVESTIGATIONS, painted in an impressive arch with “Herbert S. Pingree, President” closing it off in smaller letters at the bottom. Inside the arch, straddling a gridded globe, was a pair of stylized eyes, twice as many as Pinkerton’s. They seemed to be looking down the hall for bill collectors.
I raised my fist to knock, stopped. On the other side of the door something shattered that was made of glass. It was followed by a noise I was more familiar with than I wanted to be, a kind of crumpling thud coupled with a grunt.
I was heeled that morning. I drew the Smith & Wesson and held it barrel high as I twisted the doorknob, leaning my weight on it so it wouldn’t rattle. It rotated without resistance and I went in with the door, bringing the revolver down and my other hand up off the knob to support my wrist, just like on the range. That gave me the drop on an uninhabited office.
It was half again deeper than a closet, but not much wider: If you stretched your arms out sideways you could almost touch both side walls. They had been painted recently, a deep forest green to cover the inevitable mustard yellow. The dark color made the room seem even smaller. A crisp new investigator’s license hung next to the door in a drugstore frame. Behind an imitation woodgrain desk, a window with its shade drawn halfway down looked out on a laundromat and a speedy printer’s. An old-fashioned water cooler burped in a corner and I almost shot it. There was a good walnut four-shelf bookcase stuffed with yellow law books and a set of blue numbered volumes on forensic science that I recognized. I received a flyer a couple of times a year asking me to subscribe to the series; they threw in the one on fingerprinting free when you placed your order. It looked like Herbert had a complete set.
A curved shard of thick transparent glass winked at me from under the window, between the edge of the beige rug and the baseboard. It belonged to a tumbler. The hand that had held it — or maybe it wasn’t the hand — was clutching the edge of the desk on the far side. The nails looked gnawed. I stepped closer.
He was down on one knee, wedged between the chair and the desk, with his other leg stretched out inside the kneehole. He had on the same green-and-yellow jacket or one like it. There couldn’t be another one like it. Holstering the .38, I went around the desk and eased back the chair. Herbert S. Pingree unfolded himself and sagged onto his back on the floor. As I bent over him, I heard the rattle and wheeze of the elevator down the hall. I straightened quickly, taking the gun
The number I wanted was part of a two-room suite, intended originally as an office and a reception room, one to let the public in, the other to let the busy executive out in case he didn’t like the looks of the public. Now they belonged to two separate businesses. The door on the private office, a corner room, read ANTOINETTE’S ACADEMY OF MASSAGE. The other announced itself as the portal to TRANS-GLOBAL INVESTIGATIONS, painted in an impressive arch with “Herbert S. Pingree, President” closing it off in smaller letters at the bottom. Inside the arch, straddling a gridded globe, was a pair of stylized eyes, twice as many as Pinkerton’s. They seemed to be looking down the hall for bill collectors.
I raised my fist to knock, stopped. On the other side of the door something shattered that was made of glass. It was followed by a noise I was more familiar with than I wanted to be, a kind of crumpling thud coupled with a grunt.
I was heeled that morning. I drew the Smith & Wesson and held it barrel high as I twisted the doorknob, leaning my weight on it so it wouldn’t rattle. It rotated without resistance and I went in with the door, bringing the revolver down and my other hand up off the knob to support my wrist, just like on the range. That gave me the drop on an uninhabited office.
It was half again deeper than a closet, but not much wider: If you stretched your arms out sideways you could almost touch both side walls. They had been painted recently, a deep forest green to cover the inevitable mustard yellow. The dark color made the room seem even smaller. A crisp new investigator’s license hung next to the door in a drugstore frame. Behind an imitation woodgrain desk, a window with its shade drawn halfway down looked out on a laundromat and a speedy printer’s. An old-fashioned water cooler burped in a corner and I almost shot it. There was a good walnut four-shelf bookcase stuffed with yellow law books and a set of blue numbered volumes on forensic science that I recognized. I received a flyer a couple of times a year asking me to subscribe to the series; they threw in the one on fingerprinting free when you placed your order. It looked like Herbert had a complete set.
A curved shard of thick transparent glass winked at me from under the window, between the edge of the beige rug and the baseboard. It belonged to a tumbler. The hand that had held it — or maybe it wasn’t the hand — was clutching the edge of the desk on the far side. The nails looked gnawed. I stepped closer.
He was down on one knee, wedged between the chair and the desk, with his other leg stretched out inside the kneehole. He had on the same green-and-yellow jacket or one like it. There couldn’t be another one like it. Holstering the .38, I went around the desk and eased back the chair. Herbert S. Pingree unfolded himself and sagged onto his back on the floor. As I bent over him, I heard the rattle and wheeze of the elevator down the hall. I straightened quickly, taking the gun
Similar Books
