heard it ring . Koshi had called him the previous night. He punched the speed dial number and listened to it ring.
“You alive?” Koshi asked by way of greeting.
“Yup. I just crashed hard and missed your call,” Michael explained. “Sorry.”
“Write this down,” Koshi responded, and gave him an e-mail address, login and password. “Use it to communicate until the fire drill’s over.”
“Got it. Anything going on over there?” Michael asked.
“No black helicopters, if that’s what you mean,” Koshi deadpanned.
“Good to hear,” Michael reflected before going on to explain about his pulling in some favors to check on Abe’s death.
“Keep me in the loop when you hear something,” Koshi reminded him.
Michael promised to let him know as soon as he talked to Ken, and they agreed to stay in contact via e-mail at least twice that day – once at three o’clock, and once more at the end of the evening.
There were two coffee shops on the block, indistinguishable from each other, so he chose the nearest one and slid into a vacant red vinyl-clad booth. He ordered, then called Ken, who promised he’d have more information later in the day – they were still waiting for feedback from the lab. He assured Michael he’d call as soon as he knew anything.
Samantha wasn’t in yet, so he left a voice mail and the voice-over-IP phone number.
Michael slouched restlessly, fidgeting with his cell, unable to sit still. He’d only been awake an hour, and nervous energy already had him bouncing off the walls.
The waitress delivered his food; the coronary special – three eggs, pancakes, sausage, hash browns. Michael resolved to cut himself off after two cups of coffee. The last thing he needed was to add caffeine jitters to his growing impatience. He plowed through the meal like he’d just been released from prison and broke his commitment to stop the coffee. They were small cups, he reasoned, so three were only about the same as one and a half of his usual.
Back in the apartment, he reviewed the prior evening’s notes and then picked up the remainder of the manuscript, determined to finish it. As he made it to the last few pages, he registered an e-mail address inserted seemingly by mistake in one of the endnotes. That had to be deliberate. Maybe the author had put a contact point in that would only be noticed if Abe really read the entire thing and digested every word.
It was worth a shot.
Michael sat down at his laptop and logged into his newly created e-mail.
He had one message, from Koshi: [The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.]
That was Koshi for you. Mister sunshine. Michael fired back an e-mail so Koshi knew things were working: [Daddy drinks because you cry.]
He was interrupted by the jarring ring of the voice-over-IP phone.
“Michael, what do you know about the stiff you had me check on?” Ken launched, skipping pleasantries.
“I told you – why…what did you find?” Michael’s stomach lurched even as he asked. He’d known Ken a long time, so he knew what was coming next. Or at least, he thought he did.
“All right. Here’s the scoop. The ME confirmed death was caused by a massive myocardial infarction. But he also found very subtle bruising on the lower back. Judging by the amount of subcutaneous clotting, his preliminary assessment is that your boy sustained a blow there immediately before he croaked,” Ken reported.
“Like someone rabbit-punched him in the kidneys…” Michael thought out loud.
“And it was the shock of being slammed that gave him the heart attack. That’s where the coroner went with it as well. The corpse had several dislocated fingers and a pretty messed up face, but that looks like it happened when he hit the floor. But it was the blow that started it all. So we’re changing this to a 187,” Ken finished.
“Shit.” Michael didn’t have anything to say beyond the expletive.
“I’ll second that. We’re going back and getting CSI to do
“You alive?” Koshi asked by way of greeting.
“Yup. I just crashed hard and missed your call,” Michael explained. “Sorry.”
“Write this down,” Koshi responded, and gave him an e-mail address, login and password. “Use it to communicate until the fire drill’s over.”
“Got it. Anything going on over there?” Michael asked.
“No black helicopters, if that’s what you mean,” Koshi deadpanned.
“Good to hear,” Michael reflected before going on to explain about his pulling in some favors to check on Abe’s death.
“Keep me in the loop when you hear something,” Koshi reminded him.
Michael promised to let him know as soon as he talked to Ken, and they agreed to stay in contact via e-mail at least twice that day – once at three o’clock, and once more at the end of the evening.
There were two coffee shops on the block, indistinguishable from each other, so he chose the nearest one and slid into a vacant red vinyl-clad booth. He ordered, then called Ken, who promised he’d have more information later in the day – they were still waiting for feedback from the lab. He assured Michael he’d call as soon as he knew anything.
Samantha wasn’t in yet, so he left a voice mail and the voice-over-IP phone number.
Michael slouched restlessly, fidgeting with his cell, unable to sit still. He’d only been awake an hour, and nervous energy already had him bouncing off the walls.
The waitress delivered his food; the coronary special – three eggs, pancakes, sausage, hash browns. Michael resolved to cut himself off after two cups of coffee. The last thing he needed was to add caffeine jitters to his growing impatience. He plowed through the meal like he’d just been released from prison and broke his commitment to stop the coffee. They were small cups, he reasoned, so three were only about the same as one and a half of his usual.
Back in the apartment, he reviewed the prior evening’s notes and then picked up the remainder of the manuscript, determined to finish it. As he made it to the last few pages, he registered an e-mail address inserted seemingly by mistake in one of the endnotes. That had to be deliberate. Maybe the author had put a contact point in that would only be noticed if Abe really read the entire thing and digested every word.
It was worth a shot.
Michael sat down at his laptop and logged into his newly created e-mail.
He had one message, from Koshi: [The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.]
That was Koshi for you. Mister sunshine. Michael fired back an e-mail so Koshi knew things were working: [Daddy drinks because you cry.]
He was interrupted by the jarring ring of the voice-over-IP phone.
“Michael, what do you know about the stiff you had me check on?” Ken launched, skipping pleasantries.
“I told you – why…what did you find?” Michael’s stomach lurched even as he asked. He’d known Ken a long time, so he knew what was coming next. Or at least, he thought he did.
“All right. Here’s the scoop. The ME confirmed death was caused by a massive myocardial infarction. But he also found very subtle bruising on the lower back. Judging by the amount of subcutaneous clotting, his preliminary assessment is that your boy sustained a blow there immediately before he croaked,” Ken reported.
“Like someone rabbit-punched him in the kidneys…” Michael thought out loud.
“And it was the shock of being slammed that gave him the heart attack. That’s where the coroner went with it as well. The corpse had several dislocated fingers and a pretty messed up face, but that looks like it happened when he hit the floor. But it was the blow that started it all. So we’re changing this to a 187,” Ken finished.
“Shit.” Michael didn’t have anything to say beyond the expletive.
“I’ll second that. We’re going back and getting CSI to do
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