Deadly Justice

10

AN HOUR LATER, LIEUTENANT Mike Morelli trudged up the stairs to the twentieth floor.

“I can’t believe these elevators are out of order!” he bellowed. “Every goddamn one of them!”

“Sorry,” Ben said.

“Do you have any idea how long it takes to climb twenty flights of stairs?”

“It’s good for you. Gets you back in shape. I’ve been noticing your expanding midriff.”

“We can’t all maintain your Ichabod Crane-like physique.”

“If you’re really hot, why don’t you take off that silly overcoat?”

“Can’t. It’s part of the image.” Mike gasped for air, then leaned against the wall for support. “Ben, my men have scoured this building. Every floor, the stairwell, the basement, every conceivable nook and cranny. They’ve found no corpse.”

“Then they need to start all over again.”

“They will. Nonetheless, it’s unlikely they overlooked something the size of a corpse. You can’t exactly tuck that away in a desk drawer.”

“I didn’t imagine this, Mike. Neither did Rob.”

“Okay. Then you tell me. Where could the body be?”

“I have no idea.”

“Who could have taken it?”

“I’m similarly clueless.”

“How could anyone move a heavy corpse off the twentieth floor in just a few minutes when the elevators are out of order?”

“Beats me.”

“You’re a hell of a lot of help, Ben. Who else was in the building when you found the body?”

Ben thought for a moment. “To my knowledge, only myself, Rob Fielder, Herb, and Candice.”

“The last two say they left immediately after your…encounter with them. What about your buddy Rob?”

“Rob has been with me all day long, and we only came upstairs about an hour ago. We were together until we found Howard, and we were only separated for about three or four minutes after we found his body. I called you, and Rob called security. At least, that’s what he told me.”

Mike nodded. “I checked. He did call the security desk downstairs. Left a message on their answering machine.”

“Anybody who works in this building could’ve stayed late. Just because I didn’t see them doesn’t mean they weren’t here. Have you got a list of all persons who signed out after eleven P.M.?”

“We’re working on it. I saw those overweight babysitters you call security guards though. Someone could’ve slipped by them without signing, particularly if it was someone the guards recognized.”

“I’ve seen them wave people through myself,” Ben said.

“Even assuming someone could’ve relocated the body in the few minutes you were gone, which is difficult to believe in and of itself, where could they have gone with it? Especially with the elevators out of whack. I don’t think they could’ve moved the stiff off this floor, much less out of the building.”

“Have you checked for other exits? Maybe some secret, executives-only passageways. Or maybe the windows?”

“I’ll ask people tomorrow about secret passageways, but it strikes me as rather unlikely. The windows are all, without exception, hermetically sealed. Any other suggestions?”

Ben pressed his fingers against his temples and tried to remember every second of the past hour. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself with Rob, walking toward his office, opening the door, seeing the body fall….

He snapped his fingers. “There was something in Hamel’s hand. It fell out when he hit the floor. I couldn’t tell what it was.”

“Whatever it was, it’s not there now. What did it look like?”

Ben tried to recall. “It was square and flat. Not large. About the size of the palm of his hand.”

“And you didn’t look at it more closely?”

“I was a bit stressed out at the time, Mike. I apologize for not performing the Sherlock Holmes routine to perfection.”

Mike grunted. “Well, if you think of something more, let me know.”

“Of course. What’s your plan of attack?”

Mike twisted his shoulders, sending ripples through his overcoat. “I’m not sure I have a plan, Ben.”

“Isn’t that what they teach in crime school?”

“Ben, you have no idea what my schedule is like right now….”

“You’re not going to let this drop!”

“Ben, I’m a homicide investigator. There’s no proof so far that there’s been a homicide! Or even a death!”

“You have my testimony.”

“I need more. To be specific, I need a body.”

“That’s just a technicality. You don’t absolutely have to have a body to initiate a murder investigation.”

“But it sure facilitates matters. The D.A. would appreciate it, too.” He shoved his hands deeply into his coat pockets. “Have you been keeping up with the murders of the teenage girls?”

Ben nodded grimly. “Three murders in less than two weeks.”

“Yeah. Grisly, too—heads and hands cut off. Apparently a serial killer with a serious grudge against teenage girls. First bona fide serial killer we’ve ever had.”

“What’s your point, Mike?”

“My point is that every available resource in the department, including me, has been diverted to these murders, and given the magnitude of the crimes, rightfully so. How much interest do you think I’m going to be able to stir up for your alleged murder with no corpse?”

Ben didn’t like what he was hearing, but he knew Mike was right. “Any recommendations?”

“You could look into this matter yourself. Do some checking on your own. You’ve done it before, and not altogether unsuccessfully. If you can uncover more information, or better yet a corpse, maybe I can pull some men off the serial killer case and put them on this one.”

“Where would I start?”

“You need to find out everything you can about the victim. When he doesn’t show up for work tomorrow, people are going to start talking. Listen to what they say. Find out whatever you can about your new colleagues. Given where the body was found, the guilty party may be an Apollo employee.”

Ben hated to become the company mole. It seemed like a betrayal—only two days on the job, and already he was going to be investigating his co-workers, possibly trying to incriminate them. “I’ll see what I can do. Mike—thanks for coming out.”

“No problem. If you see your sister any time soon, put in a good word for me.”

“I could try, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“Alas, ’tis only too true. Before I go, Ben—mind if I ask a question?”

“Ask away.”

“What the hell are you doing working for this big corporation?”

“I don’t under—”

“I thought you got this money-grubbing routine out of your system during the Raven, Tucker & Tubb fiasco.”

“I hardly think that was typical—”

“Have you read much Samuel Clemens—Mark Twain?”

“You’re the English major, not me.”

“Do you know the story of Tennessee gold?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s something Twain’s father talked about when Twain was young. He was always dreaming of easy wealth. Some of his get-rich-quick schemes involved land speculation—Tennessee gold. He never found any gold, but that desire for instant security infected Twain for the rest of his life. Even after he became a successful writer and was relatively secure financially, he continued to pursue the dream. He invested in an unperfected typesetting machine. It was supposed to revolutionize the publishing industry and make him rich beyond his wildest imagining.

“But there were development problems, complications, demands for additional start-up cash. To make a long story short, the machine drained Twain dry. And it bombed, never made a cent. Instead of being reasonably well-off, suddenly Twain was penniless. To pay off his debts, he went on the road, taking on a nightmarish schedule of speaking engagements—and this was late in his life and during a time when travel was not easy. He wrote a flurry of books of dubious quality. He did almost anything he could for money. He eventually got back on his feet financially, but it embittered him, cost him his health, estranged him from his family, and possibly contributed to the death of his wife and two daughters.” Mike’s eyebrows bounced up and down. “Get the message?”

Ben pursed his lips. “I suppose in your subtle lit-crit way, you’re suggesting that I’m chasing after Tennessee gold.”

“Yup. And I think you got it the same place Twain did. From your father.”

“Really? Christina attributed this career decision to my mother.”

“That’s possible, too.”

“Better stick with the detective work, pal. As a shrink, you stink.”

“Says you. Anyway, try to get some sleep tonight. Snuggle with your cat. Forget about the nasty world of serial killers and corpses that tumble into your arms.”

“Thanks.” Ben felt another chill creeping down his spine. “But I doubt it.”