The Book of 21 (23 page)

Chapter 27:
Reaching Out

At the small click of the door latch, Harry jolted awake and swung his revolver to meet the intruder. The fraction of a second it took him to focus on the figure in the doorway seemed like an eternity that left him vulnerable. Just as he started to squeeze the trigger, everything came into focus, and he recognized George Pew from computer forensics.

Nature was not particularly generous when it created George Pew. He was about five and a half feet tall. Atop his head, he bore a jet-black mane of unruly locks, which he attempted to control by using excessive amounts of hair gel. Below his plasticized hair and semi-permanently cocked eyebrow, George wore glasses with thick lenses. Acne scars pitted his face. While his wrinkled baby-blue dress shirt and khakis presented a semi-acceptable facade of professionalism, George countered that by wearing black running sneakers. This footwear, he believed, looked enough like shoes to fool the unwary nincompoops in management that he dealt with on a daily basis. His general lack of beauty, coupled with a lack of style, presented the perfect storm of homeliness.

The two things that really defined George, however, eluded the naked eye.

The first was his case of diverticulitis, which caused bouts of acute, and explosive, diarrhea. This condition was aggravated by his diet, which consisted of various candies, cheese curls, and bean burritos. George habitually coated the burritos with hot sauce and consumed them in a hasty manner while he sat in a room lit only by the cathode ray tube in front of him.

The second thing was the homophonic connection that people constantly drew between this physical condition and his unfortunate last name. This unkindness affected George in numerous ways, which included an intense hatred of puns and a defensive snippiness.

George twisted his head, pursed his lips, and jeered, “Bad night, Harry?”

“You could say that.” Harry glanced at his watch. He knew George came in early, but never really fathomed it. “Jesus, it’s seven in the morning.”

Lifting the manila folder in his hand, George returned, “Rust never sleeps, buddy. Here’s the report about that professor’s hard drive. It’s just like you expected; the file was deleted, but I have it.”

Harry laid the revolver on the desk, rubbed his face, and sighed, “How did you do that so fast?”

“Eh, I took the copy of Dunglison’s drive home, popped on some tunes, and,” George made a gesture like he was air-typing, then continued, “did my magic.” George crossed the room and tossed the report toward Harry’s desk. After spiraling in the air, the report landed directly in front of Harry. George plopped himself down on the desk and smiled.

Harry smiled back, while making a mental note that he should eventually use some ammonia to wipe down the area in which George sat.

“Nice work, George.”

“Thanks,” he replied. George dug in his pocket and produced a small box of lemon candies. Tilting his head back, he dumped about half the box in his mouth. “So what’s up with the gun?” George asked through a mouthful of half-chewed sweets.

“Not much,” Harry moaned. His mind quickly pondered whether George might ease his intestinal suffering by simply not filling himself with sugar and hot sauce.

The sound of Harry’s cell phone echoed through the room. He dug the phone out of his pocket and checked the display. After flipping the phone open, he raised it to his ear.

“Hello? Hello?” Kim’s voice emanated from the earpiece.

“Kim? Are you okay?”

“I’m driving along Interstate Eighty in the middle of nowhere—in nothing but a nightshirt. What do you think?”

“Come again?”

“Listen, Harry, I was almost raped and murdered. Some guy was waiting for me in my apartment when I got home. They hauled me out in the middle of nowhere. From the way the guy was talking, it sounds like somebody wants to stop John before he finds something. I can’t reach him.” There was a slight pause, then, with a shaky voice, she continued, “They were going to kill me, Harry.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.” There was a long pause on the phone. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. They changed my autopsy report, Harry. He told me they left a note on my desk that said I quit. He was going to make it look like I was killed in a random attack on the way back to Wisconsin.”

“Well,” Harry sighed, “all the evidence I collected yesterday is missing. John called me last night and told me to watch my back.”

“I tried to call him just now—no answer. He could be dead already.” Kim paused, and then after a second, said, “John’s boss—his lieutenant—John always said he would trust him with his life, he had to tell his lieutenant about this.”

“No good,” Harry said, closing his eyes. “Lieutenant Murphy was killed last night. Right after that, the replacement called John in and suspended him.”

Harry heard only the drone of Kim’s Sentra.

In a split second, Harry’s mind bounced through the available facts in its typical pinball fashion. If Kim’s experience and John’s absence meant what he thought they did, things were getting physical. He and George were trained to sift evidence, not counter physical attacks; he needed help. Running through last night’s call, and then the earlier call from the morgue, he knew that John seemed to think Fanelli and Moore were trustworthy, since they were the ones pointing out the inconsistencies instead of trying to explain them. He knew whom he had to call.

“Kim, how far away are you?”

“About two hours, maybe three.”

“I’ll call you back.”

As Harry hung up, he looked up at George, who was still sitting on the desk, and said, “Hang around. I have some work for you.”

“Cool,” George murmured through a fresh mouthful of candy.

Harry logged into his computer and looked up a phone number in the online directory. He flipped open his cell and dialed.

After four rings the phone clicked, and Fanelli growled across the line, “Who the hell is this?”

Chapter 28:
A Visit to Ben

John sat on the sidewalk across the street from Shalby’s townhouse. The disguise was working perfectly. People avoided looking at his homeless visage, and if someone did, he fixed that by merely extending a hand and starting to mumble.

Even though he was only wearing a disguise, the constant aversion of their eyes made him feel embarrassed and ashamed of his situation. He would remember that look and try not to be the one behind it in the future. The mixture of pity and disgust in each glance, cut through to his soul.

John had planned on simply breaking into Shalby’s place, but Shalby had labeled the windows of the townhouse with stickers that read “Protected by Diamond Security.” This put a damper on the idea of picking locks or breaking windows.

Even so, the way into the row home was quickly discernible; Shalby had the paper delivered every morning, and it was still on the stoop. If Shalby came out to get the paper, John was banking on the idea that Ben would not go to the bother of rearming the system when he went back in; few people did. He would just walk up to the door and make his way inside after Shalby failed to reset the alarm.

There was, however, at least one problem with this plan; Shalby could simply pick up the paper on the way to work. At this point, John resolved that he would just run that risk. If that was the case, John would simply trail Shalby, pull the fat boy into some dark alley, and rough him up there instead of in the comfort of his own home.

As he sat, John scratched at the crawling sensation against his skin. The disguise was a bit too authentic. He was convinced he would need to be de-loused after this, and considered whether it was possible to fumigate a person.

Across the street, Shalby’s door opened. The pudgy detective stepped out on the doorstep in a baby-blue bathrobe and black dress sock ensemble. Shalby picked up his paper, looked at the bum sitting on the curb across the street, shook his head in disgust, and went back inside.

John limped across the street and up to Shalby’s door. Before he tried to pick any locks, he decided to test the path of least resistance. He found the knob turned easily, and the door popped open. John slipped inside and started to close the door, but when it was half-closed, the door let out a creak.

“Hello?” Shalby barked from the kitchen.

The hall extended straight back to the kitchen. Through a doorway to the right, was Shalby’s living room. A staircase extended upward along the left side of the hall. John left the front door open, hobbled quietly onto the stairs, and lay down.

Seconds later, Shalby walked past him to the open door, shook his head, and mumbled, “Damn door.” He closed it and turned around. His jaw dropped as soon as he saw John lying on the stairs, pointing a gun at him.

After a second, Shalby greeted John with the words, “You look like shit.”

John cocked the Beretta. “We have a lot to talk about, Ben.”

“What?”

In a desire to get Shalby away from an easy egress, John motioned toward the living room with the Beretta. “Let’s go.” He stood up, and limped into the living room behind Shalby.

The living room was as John remembered it from his single previous visit. To the left of the doorway was an avocado green sofa. The sofa was topped by an afghan knitted in various shades of brown and peach. To the right, was a chair whose color matched the putrid avocado of the sofa. An old, black, finger-crank phone sat on a small mahogany table next to the chair. An old Zenith CRT television topped a white microwave cart across the room in the far right corner, which was only about ten or twelve feet away. Based on the room’s general feel, John assumed the next addition to the décor would be clear plastic slipcovers. He wondered whether Shalby’s mother decorated the place.

Shalby moved to the center of the room, then turned around and asked, “John, what the fuck is going on?”

“How many times did you meet with Dunglison?”

“Who the fuck is Dunglison?”

“You
know
who I mean—the corpse on the call you missed yesterday.”

“I never met with Dunglison.”

John chuckled, “Don’t fuck with me, Ben. I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I’m pissed. Better yet, I have phone records that tell me he called you.”

“He called me? Bullshit.”

“Something sure stinks, Ben, and it ain’t just my coat.”

Shalby shook his head. “John, somebody is screwing with you.”

“What an
outstanding
fucking assessment, Ben. If you don’t make detective of the year, it’s a fucking shame.”

“OK, look, let’s go down to the Roundhouse and lay out everything you have. We’ll be able to figure this out. Running around scared, like this, is stupid.”

John sighed and rubbed his head. Shalby was making sense—it was the smart thing to do. If he laid all the evidence out and used all the manpower of the department, they might be able to figure this out and make some progress. There was a glitch with going in, though; any dirty cop would find John fast. He wondered whether that was entirely bad. Perhaps he should just go down to the station and lay it out for them—maybe then it would be over.

If it was, though, he still had the feeling his career as a cop would be over too. He doubted anyone messing with the files would restore his personnel record to the sparkling state in which they found it. Going in meant giving up in more ways than one, and he was not ready to give up just yet.

Shalby prodded again, “Come on, John, let’s go downtown get this out in the open.”

John’s head ached, and the pain in his ankle was getting worse. The walk over to Shalby’s place had been excruciating. He needed to sit. Easing some of the pain might let him think more clearly. He sidestepped toward the chair, relieved by the simple thought that he would soon be able to take the weight off his aching ankle.

As he lifted the book that Shalby had left on the seat, he wondered what kind of raunchy novel Shalby would be reading in this gaudy little room. He always thought Shalby looked like a reader of either erotica, or possibly Mickey Spillane. The cover of the book held the words, “
A Bedtime Detective Story
by Erving Fullman.”

“I wish you hadn’t done that, John,” Shalby said.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Erv,” John chuckled. He looked over at Shalby and heaved a deep sigh, then shook his head.

Shalby stared at him.

John took a step away from the chair, into the open room, and tossed the novel back to its original resting place. “Now, start talking to me, fuckface.”

“Yeah, right,” Shalby laughed.

“Ben, I’m tired.” He took a deep breath, and snarled, “I’m not fucking around here anymore. You start talking or so help me I’ll cap you right now.”

“Go ahead.”

Shalby was calling his bluff. John took a step forward and jammed the muzzle of the Beretta against Ben’s forehead hard enough to evoke a wince and a trickle of blood.

“Start talking, Ben, or the next item hitting your forehead won’t stop at your fucking skull.” John took a deep breath and tried to calm down. “What group is it, Ben? The Manaseura? The Brethren of the Rocks? I don’t have time for this, and I’m not going to leave you standing around to kill me later, so you better start
fucking talking
.”

“The Brethren?” Shalby laughed. “You know less than I thought. These people make the Brethren look like choirboys. You want me to tell you about them?” Shalby shook his head. “No, no fucking way. Look at what they did to you, and you don’t know jack shit. You think I want that? Go ahead and cap me. I’ll take what I know to the grave before I give it up. It’s better to be dead than spending the rest of your life eating garbage out of a can and being afraid of getting gutted.”

“OK,” John sighed, “now let’s go to the Roundhouse.”

Shalby raised his open palms and looked bewildered. “For what? What do you have? Oh, that’s right, you have a note from a dead man that some bum swiped off you yesterday. That would be great to look at if you, well,
fucking had it
. What else? Oh, you have a detective novel that anybody can buy at any book store, with a name that some dead man said some other guy used in some non-existent note.” He chuckled, “Sounds
awful
shaky.”