The Pandora Directive: A Tex Murphy Novel (11 page)

Her lips curved into a small, revealing perfect, white teeth. She cocked her head slightly. It was very appealing. “Why should I? Don’t most women treated that way when they first meet you?”

“Well, yeah. Usually. When they do show any interest, and generally too stunned to do anything about it.”

She gave me a sceptical, sideways glance. “I seriously doubt that.”

“It’s true.”

Ms Madsen raise my glass. “Is that bourbon?”

“it was certainly is. Would you like some?”

“I would.”

Finding a clean glass turned out to be more difficult than I’d figured. For a moment, I was afraid I have to resort to washing one. When I returned, Ms Madsen had taken off her coat and laid it across the other chair. A sleeveless grey dress exposed slender, toned arms. A return to my chair, poured a small glass of bourbon, and handed it to her. She swirled it around and lifted it in my direction.

“cheers.”

She drank half the bourbon and didn’t blink. I was impressed.

“So tell me, and his medicine, what brings you to my little den of iniquity?”

A look of seductive coyness flashed across the young woman’s face, replaced almost instantaneously by a more pleasant, polite expression. The signals coming from her were almost contradictory, as if her instinctive nature was assertive in sensual, but a conscious nature struggled at with cool detachment.

“Please call me Regan.”

“Okay. But then you have to call me Tex.”

She gave me a sideways look. “That’s not your real name. What is it?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“try me.”

“Sorry. I have to get to know some pretty thoroughly before a come clean on that one.”

“Well, then, maybe you should get in any pretty thoroughly.” he was the essential thing again. She took another sip of bourbon. Maybe I’ll have one of those Lucky strikes after all.” I took one out and handed it over. Instead of taking it from me the way people normally do, she put her hand over mine and then down to take a cigarette between her lips. Her handling of momentarily on my unsteady fingers. I lit a match and reached across the desk. Regan during, the end of the cigarette blazing. A focused on her long, slender fingers holding a cigarette as I leaned back and lit a smoke of my him. Regan leaned forward, folding her arms over her crossed legs. “D you have the box?”

The question may have been the last one was expecting. And looked her over and decided she was bluffing. “What box with that be?”

“You know what am talking about.”

“do not.”

Begin leaned back and smoked a cigarette the way only a woman can. Her clear eyes locked on to mine and wouldn’t let go. Eventually, she blinked first, it made me happy. She on crossed her legs and slid toward the front of her seat. The lower half of her face moved into the lamplight. Her lips were perfect.

“I like to play games, Tex. It makes things more interesting. I think you do, too.” her gaze drifted down to my mind. “Was your angle, Tex? Unwilling to bargain.”

She was good at this. She’d obviously bargained before. Unless I missed my guess, she was probably accustomed to getting what she wanted. Every damn time. Maybe a be the first man had ever said no to her. Maybe.

“I don’t have an angle, and his medicine. My business is my own. They don’t have a partner, and I don’t like small talk. You’re beautiful woman, but that doesn’t change anything as far as I’m concerned.”

She moved back, out for the like. It was a tactical retreat. The first assault had failed — time to fall back and regroup. And reached for another Lucky and lit it up. It tasted especially good.

The second assault began. “I have a proposition.”

There was no harm in hearing her out. She was making my eyes feel better, and she smelled good. I could sit here all night, listen to Classic Jazz, polish of the bourbon, and enjoy the company of a stunning woman.

“I saw you get dumped out front. Looked like an NSA speeder. I’m guessing that they are looking for the same box I am, and that’s why they invited you in for a chat.”

Either she was a very good guesser, or she had me at a disadvantage. I decided not respond.

“Since I’m talking to you, I would assume that either you gave them the box, or told them you could get it.”

I was suddenly uncomfortable. She was too close to the truth to be bluffing. Maybe she and I needed to reach an understanding. “How do you know about the box?”

Regan smiled and wagged her finger. “I’d have to get to know someone pretty thoroughly before I come clean on that one.”

I smiled back. “Well, then, maybe you should get to know me pretty thoroughly.”

Regan bit her bottom lip gently. “Unfortunately, I don’t think we have enough time.”

“So what’s your proposition?”

Her face turned serious. “I’m not sure how much you know. What do you know about Malloy?”

I wasn’t sure whether I should answer. Maybe this woman was NSA. Maybe this whole conversation was just a more pleasant repeat of the one I’d had in Jackson Cross’s office. “Malloy? Sounds vaguely familiar, but I’ve never been do with names.”

“Well, I’ll just assume that you know little about him. He recently sent out a number of packages like the one I think you’ve got. The NSA was closing in on him, and he panicked. He split up a lot of information and sent a portion in each of the boxes. I don’t think anyone knows exactly how many boxes there are, but whoever finds them all stands to make an ungodly amount of money.”

“Where does that leave Malloy?”

“He’s a dead man. If the NSA hasn’t got him yet, someone else will. Right now, it’s a race to see who can get all the data he dispersed and reassemble it.”

“You still haven’t made your proposition.”

Regan leaned toward me, excitedly. “I already have one of the boxes. Give me the one you’ve got, and I’ll cut you in on the deal. If you can help me locate the others, we’ll have more money than you’ve ever imagined. That’s my proposition, plain and simple.”

There was no such thing as more money than I could imagine. But my instincts told me that the whole thing sounded cockeyed — not to mention illegal. More importantly, I had absolutely no reason to believe that I could trust this woman. Despite my reservations, I was intrigued.

Regan reached for her coat and stood up. “You’ll probably want some time to think this over.” She fished out a card and jotted something down on it.

“Call me at this number when you’re ready to talk. Like I told you, I already have one of the boxes. If it will help, I’ll show you mine first. You can show me yours later.” She turned and walked to the door. As she opened it, she turned back. “Don’t lose the number, Tex. I think we’d make a perfect fit.”

Then she was gone. I needed a cold shower before I could think about anything constructive.

The brown-paper wrapper was nondescript. He could have come from any of a thousand supply stores in the Bay Area. I examined the lettering on the package. Malloy had used a a black felt-tip marker. There was nothing unusual or useful in the writing. I went over the wrapper with a magnifying glass, but found nothing distinctive. The only thing left to check was the postmark. It had been lasered on with a meter gun. The mailing cost was $14.90. The date displayed in the centre of the postmark circle was April 12th, 2043. Three days ago. Around the inside of the circle, it read City of San Francisco. I hoped that the package would have been sent from a more localised source.

I flipped on my computer and ran a check on post offices in the city. There were 59 of them. I wasn’t going to get anywhere this rate. The postmark had a code under the eagle symbol: PB METER 38874121. Tracing the meter number to the correct post office would at least give me a starting point. Unfortunately, with 59 locations to check, I didn’t have enough time to investigate every one.

I lit a smoke and tried to come up with a clever solution. nothing occurred to me until I looked toward the floor and saw an envelope lying face-up in the mess. I dropped to my knees, the cigarette dangling from the corner of my mouth. Crawling slowly across the floor, I examined every postmarked if envelope I could find, searching for one with a PB METER code of 38874121.

Most of the envelopes were junk mail, tattooed with a bulk mail bar code. At last, I found a letter with the correct meter code. It was from a former client. As luck would have it, he hadn’t put his return address on the envelope — it was no help. I kept searching. I’d almost reached the end of the room when I finally found another letter with a matching postmark. It was a bill from a storage unit I’d rented a few years back, in the Mission District.

A hundred years ago, in Sam Spade’s San Francisco, the Mission District was a rough part of town. 50 years ago, God-fearing folk stayed out of the area unless they were armed to the teeth. Now, even the police had stopped visiting. I landed my speeder at the TLC Storage warehouse. A teenage punk was working the counter, in the loosest sense of the word. I reintroduced myself to Ahmad, the gold toothed proprietor, he was in an office behind the counter area. After politely enquiring as to the price of various storage units, I casually asked where I would find the nearest post office. Eager-to-please a prospective renter, Ahmad gave me directions, as well as a price list, a calendar, and a hearty handshake.

The Post Office was in the buffer zone that surrounded the neighbourhood. Hookers, pimps, and pushers were going about their business, but less colourful types were also out and about. The area around the USPS building was primarily residential, though there was a neighbourhood market and a couple of flesh shops.

I noticed an apparently paraplegic black man seated by the front door to the Post Office. “Evening.”

“You got that right. Can you spare a fin?”

I ignored the request momentarily and pulled out my pack of cigarettes. The man’s eyes drifted toward the smokes.

“You want one of these?”

The man nodded and held out his hand. I handed him one, took one for myself, then did the honours. He held the baby lucky as if it were the stem of a crystal wine glass. Then he inhaled deeply. I waited for the smoke to come back out; it didn’t. I squatted down beside him.

“You spend a lot of time here?”

“Why? You want the spot?”

I didn’t think I looked that bad. Hell, I had a tie on. “No, I was just wondering if you’d been here most of the time during the past three days.”

The man took another one-way track of his cigarette. “Well, let me think. I get so busy, I lose track of the days… yeah, I’ve been here for at least three days.”

I pulled a twenty out of my pocket and fondled it discreetly. “I’m looking for a friend of mine. Came here three or four days ago and mailed some packages. You think you’d remember his face?”

The man looked at the bill I was holding. “For twenty bucks, I can remember anything you want.”

“Look, I’ll give you the cash even if you don’t recognise my friend’s face. I just need to know if he came by here.” I showed him the picture of Malloy. His face brightened up.

“Sure, I’ve seen this guy. Old man. Moved real slow. Left me a ten-spot.”

“Do you remember, did he come on the bus, or in a speeder?”

“No, I remember him ‘cause I know most everyone in the vicinity. He caught my eye on account that I haven’t seen him before. He was walking.”

Which way did he come from?”

The man pointed. “Came from there, and that’s the way he went when he left.”

“Great. One last question. You know of any boarding houses in the area?”

“What kind you looking for?”

“Oh… something half-decent, but not too pricey. A fairly safe place, where I could lie low for awhile. Preferably in the direction my friend came from.”

The man considered for a minute. “Go up Valencia Street. They got three or four places like that up around there. Maybe a quarter mile, half mile from here.”

I thanked him and left him another smoke for later, along with the double sawbuck. He seemed much obliged.

My gut told me that Malloy was close. It was a great area for anyone who didn’t want to be found. I parked my speeder on the corner of Valencia and 20th streets and proceeded to canvass the dark street on foot. A quarter mile made a huge difference. Most of the houses along Rose Street were old but cared for. There were no blatantly visible signs of illegal activity. Everyone I saw seemed concerned only with coming or going as quickly as possible.

The street was full of boarding houses. I realised I had no plan of action. A one-man stake out would be practically impossible, since I didn’t know which boarding-house Malloy was in and wasn’t even sure I was on the right block. The only way I was going to find my man was through old fashioned pavement pounding.

The typical boarding house has a sitting room, where typical boarders gather to read, watch TV, and get to know the surrogate family members. It’s one of the two characteristics that elevate boarding houses a notch above residential hotels. The other, of course, is good home-cooked meals. Damn, I was hungry again.

It was a slow and exhausting process. At each boarding-house, I entered the sitting room with an air of confidence and nonchalance that none but the most sceptical would question. The sitting rooms were generally located on the ground floor, near the front door. There were, however, exceptions, and I occasionally found myself walking into the odd bedroom or broom closet.

By and large, though, my canvassing went smoothly. In nearly every sitting room, I was able to identify a talker, a lonely looking man or woman, usually older, who was eager to chat. I would start the conversational ball rolling with a comment on the weather, then sit back and listen politely. Once I’d opened the floodgates, I’d casually bring up the subject of the boarding house and ask about the current tenants. If I wasn’t careful, I’d unleash a torrent of gossip, guesses as to a certain borders seamy past, and a detailed description of the floozy Mr So and So had in his room the other night.

After a few minutes, I’d casually produce a photo of Malloy and ask if the talker had seen him or knew if he was staying at the house. The talker would stare intently at picture, hem and haw, then say no, I don’t think so, but he certainly reminds me of my Uncle Somebody or Other, who blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. The most difficult part of the process was politely extracting myself.