Dillingham was breathing ever so slightly by now. He heard what he believed to be the sound of a Styrofoam cup being thrown into a trash receptacle. The sound of footsteps made by hard-soled shoes by a singular person came next. A momentary silence.
“Say, this your briefcase?” Maine said.
“Naw, I didn’t bring one with me.”
Some moments passed. Dillingham glanced around his chair and realized that his briefcase was not with him. He must have left it in the other room.
“Some initials on it,” Maine said. “MKD. Ring a bell?”
“Just leave it. Somebody will remember and come back,” Deep Voice said.
Dillingham listened as the sound of the footsteps increased. Then, silence.
He stood without the slightest noise and took one small step towards the door opening. He left his coffee cup and half-eaten bag of peanuts on the table.
“I’ll just get this briefcase and give it to that secretary,” a voice said. It was Maine coming back into the break room.
Dillingham froze. He was now close enough to see the man he had identified from the great state of Maine. Balding, late forties, and a good twenty pounds overweight. He was wearing a gray suit with a jacket that failed to meet in the front because of the twenty or so pounds that had lodged themselves around his stomach region.
“Do whatever you want,” Deep Voice said from some distance away.
Marvin Dillingham remained quietly motionless, unwilling to reveal himself to Maine and claim his briefcase.
Maine left the break room with the briefcase and never saw Marvin. Marvin began to breathe normally again. He waited a few seconds before moving.
Marvin entered the outer break room and moved quickly towards the entrance to the corridor. He looked carefully around the corner of the door in the direction of Mrs. Jones’ desk and work area. He knew her to be the closest secretary, as the man had said. Jones was the office manager, but some folks never got that memo when her title had changed some years back.
He watched from his concealed spot as Maine gave Mrs. Jones the briefcase.
“Any idea who this belongs to?” Maine said to Jones.
Dillingham watched as she examined the case. An awareness came over her, Dillingham noted, but she said nothing.
“Initials right there, sweetie. Recognize them?” Maine said condescendingly.
Dillingham watched her look up from the case and stare at Maine. Marvin thought that he detected a slight change in her demeanor at that point. He couldn’t be for sure. It seemed to Marvin that Betty Jones forced a smile for the man as she placed the briefcase on the floor beside her desk.
“I’ll see that it gets to the rightful owner,” she said in a sharp tone.
“Think you can figure that one out, sweetie?” Maine said in the same condescending tone.
“I’ll check the ledger of employees who frequent this building,” she said without forcing a smile this time.
“You do that, sweetie. Found it in the break room. Might be important.”
“Might be,” she said.
Dillingham watched Maine walk away. Deep Voice was long gone by this point. It was then that Dillingham noticed that Mrs. Jones was looking in his direction. He gave her a sheepish smile and cautiously approached her desk.
“Lose this, Mr. D?” she asked as she handed him his briefcase.
“I set it down in front of the coffee machine. You know me, got so involved in your sweet nectar that I completely lost track of, well … almost everything.”
Marvin smiled. She smiled back. Pity that Marvin Dillingham could not read her mind.
“Not used to you leaving your briefcase, even for the delights of my coffee,” she said as she focused on him over the top of her reading glasses. “Are you positive that everything is okay with you, Mr. D?”
“Not really, but I’m not sure what’s wrong exactly.”
“You feel okay?”
“Oh, it’s not me. It’s what I heard. Oh, and thanks for not telling that man this was my briefcase.”
“I’ve had this job long enough to know that one does not readily give away information in this city, especially to strangers.”
“So you didn’t know those two men?”
“Oh, I know them, but I don’t know them well enough to trust them by giving them your name, or pointing you out to them.”
“You know the name of the man who handed you my briefcase?”
“Only seen him around of late. He’s new to this building, certainly this floor. I believe he works in Operations Support for the east. I don’t know any more than that.”
“From Maine?” he said to verify his earlier observation.
“Good ear, Mr. D. I have found in my career that the few people I have known from Maine were generally good folks. This fellow is not one of them. A damned Yankee, if you ask me,” she said.
“How do you really feel, Mrs. Jones?” he said while chuckling at her.
“I don’t like being called sweetie.”
“At any rate, thanks for your discretion. Say, Betty,” he began with a more friendly salutation, “do you know anyone with a last name of Washington who might have done some clandestine work for those men?”
Betty Jones smiled at Marvin’s question.
“Kind of a ubiquitous name for this city, don’t you think?”
She was now standing behind her desk with her reading glasses securely on the bridge of her nose. She tilted her head slightly downward and peered at him over the top of spectacles. She waited momentarily before speaking.
Marvin shrugged and chuckled a little to himself at his own question.
“Where did you hear that name?” she said.
“I might have heard those two men talking about someone named Washington,” he said.
“You want to tell me more?”
“Might not be too safe if I told you what I just heard.”
She used her right hand to move her glasses closer to the tip of her nose. Betty Jones was now staring intently into Dillingham’s eyes. A mood of seriousness covered her face.
“You know you can trust me, Marvin,” she said in her less formal tone.
Dillingham nodded but said nothing.
“But you’re not going to share, are you?” she smiled at him.
“I think it would be safer, Mrs. Jones,” he said, returning to a more formal position.
Betty Jones took a small sheet of paper from her notepad and wrote a couple of lines. She folded it and handed it to him. Without reading her notes, he put it in the inside suit coat pocket as he looked around to see if anyone was watching.
“You be careful, Marvin Dillingham. I like having you come by for coffee.”
She would have said more but she knew that this was not the right occasion.
Dillingham turned and walked away from Mrs. Jones. She removed her reading glasses completely from her nose and watched Marvin Dillingham walk down the corridor to the elevators. She mumbled something to herself as she smiled after him. She couldn’t see it, but Dillingham was mumbling and smiling to himself as well.
1
I was lying comfortably in an old chair watching it rain. Once upon a time the chair had been blue when it lived in my childhood home in Clancyville, Virginia. It had belonged almost exclusively to my father, Bill Evans. I happened to be home on the occasion of my mother viciously cleaning out some of the old stuff, her words; the chair had been placed unceremoniously by the curb waiting for the monthly collection. I retrieved it, saved it from destruction, and shoved it into the back of my Jeep. Sometimes I can see my father sitting in it, reading the paper, or sleeping after a long, hard day. Sometimes I actually feel him when I’m sitting in it. It’s as close as I can get to him these days.
Sam was on the couch with his large head resting on the back of the couch staring out the window. The couch and the chair did not match. The faded blue of the chair had miles to go before it would come close to the faded brown of my ancient c
ouch. Both were comfortable, which happened to be a requisite for me. Sam didn’t mind the mismatched furniture, but did relish the soft, soothing qualities of both chair and couch.
I assumed he was watching the rain as well. The unusual thing about his posture was that his eyes were open and it was only 10:36 in the morning. My eyes were open also, but I had consumed copious cups of black coffee and the caffeine was working its magic. At the moment, I was nursing yet another cup. Intentional state of awareness.
It was supposed to be spring. Our local weather-person had not yet received that memo, or at least had chosen to forecast a bitter cold along with the rainstorm. It did not feel like spring.
The rain that was falling outside of our window was barely maintaining its liquidity. The temperature was hovering between 33 and 34 Fahrenheit. I’m old school. I anticipated that clinking sound which little ice crystals make when they hit against a window or bounce off the roof of the apartment building.
I lived on the third floor with only one door to the hallway, my singular exit, and one window through which I could view the world with a limited perspective. Hardly a fitting metaphor for a private detective and her wonder dog.
It had been a wet winter and the spring seemed to be following suit. Late March, early spring, cold and rainy. I refuse to relinquish my optimism when it comes to warm weather. Hope springs eternal, or something like that. As long as I have a hot cup of coffee, a comfortable chair, and a blanket, I can be hopeful.
Sam sighed.
It’s also good to have a stable companion with whom to share life’s adventures.
“Maybe it’ll let up before noon,” I said.
He cut his amber eyes at me as if to suggest that I would make a lousy meteorologist. His gaze returned to the window and likely enough, the rain. He sighed again. He’s never limited to finding ways to express his feelings.
“Don’t you have some work to do?” Rogers said from across the room.
She was the computer. Honest. I don’t mean to suggest that Rogers had a brain for data and the like. I mean she was my computer. Along with significant expertise from my Uncle Walters and some lucky accidents on my part, we managed to build a computer that could not only speak, but could reason as well. She can think. She also has a rather highly developed ego which means she thinks she’s right all of the time. Along the way, as she has continued to absorb data from our investigations, she has grown into an acerbic wit of sorts, more caustic than comedic. My opinion, of course. Even though my experience is limited to Rogers in this field of AI, I will affirm that artificial intelligence does not necessarily mean robotic. It doesn’t mean endearing either. Helpful to me? Without a doubt.
“I’m resting,” I said.
“You’ve been resting for two weeks,” she said.
“Life’s a waiting game.”
“For what are you waiting, my dear?”
“A client.”
“You just turned down a case.”
“Domestic dispute. Messy business. Don’t like to get killed while standing between an irate woman and an argumentative man. Besides, I didn’t think that they were sincere about wanting to settle their disagreements.”
“Like us, huh?” Rogers said.
“Except that they were throwing things.”
“I have some limitations.”
“Thank goodness. You could hire a surrogate.”
“I am not a violent person,” Rogers said.
I opened my mouth, but Rogers interjected quickly before the words escaped.
“Don’t say it!”
“It’s the thought that counts.”
“Not if the thought is wrong,” she countered. “By the by, according to the most accurate weather prognosticator, the rain should abate just before noon.”
“Can you wait until noon, Sam?” I said to him.
He sat up on the couch, turned two circles, and then growled before sitting down once again. His head returned to its former position of resting on the back of the couch facing the window.
I swallowed the last bit of coffee from my mug.
“I wish you could retrieve coffee,” I said to him.
“Tsk, tsk,” Rogers said. “Such laziness.”
“I work when I work. I lounge when I can,” I said standing up from the faded blue chair and moving slowly towards the kitchen coffee machine.
The phone rang just as I reached the coffee pot. I poured another cupful while waiting for the second ring.
I sipped a small amount of the hot brew and the phone rang a third time.
“Answer that, please,” I said to Rogers.
“Your voice or mine?”
“Oh, humor me. You decide.”
“My goodness,” she said, “aren’t we one to take chances?”
I moved slowly back to my chair, crossed my right leg under my derriere, and eased back into a relaxed position.
“Good morning,” Rogers said. “Clancy’s diner. May I take your order?”
I cut my eyes in her direction. Her internal camera was facing me, so I know she could see the disdain displayed in my arching brow. I shook my head at her camera.
“Clancy?” the familiar voice on the other end of the line said.
“Yes?” I said, trying to take over from Rogers and not wanting her to continue her fanciful script.
“You okay?” Rosey said.
“Rainy days and Mondays. Why, do I not sound okay?”
“Not used to you answering the phone and taking orders,” he said.
“I have mood swings.”
“I would have sworn that was Rogers and her weird sense of humor.”
Roosevelt Washington was a childhood friend who worked for the U.S. government on a contractual basis since his retirement from the United States Navy. He was also the third other human being besides Uncle Walters who knew that Rogers was an extraordinarily gifted computer. My friend Starnes Carver had been the most recent one to learn of my secret weapon named Rogers.
“Correct you are.”
“You should try to control her,” he said.
“No one controls me, sweetie,” Rogers said. “And I’m always listening to your conversations.”
“Disturbing on so many levels,” he said. “Clancy, I need to come your way.”
“Door is always open for you. Sam and I are mellowing here by the window watching the Norfolk rain come down and ruin another potentially good day in what the calendar says is spring.”
“You sound busy.”
“If you think drinking coffee, arguing with me, talking to the dog, going to the bathroom, and wallowing away in front of the window is busyness, then, yes, she is busy,” Rogers said.
“I’m between jobs,” I said.
“I’m leaving my office as we speak. I’ll stop by my apartment in Sterling en route. See you in a few hours.”
He ended the conversation. It was his style as was the case with so many of my acquaintances. Brief. To the point. Casual and efficient. It was the way he lived as well. Rosey was skilled in so many unusual ways, it was impossible not to like him.
In addition to his several virtues and more than adequate physical skills, he was my friend. We had worked together on several cases. Once in a while, I was invited to help him on a few of his. That didn’t happen much of the time. His work was generally for the government on an as-needed basis. Contractual clandestine stuff. In fact, I rarely knew what he was doing for the government. I only knew that he was out of the country and might return in a couple of weeks. Those weeks sometimes turned into months. James Bond probably kept a more stable routine.
“Something’s up,” Rogers said.
“You mean with Rosey?” I said.
“Exactly.”
“And you know this … how?”
“His voice, dearie. I detected a slight variation in his pitch which to me indicated there was some anxiety hovering around him.”
“With his work, I don’t imagine that he has many days when anxie
ty does not hover.”
“Agreed, but in this case, I think it to be something more.”
“Sleuthing are we now?”
“I have always been a capable sleuth working my CPU overtime for you,” Rogers said with some slight tonal variation indicating a not-so-subtle condescension.
“No argument from me, but I’m not sure that you’re capable of conjuring a mood of desperation simply from a slight rise in someone’s pitch, especially Rosey’s.”
“Wait and see, my love. Wait and see.”
2
The doorbell to my Norfolk apartment buzzed as if gasping for breath instead of ringing as it was supposed to do when working correctly.
I waited momentarily to see if it would buzz again. It could have been a spike in the electrical circuit. It had been known to happen.
The gasping buzz repeated itself.
“You plan to fix that thing?” Rogers said.
“I don’t know what to do to fix it.”
“Replace it,” she said.
“When do I have time to do that sort of thing?” I said as I made my way slowly to answer the door. I figured it was Rosey. A few hours had passed since he had phoned me and invited himself to my place.
“How about now?”
“I have to answer the door now. Would be rude to begin such a project with Rosey on my doorstep.”
“That’s not Rosey on your doorstep,” Rogers said.
I stopped my approach to the door.
“Practicing psychic now?” I said looking in the computer’s direction.
“Not a psychic. I just know. Observations… and, I listen carefully,” she explained. “I’ve been with you too long not to become a rather astute observer of the goings-on around here.”
“Really? That your best answer?”
I opened the door without looking through the peep-hole since I was convinced that my friend Roosevelt Washington was standing there waiting to be invited into his home away from home.
Surprise. Surprise.
“Hello,” the strange man said to me as I was sure I was failing in my attempt to hide my shock that he was not Rosey addressing me. “My name is Marvin Dillingham and I am looking for Roosevelt Washington.”
Out Jumps Jack Death: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 8) Page 2