Acting Dead (Michael Quinn Thriller)

by John Moralee

  “He’s an idiot,” I said.

  “I think so too. I asked him what he was doing, but I don’t think he’s doing anything. It’s clear he hasn’t found out anything useful. He said he’d been to the firm, but he got the same treatment you did. He said that by the time he got a warrant Dyler and Westbrook would have tied up the investigation for months. I don’t think he was bothered. It’s like he’s given up or doesn’t care.”

  “Figures. He’s probably worried he’ll offend Dyler and Westbrook if he persisted.”

  “Anyway, I called Dyler myself. He claimed the firm was doing everything in its powers to find out what happened to Scott, but I don’t know if I believe him because I haven’t seen them lift a finger. I have a feeling Dyler thinks I’m lying about not knowing where Scott is. I received the distinct impression he thinks Scott has gone away so he can come back working for Little. I think he even believes Little is behind it – using Scott as a pawn in their sick game.”

  I thought of all the paranoid security at the firm. I had no doubt the firm wanted to present a calm public appearance for its clients, while inside the firm itself every effort would be made to investigate the matter, even if it was just to ensure the security of the firm was not compromised.

  “I’m sure the firm is doing something. They may have hired private investigators.”

  “Well, I told him I had a right to my husband’s personal belongings. He agreed – after I mentioned the Tribune could be interested in a story if he didn’t return them. He had a man deliver a box. I’ve been looking through it. There could be something in Scott’s appointment book, but I haven’t looked at it yet. I’m a little bit afraid of looking on my own. I was hoping you could come over?”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes.”

  But I didn’t go right there, like I promised. First, as The Boat House was on the way, I went to see Ed. As I came through the entrance the beer smell took me back to a million bars in LA, all of them bad. Momentarily, I reeled with bad memories. Don’t think about it, I thought, passing the crowded tables until I reached the counter, where I grasped the counter, my head throbbing. People moved aside for me. Ed came over and asked if I was feeling ill. No, I lied. I was fine. I had some questions for him, that was all. I asked Ed if he’d seen anyone using the pay phone on the street, rather than the phones in the bar by the restrooms.

  “Like I told the sheriff, it was a real busy shift,” Ed answered me, wiping down the counter. “Lots of fellas coming in, going out. Rushed off my feet, I was. Can’t say I was watching outside. It’s not unusual for guys to go outside because it can be noisy in here. Sorry.”

  “What about the waitresses?”

  “You could ask Cindy. She’s over there. The one with the red hair. She was the one working that night.”

  Cindy looked too young to be out of school, but Ed told me she was twenty-one. She looked about fifteen. Her long red hair was swept back in a ponytail tied up with blue ribbons. She was collecting empty glasses and adding them to a tray.

  I asked her if she’d seen anyone using the phone on the day Scott vanished. Her freckled face scrunched up as she stared into space, thinking. I waited. She shook her head.

  “I was real busy, I’m afraid. There was a real load of them Heaven and Earth guys playing pool, and them guys drink like fishes. Some went out to use the phone, but I wasn’t checking the time. When I’m on a heavy shift I don’t like to know how long I got to work. Them guys make a minute last a lifetime.”

  “You don’t like them?”

  “Some are okay, but some are real mean when they drink. Like it lets out their demons. The bad ones wasn’t born on Mistral, though. They sound like mainlanders. Creeps like pinching my ass. I get my own back, though. I spit in their beer.”

  “I’ll remember not to do that,” I said.

  “Hell. I wouldn’t mind you doing it. I love your movies. I think you’re incredibly sexy when you play the bad guy.”

  “Cindy,” Ed said. “I need those glasses now, not next year.”

  “Okay! I’m on it! Jeezus! Got to work – but why don’t you stick around? I’d love to hear about Hollywood.”

  “I’ve got to go,” I said. “See you around, though.”

  “Anytime,” Cindy said, wiggling her hips as she carried the glasses to the counter.

  Fiona was in her study reading through Scott’s appointment book. The room was very much her office at home, with her computer, laser printer, and fax machine set up by the windows. Hardback copies of her romantic novels were on the shelves above her computer with boxed manuscripts beside them. Fiona and I went through Scott’s appointment book page by page. She said, “I wish Scott’s handwriting was better.” She stopped and looked at me, her eyes brimming. “But I guess I’ll never see him again to tell him.”

  “He could be alive,” I said. “You have to hold on to that.”

  She sniffed and blew into a Kleenex. “I’m so scared, Mike. I don’t think … I don’t think I could stand it if Scott’s dead. The kids … I’ve lied to them. I’ve told them he’s just gone away for a few days. I couldn’t tell them what I’m thinking.”

  “We’ll find him,” I said. “We just have to keep looking.”

  Fiona turned to the day Scott went missing. She was right about the handwriting; it was barely legible.

  10-11 Xerox 789-854 & read

  11-12 meeting with partners

  12-1 lunch with D&A&M

  “D and A and M?” she said. “That must be the associates David, Alex and Melanie.”

  “Instead, he went to lunch with me.”

  I read on.

  1.2Matterson & Llewellyn 555-4026

  “Scott mentioned that,” Fiona said. “Matterson is an accountant for the firm.”

  2.3R Shannow 555-8912

  “I don’t know who that is,” she said.

  “I do – it’s Abby’s father.”

  “Who’s Abby?”

  “My ex-girlfriend. She’s married to the sheriff now.”

  “I’m sorry for her.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Her father’s a banker. I’ll ask him what they were talking about the next time I see him.”

  3-4 H&E sched.

  5.6 H&E (if runs over sched.) **

  “What’s the two stars for?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe it means important?”

  “Could be. There are a few on other pages,” I said.

  “H and E are listed several times. What do you think it is?”

  “Maybe it’s Heaven and Earth Enterprises? Was he working for them?”

  “Definitely not. He hates them for that travesty they’re building on Emerald Point. They’re like rats. They own a number of buildings on the wharf. Their owner is an arrogant little creep called Charles Van Morgan. We had him over for dinner once – Scott wanted to make him change his position on the future of Emerald Point – but he wouldn’t listen. He said he was the best thing that ever happened to Cape Mistral. And he meant it. He really thinks he’s some kind of philanthropist. He reminded me of Joe Kennedy. Power hungry. And we all know what a crook he was.”

  “The question is: why was he seeing them so many times?”

  Fiona’s eyes widened. “You think Van Morgan …?”

  “Made Scott vanish? Maybe. I’ve heard some bad things about his employees.” I told her about my experience at the beach.

  We studied the appointment book with renewed energy. I made notes of names, recognising very few. There was a time when I’d known everyone I saw on the streets, if not by name then by face. Not now. Coming in with the tourist dollars were rich people buying up real estate. They needed people like Scott to write the legal contracts. Or to stop them buying up everything. H&E was listed several times.

  “We have to know more about what he was working on,” Fiona said.

  “Yeah, but how?”

  “The files …” She
paused. “We have to sneak into the firm.”

  “The security is massive.”

  “I know, I know. But I could get Lisa to help us. I was thinking we’d go to Scott’s office and look through his files while nobody was looking. Find a clue, you know?”

  I found myself nodding.

  “But how will you get in?”

  “I have an idea.”

  “What?”

  “I have Scott’s security card.”

  We decided to sneak into the firm that night after 11 p.m. Before then people would be working unpaid overtime in many of the offices. There would still be people working during the night (eager associates mostly) but it was probably the best time. We needed something to copy the files with, so I visited an office-supply store. I rented a Canon copier that was not much larger than a sheet of A4. It fitted into a convenient briefcase. It made no noise when copying, which was perfect. I also bought some surgical gloves (so we left no fingerprints) and three laser flashlights for seeing in the dark.

  At eleven, I met up with Fiona and Lisa. They were sitting in Fiona’s car across the street from the law offices. I knocked on the glass and both jumped. Fiona got out, introducing Lisa. She looked a kindly woman of about fifty. I instantly liked her.

  Lisa said, “I organised the files last month – I can save you time. I want to help in any way. Mr Taylor is my favourite boss. I can get us in the side entrance when the security guards change shifts in ten minutes, then up the stairs to Mr Taylor’s office.”

  So we waited nervously. We watched the day-shift security people come out of the building. The night-shift security had to follow a schedule that Lisa knew by heart. The three of us crossed the street and waited in the darkness of the side street until the security guards had checked the doors. We waited two minutes. Then we moved. Lisa did not have a pass that opened the door at night, but Scott’s pass did. The door opened and we went inside. Fiona clasped my arm as we went in. I could feel her heartbeat where she touched – rapid, like a hummingbird’s. We moved quickly, avoiding the security cameras. Lisa led the way.

  Scott’s office was on the second floor. Lisa opened the door with the remote control. She said all junior partners had complete access to everywhere except the senior partners’ floor. We went into the room, closing the door behind us. It was dark. Fortunately, the office was on the corner with windows out onto Main Street and West Wharf. There was just enough light to see by without switching on the lights and therefore alerting anyone of our presence. The room was quite large, but it had to be, to include the grey filing cabinets stacked against one wall. They were as big as refrigerators and just as cold to the touch. Lisa went down the line unlocking them with an ordinary key.

  “Can you show us what he was working on recently?”

  “Luckily, the system is chronological and alphabetised.” She began explaining the complex filing method she used; I tried to listen, but it was mind-numbingly boring.

  Fiona unhooked her arm from mine. “I’ll check his desk. I have the keys.”

  I watched Lisa collect the files. I soon accepted a heavy pile of manila files. I hadn’t expected there to be so much paperwork involved in being a lawyer. Maybe they did earn their huge fees, after all.

  “That’s what Mr Taylor worked on personally,” she said. “Do you want the work of the associates?”

  “Is there much?”

  “I’ll say.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” I said, feeling no such thing. But what the hell – it wasn’t as if I had something better to do.

  Fiona opened Scott’s drawers and rummaged around, shining her red laser on the contents. As well as pulling out boxes of paper clips, a hole puncher, pens, pencils, and a nifty executive stress toy in the shape of Richard Nixon’s head, she found some notebooks and papers that Dyler had not boxed up and sent, as he’d said he would. She started copying them.

  I pulled a chair up to the desk and arranged my files in reverse order. (So I could start with the day Scott disappeared.) Lisa gave me the keys and watched the door. She would warn us to be quiet if the security men passed.

  There were files and files of stuff seemingly about nothing but technicalities. I saw some sums on the papers in six figures. Legal fees. I couldn’t see the point of it all. But then a file turned my blood cold:

  S.P Beck versus Heaven and Earth Enterprises.

  I flicked through the pages, screwing up my eyes at the small print. I couldn’t read it without a stronger light.

  “Mike?” Fiona asked. “Found something?”

  “Maybe. Who’s SP Beck?”

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “It looks like he was suing Heaven and Earth Enterprises. I don’t understand the legalese, but I think he wants to stop the hotel being built. I imagine that would piss off Van Morgan. It’d probably ruin him if he lost. It’s strong motivation.”

  “That’s it then. We know who did it.”

  “Fiona, I don’t like jumping to conclusions. What we have is circumstantial – if that.”

  “We should tell the sheriff about Van Morgan.”

  “I don’t think he’d do anything.” In fact, I was convinced of it. My impression may have been influenced because he was married to Abby, but I didn’t like him or trust him. “I’ll see this SP Beck first, talk to him. His address is here.”

  Once Fiona had finished copying what she’d discovered, I copied the SP Beck files. We could read them at our leisure later. Then we returned everything to their original places. Lisa was quite understandably nervous about how long we were taking. She said the office would be checked in five minutes. With just two minutes to spare, we left the office and hurried down the corridor. We were outside half a minute later, breathing hard, laughing nervously.

  “That was like Mission: Impossible,” I said.

  “I don’t want to ever do that again,” Lisa said. “I think the stress could kill me.”

  We headed to the car, holding the copied sheets tightly.

  Chapter 8

  The next morning the sky was blue-white and criss-crossed with cirrus clouds as thin as vapour trails. I had to take the ferry and drive for forty minutes in blazing sunlight to reach SP Beck’s address on Port Island. Port Island was a long sliver of rock and marshland with a population barely in four figures if you included the birds and insects. The roads were pitted and meandering and it was a nightmare driving on them. There were hardly any signposts to guide me, but somehow I found the right road, which led to SP Beck’s lonely-looking house. The house was on the edge of a cliff. A six-foot high white picket fence went around the house with a wrought-iron gate. A pebbled path led up to the porch. The ocean looked so close to the house I felt you could have dived off the cliff into the breakers.

  I arrived soaked in sweat, feeling like a piece of Kentucky Fried chicken. The clouds had evaporated, leaving the sky a solid blue.

  I parked on the road some distance from the house and walked down a path covered with long grass and weeds. I stretched and unstuck my shirt from my back before reaching for the gate. A red and black motorbike rested against the fence on the other side, locked to a chain. It was a Harley-Davidson Softtail. You didn’t see many of them around here. It was in perfect condition, the metal gleaming.

  I rattled the gate. It was locked. A strong lock was attached. The iron hinges creaked.

  “Hey? Anyone there?”

  I wished I had called ahead, but I didn’t have Beck’s number. I wasn’t even sure a remote place like this would have a phone.

  It didn’t even look like it had electricity.

  I called out again. This time, I was heard.

  A tall woman in jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt came around the far side of the house. She was about thirty. She was deeply tanned from working outdoors, but it suited her, giving her skin a healthy glow. Her dark brown hair was loose down her shoulders, nearly reaching her waist. She had dark, intense eyes. She was holding a shotgun, which she could aim and fi
re in a moment. “What do you want?”

  Direct. I liked it. “You’re SP Beck?”

  “Doctor Sarah Beck, yes.” She said ‘doctor’ like she had worked long and hard to earn it, so was going to use it. “Who are you?”

  “Michael Quinn. I’m a friend of Scott Taylor, your lawyer.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “I am. Don’t you believe me?”

  “You expect that trick to work?”

  “Trick?”

  “They sent you.”

  “I don’t know who you think I am. I’m here for one reason: he’s missing.”

  “Missing?” She frowned and brought her free hand up to her face, rubbing a small mole on her left cheek. I thought the mole looked cute, like a droplet of chocolate above her dark red lips.

  “No one knows where he is,” I said. “I was hoping you could help me find him.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you’re suing Heaven and Earth Enterprises. I think they could have something to do with his disappearance.”

  She walked up to the gate, but did not unlock it. She was not quite as tall as me, but she looked it, for her height was emphasised by her long, slim legs. “How do I know you’re not from them?”

  “Do I look like I am?”

  “Frankly, yes.”

  “I used to play bad guys in movies,” I said. “That’s why I look untrustworthy.”

  “I don’t watch movies.”

  “Come on, everyone does.”

  “I read.”

  “You must have heard of Bruce Willis, though?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “He killed me in one movie.”

  She laughed. Her teeth shone the purest white. “That’s supposed to impress me? Bruce Willis killed you? That’s a line I haven’t heard before.” She unlocked the gate and pushed it wide. But when I moved, she shook her head. “Put your arms up and stay still. I’m going to frisk you for weapons.”

  She did. She was thorough. It wasn’t a bad experience.

  “Satisfied?”

  “No, but you can come in. But I’m asking you the questions.”

  “Okay.”