Man in the Middle

by Ken Morris

  “Yes . . . but a mistake—”

  “Your safe,” Peter said. “The one built into that panel. The one with all that cash for paying-off scum. Open it.”

  “No . . .”

  Peter tugged at Muller’s wrist, driving a hip into the man’s back and forcing him against the wall, near his desk. “Do it.”

  Muller’s free hand depressed a button on the lip of the desk. A wall panel slid open, revealing a two-foot safe with a mounted keypad.

  “Enter the damn code. Now!” Peter yelled, compliance with his commands no longer an issue.

  Muller leaned in and pressed a series of numbers. The safe popped open an inch. Peter looked to his watch. Time seemed to move illogically, in chunks of seconds. Clutching Muller’s hand with his right palm, Peter used his left to finish opening the heavy door. Reaching in, he pulled out two bags and dropped them to the floor. Bundled bills were evident through the canvas.

  He then steered Muller to the Civil War trophy case. Peter smashed the glass, activating a burglar alarm. Muller no longer attempted to speak or resist. In a sweeping motion, Peter grabbed one of the two unsheathed swords mounted in a metallic X. He yanked. The pitted blade of the field officer’s sword held its mount. Peter made a second attempt, leveraging his weight. This time, the relic released with a jerk. The momentum caused Peter to teeter. Muller limply flowed with the action, but his thumb-grip on the detonator held.

  Peter unwound Muller’s arm, bringing it from around the back. He then flattened that arm across the wooden desk and raised the blade overhead, clutching the sharkskin wrap of the grip. Aiming, he brought the edge down in a chopping axe-motion. At mid-forearm, the lower halfof Howard Muller’s appendage separated from his body-main. Peter moved before blood spraying from Muller’s stump could soak him.

  Peter carried the forearm across the room, thumb still attached to the small metal box, still depressing the red button. Muller collapsed to the floor with a thud.

  Peter found the index-card box that held the key to the desk drawer, not daring to look at the gray flesh of Muller’s arm. He snatched the small key and returned. Unlocking and opening the desk drawer, he found a tape dispenser. He began winding scotch-tape around the lifeless thumb, pinning it in place against the button. He counted the seconds. He reached eight the moment he stood next to the open safe. He estimated the steel-reinforced walls at four inches. He dropped the taped creation, fingers already gone stiff, through the twenty-inch opening. He swung the door shut.

  Would the safe’s heavy walls blunt the radio signal when the time limit expired? Yes, it would, he told himself. Four inches of hardened steel should do the trick. It had to.

  Peter stepped over Muller’s hemorrhaging body to the far window. The overhead lights reflected off skin, making Muller’s face look as lifeless as ivory. Peter tried to bury his feelings. He had never brought such physical pain to another person, but this was an unprecedented moment in his life, calling for unprecedented actions. He did what he had to and did it without further pause. And he didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on these thoughts. If he survived, he’d have plenty of time in the future for regret. As for now, he needed to move quickly and waste no time. He unlocked and opened the thick-glassed window. The exterior lights, beaming from multiple floodlights, made the ground as bright as day. The sounds of a siren filtered through the opening. The police were responding to the burglar alarm.

  Muller’s internal phone line—on a corner table—flashed, diverting Peter’s attention. Peter picked up and listened: “This is Security . . .” Peter felt the concern in the hired cop’s voice.

  When the guard said, “I know you told us not to interrupt, no matter what—” Peter had an inspiration. Doing his best imitation of Muller’s vile voice, he said, “Then fucking follow instructions,” and hung up. He hoped the guard feared Muller more than the chaotic situation going on around him, at least for a few more minutes.

  Peter again stepped over to Muller’s desk. He retrieved a gold lighter he recalled seeing moments earlier. He swept the loose papers on Muller’s desk into a metal trashcan. Lighting the papers, he opened the windows on the west side of the office, making certain that anyone outside could see the smoke. The overhead vents pushed cool air out, into a breezeless night. Peter crossed over to, and opened, the south window. He put the lighter to the drapes. It took a precious few seconds for the material to ignite, but when it did, it burned steadily, contributing a rich, dark smoke.

  He next yanked the fire alarm on the wall between those two windows. To the sounds of stereo alarms, people began to file out the exits while sprinklers spit a river, cooling Peter’s blistering skin. The smoke thickened and billowed with the downpour. Good.

  A minute later, a second set of emergency vehicles—fire crews and two ambulances—entered the compound. Out front, weekend cleaning crews assembled on the steps. Peter counted four analysts and two of their assistants leaving through the front door. Several security guards used flashlights to highlight the building walls. The sirens grew loud enough to drown out most voices, but not loud enough to break Peter’s concentration. He still didn’t know if Monica Franklin was dead or alive. He also had no idea where Muller held her hostage. He initiated his hundredth prayer that day, this one shorter than the others—he still had a hell of a lot to do and not much time left.

  Grabbing the two bags of cash, Peter leaned through a third window, out of view of the masses assembling in the front, and targeted a thick, low hedge, ten feet from the building. He tossed the first bag and watched it vanish into the dense brush. The second bag followed. Satisfied that nobody on the ground could see the money, Peter returned to the first window in time to see the fire trucks pull up to the fire hydrant at the edge of the building.

  He made it to the desk a third time, picked up the phone, and dialed Drew’s home number. He didn’t know what to say, but somebody had to initiate a search—assuming the explosives hadn’t already gone off.

  When Drew picked up on the second ring, Peter said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know—”

  “White Bread. Where are you?”

  “It’s about Monica—”

  “She’s home . . .”

  Drew explained that a man had called Monica, convincing her that she needed to meet him in the middle of nowhere. She left Drew a note, she said, but Drew suspected someone broke into their house and removed it. “Her car broke down . . . it was one small disaster after another,” Drew said, the relief evident in his voice.

  “She’s home?” Peter tried to figure everything out in the few seconds he had left before Stenman’s security forces barged in.

  “What’s all that noise, Bread? Sounds like you’re in the middle of a war.”

  “I am, buddy. I need you to get hold of Agent Dawson.” Peter fumbled for the slip of paper Dawson had stuffed in his shirt pocket back at the garage. “Here’s his number . . .”

  When they finished, Peter looked at Muller’s suffering body and shook his head, disbelieving the insanity—Muller’s life, draining away, onto a third-story office floor, and all because of an elaborate ruse? Muller never had a detonator, only a prop made to look like one. It made sense, though. Muller was a classic bully, someone who used intimidation and threat to get his way. Thinking himself smarter than everyone else, he figured he could manipulate Peter with his mind and his words. What an asshole! What did he think I was going to do? Peter asked himself. Sit back and wait for him to admit what he was doing? Laugh at the brilliance of his joke?

  Peter trailed over to Muller. Blood drained, forming a pool. Soaking into the gray carpet, it looked like wet rust. Peter took his jacket and wound it around Muller’s bloody stump. He pulled the bulky knot tight, hoping to stem the flow of blood. He then reached down and felt Muller’s neck pulse. It was weak, but detectable. That done, he returned to the window, away from the lapping flames consuming the drapes, leaned out, and yelled, “Help me! Get a ladder and get me out of here.” Peter looked at Mulle
r and shouted, “And get a doctor up here. A guy’s hurt. Bad. He needs help fast.”

  Ten minutes later, two bags tucked under his arm, Peter crawled into the back of one of the ambulances. He had soot smeared across his face, masking his features. He perched with his knees tucked to his chest, coughing convincingly. The medics attempted to put an oxygen mask over his face, but Peter indicated no. They sped off, sirens wailing. Just before the ambulance reached the freeway onramp, Peter insisted they stop. When they resisted, he opened a bag and pulled out a thousand-dollar bill, still crisp despite its age.

  “You didn’t get a look at me. I held you at gunpoint. Say whatever you want. Just forget as much as you can about me and this trip.” When the driver hesitated, Peter pulled a second bill from the bag. “Two grand. That oughta do it.” The medics involuntarily nodded and Peter understood— money really could buy almost anything. It could even make people forget. Reaching into the bag one last time, Peter asked, “Anyone want to sell me their clothes?” Again, a willing seller.

  A few minutes later, Peter jogged towards a hotel, up a hill overlooking the freeway. He changed clothes behind some brush and bought a room for cash. He left a message for Kate on Drew’s voice mail.

  With eyes closed, he waited.

  When Peter’s hotel phone woke him several hours later, he quickly picked up. “What took you so long, counselor?” he said. “I think I need an attorney.”

  “You’re damn right you do.”

  “You know what happened at Stenman’s?”

  “No,” Kate said. “That’s not what I’m referring to.”

  “What, then?”

  “You haven’t heard?” Kate’s voice cracked.

  “If you’re not referring to Stenman, Muller, and the fire, then no.”

  “Ellen Goodman.”

  “Ellen?” His former girlfriend’s was the last name Peter expected to hear. “What about her?”

  “Where were you tonight, Peter?”

  “At Stenman’s. Starting a fire.”

  “That isn’t funny. Where?”

  “I told you. At Stenman Partners. Third floor. Howard Muller’s office.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “I think so. The guards saw me. Muller, he . . .” Peter didn’t know quite how to explain. “What happened with Ellen?”

  “Ellen’s been raped and murdered. Somebody tied her to a bed, spread-eagled, and tortured her. The police are looking for you.”

  “Ellen’s dead?”

  “Peter, they think you’re involved.”

  “Me? No way. I haven’t seen Ellen since the day I left my job. Dead? Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive, and several things have the police convinced you’re involved. Your moonstone was in her bedroom.”

  “I haven’t seen that since it was stolen.”

  “Did you call Ellen the other day?” Kate asked.

  “Yes. She left me a message. I returned the call.”

  “Do you still have the tape?”

  “No.”

  “We’ll have to check phone records. Did you give her a present?” Kate sounded like a prosecutor.

  “No. Ellen thought I gave her a cat, but I didn’t.”

  “The DA’s a family friend. He gave me some information. Said her cat’s a calico. Just like Henry. Is that a coincidence?”

  “Kate, I’m sorry about Ellen—devastated, in fact—but I’m not involved.”

  “The cat’s tag indicated that Ellen named him Peter. It seems natural to assume that she named him after you. What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I hope you’re not lying . . . I can’t help myself. I still care . . . You’re not bullshitting me, are you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good, because there’s a lot more. Dark head-hair. Same color as yours on her sheets and pillowcase. A coffee cup in the kitchen. Your prints. A microwave—again, your prints on the door. Semen on the sheets. It looks real bad.”

  “I’ve never been in Ellen’s apartment. She insisted on staying at my place so her other boyfriends, including our boss—Craig Hinton—wouldn’t find out.”

  “Then we need the DNA results on the semen found on the sheets. They’ll show it wasn’t you. The rest of the stuff could’ve been planted— you’ve pissed off enough people to make that plausible. But in the meantime, you’ve got to turn yourself in. The labs are running a preliminary DNA test known as PCR. They expect results in two or three days.”

  “PCR? What’s that?”

  “It stands for Polymerase Chain Reaction. Forensics extracts the semen and vaginal samples from the sheets, grows DNA in the lab, then compares those to a sample of your DNA. Not as statistically significant as RFLP, but it should be good enough to get you off. The DA tells me he already got a sample of your DNA from a sealed envelope in your apartment.”

  “An envelope?” Peter asked.

  “They got a search warrant. He didn’t tell me what else they found, only that he was able to obtain a saliva sample from some outgoing mail you left behind.”

  “How’d you get all this information?” Peter asked, in awe of Kate’s thoroughness.

  “I told the DA I thought I could get you to turn yourself in if I knew what we were facing. He believes me. My credibility’s on the line.”

  “Kate, it may be your credibility, but it’s my life. I need time.”

  He then reviewed in detail the day’s events with her. “I’ve got what looks to be a coupla million in cash lying on my bed. Stacks of thousands, hundreds, and twenties. All worn. I’m sure untraceable.”

  “Your alibi is that you robbed Stenman—” Kate said, her voice near shock “—either killed or maimed Stenman’s Chief Investment Officer, set the building on fire, then escaped in an ambulance? This isn’t helpful, Peter.”

  “Can’t you do something? At least stall until I can meet with Agent Dawson.”

  “I’ll negotiate with the DA, tell him we’re coming in. I’ll try and give you until four tomorrow afternoon. After that, I’m screwed. Can you live with that?”

  “Yes. One last thing, Kate.”

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “I still need to meet with your father. Can you arrange that?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why? He loves you more than life itself.”

  “I confronted him. His responses convinced me he’s done some bad things. Then he sort of threw me out. And Peter?”

  “Yes?”

  “He said someone was killed. I think he meant your mother’s death wasn’t an accident.”

  “I’ve arrived at the same conclusion after talking with Detective Ellis.”

  “If he helps you, Father intimated that he’s liable to end up in serious legal trouble, or worse.”

  “I’m sorry, Kate, but I need to talk to him. Will you ask? If nothing else, I want to understand the past—the history of our families.”

  “Our lives have crisscrossed in a painful pattern. Lovers, friends, and enemies, all intertwined. I’ll try my best to set it up.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You aren’t leading me down a primrose path, are you, Peter?”

  “You mean with Ellen?”

  “Yeah. Ellen and everything else.”

  “You have to believe me. I’m being straight with you. Stenman Partners isn’t the greatest alibi in the world, but no way my semen is on those sheets.”

  “I believe you. I’ll work on Father and leave a message on Drew’s voice mail. You have a way to get hold of Dawson?”

  “Drew’s got his number and is gonna phone him.”

  “I’ll camp out in the District Attorney’s office,” Kate said. “By the time you’ve turned yourself in, they’ll have checked out your bizarre alibi. I should be able to get a reasonable bail.”

  “Unless they want to nail me for what happened at Stenman’s,” Peter said.

  “You said you were justified. Somebody’s going to ha
ve to do some heavy-duty explaining.”

  “That’s true,” Peter said.

  “You have any theories on how your moonstone made it to Ellen’s bedside table? Your prints on a cup and on her microwave?”

  “Beats me,” Peter said, “unless Ellen, or maybe even Craig Hinton if he was jealous, had me robbed the day I moved out of my old place.”

  “You think either of them engineered the theft?”

  “Unlikely,” he said. “I’m grasping at straws.”

  “I’ll follow up on Hinton, just in case. His relationship with Ellen and the fact that he disliked you makes him a natural suspect. You’ll meet me outside the courthouse, tomorrow at four?”

  “Yeah. Four. How long before you get my release on bail?”

  “Once we confirm things, a day, tops. You should plan to return Stenman’s money when you turn yourself in.”

  “I took the money, hoping to trade it for answers. Under the circumstances, I’m happy to give it back.”

  Once he re-cradled the phone, Peter flopped across his bed and clamped his eyes. He wished he were back at the old apartment, with its tiny bathtub, bathing with and making love to Kate Ayers. Instead, questions, one stacked on top of the other, weighed like a mountain.

  Tomorrow . . . Peter looked at the bedside clock. The red digits flashed 1:04. “No, not tomorrow. It’s today already,” he told himself. “Will I find answers today?”

  Especially to the questions about Ellen Goodman—they had been intimate, and that meant something. But who would rape her? Torture her? “Same person who murdered my mother,” he said, almost inaudibly.

  The victims were innocent. The game was perverted. And Peter Neil was just beginning to learn how to play.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “I WON’T SEE HIM.”

  It was Sunday morning and Kate had just informed her father of Peter’s request to meet.

  “Peter needs your help,” she said. “So do I.”

  “No. It’s too late for Peter. I told you this would end tragically if he persisted. Now he’s wanted for murder, and that cockamamie alibi of his isn’t going to hold.”