“Bertha said that the night he was killed, Jonathan never came back from the office,” Ben whispered to Christina. “So if he set up a meeting, he probably did it here. I hoped we’d at least find some kind of note or a scrawled address or phone number.” He picked up a thick memo pad from the desk. The top sheet was barren. “A total blank.” Disgusted, he dropped the pad back onto the desk.
“Wait a minute,” Christina said. She took the memo pad, and held it up to the moonlight. She tilted the pad at different angles, catching the light. Then she took a pencil from the desk and lightly sketched over the top sheet of paper. A white impression resembling words or numbers began to appear.
“It’s the imprint of whatever Adams wrote on the sheet of paper above this one,” Christina murmured. She finished sketching and scrutinized the result. “Hmm. It worked a lot better for Sherlock Holmes.”
Ben looked at the pad. Only a few letters were clear. A p and an a, and after that, something indecipherable. Below that, an a, followed by either an f or an r, followed by a c.
“Archer,” Christina said. “It’s an address on Archer Avenue.”
“His body was found in an alley off Archer,” Ben said. “You might be right. What’s the p-a? Parent maybe?”
“Maybe he was saying he found Emily’s parent on Archer Avenue,” Christina suggested.
Ben snapped his lingers. “Or p-a could be part of the Red Parrot Café. That’s the bar across the street from where Adams was found. Maybe he planned to meet someone there.”
“Could be,” Christina murmured. “Or perhaps p-a is part of Sapulpa or St. Paul—or the Panama Canal, for that matter—”
She stopped short. Footsteps. In the outer hallway by the elevators.
Ben shut off his flashlight. They dropped to the floor and hid behind the desk.
The footsteps grew louder at a steady but unhurried pace. Ben and Christina could see a light come on in the hallway in the airspace beneath the door. The footsteps slowed. A door opened, then closed.
“Is it the security guard?” Christina whispered.
Ben shook his head. “It’s too soon for him.”
The footsteps began again. They were heavy and drawing closer.
Christina held her breath. The door to the office opened. A light flickered on.
Ben and Christina did not move, or breathe, or think. They were completely hidden by the oak desk, or so Ben thought. If only whoever-it-is doesn’t look behind the desk.
An eternity passed in what was probably a few seconds. Ben’s entire life (past, present, and future) unreeled before his eyes—including his expulsion from the bar and a long prison sentence.
Then the light went off, and the squeaky office door closed. Christina looked at Ben, and together they quietly exhaled. The footsteps moved away at an intolerably slow pace. Finally, the stairwell door opened, and they heard the visitor walk away.
Christina started to stand up, then noticed Ben staring at the underside of the desk. “What is it?” she whispered.
Ben pointed to the bottom of the middle desk drawer, the one he had last opened before they dropped to the floor. A medium-sized manila envelope was taped to the bottom of the drawer.
“I can’t believe the police missed this,” Ben muttered.
“They probably weren’t crawling on their hands and knees when they searched the place,” Christina replied.
Ben reached up and removed the envelope.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Christina whispered. She stood up and tried the window behind the desk. “Locked,” she said. “But not hermetically sealed.” She flipped the latches on both sides of the window and pushed. The window opened.
“You can’t be serious,” Ben said.
“We don’t have any choice. With this mystery man creeping around, our previous plan is unworkable. Besides, we’re only on the second floor.”
Ben gazed out the window. There were few lights on the back side of the building, although there was a half moon. Where is the security guard? he wondered. He realized that he simply had no idea. He had lost all sense of the time scheme.
He looked down. The window was twelve, perhaps fifteen feet above the ground. She was right, though. They had no choice.
He pushed Christina aside. “Time for some macho posturing,” he said. “I’ll go first.” He put his feet through the window first, hung with his hands on the sill for a few moments, then dropped.
He landed off-balance on his left leg. The impact of the fall drove his knees into his chin. He fell onto his back. He blinked, then took a personal inventory. His teeth felt like mashed potatoes, but he was all right.
Christina followed close behind. She landed more gracefully, rolled on her heels, and softened the impact on her knees by rolling down onto the backs of her arms and shoulders.
“Nice job,” Ben whispered, standing over her.
“It’s the modeling training,” she murmured, taking her bearings. “Teaches bodily coordination and grace under fire.”
“You’re okay then?”
She nodded.
“Then let’s get the hell out of here.” He clasped her hand and helped her up. They started to run back around the side of the building toward the car.
Behind them, a dog barked.
“My God,” Ben said without breaking his stride. “We forgot about the dog!” They bolted toward the front of the building without looking back.
If they had looked back, they might have noticed a dark silhouette in the open window from which they, had jumped. Someone was watching them.
PART TWO
The True Embodiment
15
THERE WAS A LOUD, deliberate knock on the door.
The heavyset woman in the white uniform recognized his knock. She rose quickly and, after peering through the peephole, opened the door.
The man walked into the apartment and took off his jacket. “How is she today?”
The woman hesitated. “She’s … fine. Stable. Very good, under the circumstances.” She paused. “I know what I’m doing.”
The man smiled. “That’s why you get paid the big money.” He glanced down the hallway. “Get her.”
Nodding obediently, the woman walked halfway down the hall and called out.
After a few moments, there was a shuffling noise, and another woman, much thinner and younger, poked her head through the bedroom door. She had a vacant, distracted expression.
“Someone here to see you,” the nurse said quietly.
The younger woman looked down the hallway and saw the man standing in the main room of the apartment. A panicked expression spread across her face. She slammed the door shut.
The man frowned. “I’ll handle this,” he muttered. He pushed the woman in white out of the way and walked down the hallway.
“Open the door,” he said, quietly but firmly.
There was no response.
“I said, open the door,” he repeated, a little more loudly than before.
Still no response.
A sudden rage came over him. Gritting his teeth, he threw his full body, shoulder first, against the door. The door shuddered but did not open.
Even more enraged, the man began to kick the door. His pounding dented the outer wood surface.
He stopped, breathing heavily. His entire body was trembling. “All right, then,” he said, “see what you think about this.” He leaned close to the door and whispered a few brief words.
After a moment, the woman slowly opened the door. She was crying. Red blotches appeared on her face and neck just above her blue bathrobe.
“Please don’t hurt her,” she said. Her face was wet with tears.
“We’ll see,” the man said. With both hands he shoved the woman back against the bed.
He smiled. The rage had passed. He turned and looked back at the heavyset woman. “You’re dismissed.”
“But I haven’t prepared her for the evening yet.”
“I said you’re dis
missed!” the man growled. He slammed the bedroom door shut.
16
“WHAT IS IT WITH you, anyway, Kincaid?”
Derek closed the door to his office and began his ritualistic pacing. Glad to see the ankle’s healed up, Ben thought.
“I asked you to try to get a kid adopted. A simple matter. The hearing is already set; you either win or lose. Except, for some reason, the next day you tell me you need a private detective to investigate the kid’s”—he hunched his shoulders together like a ghoul and rolled his eyes to the tops of their sockets—“myster-r-r-r-rious past.” He resumed his normal posture. “And now you want to hire an accountant, for God knows what reason. What is going on?”
“Mr. Derek, I think these papers I discovered are very important.” Ben neglected to mention where he discovered them.
“Why? What can they tell us that’s relevant to an adoption hearing?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Derek. That’s just it. I’m not an accountant. I got C’s in algebra—”
“Stop.” Derek thrust the palm of his hand forward as if he was doing a bad imitation of the Supremes. “No more.”
He sat down behind the desk. “I will tell you this one more time, Kincaid, and only once more, if you catch my drift.” He leaned forward and stared meaningfully into Ben’s eyes. “This is not a pro bono case, but it’s damn close. This is not a money-maker, for us or our client. Our client does not want to spend a bundle of bucks on this. All he wants is to sleep nights with his guilt assuaged because he tried to do something nice for an old employee’s widow. And, frankly, if we’re unsuccessful”—Derek shrugged—“well, he did what he could.”
Ben stared back at the man. It was useless. Like arguing ethics with the Great Wall of China.
“Speaking of Sanguine,” Derek continued, “have you finished the brief for our preliminary injunction motion in the trade dress case?”
“Yes,” Ben answered. “I placed it on your desk this morning—”
“I’ve already read that draft,” Derek interrupted. “And I’ve made changes. It’s in your in box.”
“I’ll see that Word Processing makes the changes, sir.”
“What about my opening statement? Have you written that?”
“N-no. I didn’t realize you wanted—”
“What did you think I was going to do tomorrow morning? Stand at the podium and twiddle my lower lip?” He struck a match against the side of the box and lit a cigarette. “You see, Kincaid? This is exactly what I’ve been talking about. You’re behind in your work, you’re really only making an effort on one case, and you’re not accomplishing anything on it!”
He took a deep, calming draw on his cigarette, then used the cigarette as a pointer. “A good associate doesn’t have to be told to do something. A good associate sees that it needs to be done and does it. Period. I know you’ve just started, but frankly, your work to date has not been up to the usual Raven standards. And if your work isn’t up to snuff, Kincaid, nothing can save your butt from the shredder. Not your mother, your minister, a shareholder—or his wife.” Derek’s eyes flashed.
Ben didn’t know how to respond. No secrets at R T & T.
“So get humping, Kincaid. The trade dress hearing tomorrow is before Old Stone Face, Judge Schmidt. He’s a would-be author of a few unimportant legal articles and fancies himself a celebrated literary figure. So pepper the opening statement with obscure quotations and polysyllabic prose. You should be good at that.” He took a final drag from his cigarette. “And forget about this asinine accountant crap!”
Ben left the office without saying a word. As he walked down the corridor, every secretarial eye was fixed upon him. Ben realized just how loud Derek’s shouting had really been. Was it just Ben or was Derek still on the skids with his wife? That would explain volumes. It seemed as if Derek opposed his investigation of this case at every step.
Ben ducked into the elevator lobby and pushed the DOWN button. Tom Melton and Alvin Hager joined him just as the doors opened. The three of them stepped into the elevator.
“So, Mr. Harvard gave you a bad time, eh?” Alvin asked in a boisterous voice. The elevator descended. “Do you lurk outside of keyholes or what?”
“Not necessary when Derek’s doing the shouting,” Tom said. “What a prima donna. I did think that jab about shareholders’ wives was unfair, though. I mean, it’s not as though it was your idea, after all.” Tom and Alvin looked at each other solemnly, then broke into broad grins.
Tom regained his solemn expression. “Seriously, Ben, try not to worry about him too much. Everyone knows what a prick he is.”
“That’s an understatement,” Alvin added. “Do you realize no associate assigned to Derek has lasted over three years with the firm? Ever. In the twelve years since Derek came here from Philadelphia.”
“That’s pathetic,” Ben mumbled. “Someone needs to do something about him.”
The bell rang, and the doors opened on the ground floor. Alvin and Tom headed toward the fast-food restaurants and ice-skating rink in the mall adjoining the office tower.
“Before we run off, Ben,” Tom said, “are you coming to the recruiting function tonight?”
“Recruiting function? I’ve already been recruited.”
“For next year’s class, Ben. Now that you’re an associate, you have an obligation to pull your weight in recruiting. I’m in charge of the recruiting program, and I’m organizing a little soiree tonight. The firm likes to have new associates in attendance—to tell the new recruits how wonderful life is at R T & T. They’re more likely to listen to someone closer to their own age.”
Ben shook his head. “I don’t think I’d be the ideal pitchman for R T & T.”
“I wouldn’t say no if I were you, Ben,” Alvin remarked. “Just speaking as a friend. The firm higher-ups want tonight’s guest in a bad way. He’s 3L Yale, decent grades, law review. If we can be part of the team that reels him in, it’ll be a feather in our caps. Given your current standing in the firm, you can’t afford to pass up a chance to impress shareholders.”
Ben sighed. “I’ll think about it and get back to you guys. Okay?”
They nodded.
“Is Marianne coming?”
Tom and Alvin exchanged a naughty look. “I don’t think so, Ben,” Tom said. “That wouldn’t be quite appropriate.” They looked at each other again and burst into laughter. Tom swatted Alvin on the shoulder, and the two of them walked off toward the fast-food zone.
Ben watched Heckle and Jeckle recede into the distance. Great, he thought. What next?
After they were gone, he walked until he reached the shopping mall area. He stood at the banister on the third level, looking down on the ice-skating rink below. There was only one person on the ice, a girl, probably in her early teens. She had dark hair and was wearing a skimpy, sequined outfit. She was skating to a classical piece—one of Chopin’s preludes, Ben thought. She raised her arms and executed a nice aerial double spin. She was trying to maintain balance, to remain smooth and graceful, and yet there was something imperfect, something slightly awkward about her execution. Perhaps she was new at this, Ben thought, or was performing a new routine, and was still working out the bugs, still perfecting her art.
Ben stared down at her until the itching in his eyes grew too strong. He turned and, holding his head down so that he could not be seen, raced to the nearest men’s room. He entered one of the stalls, closed the door behind him, sat down on the toilet, and began to cry.
17
WHEN BEN FINALLY RETURNED to his office, Christina was waiting for him.
“What ho!” she said, saluting. “It’s Benjamin Kincaid, Man of Adventure!”
Ben slammed the door shut. “Don’t say that!” he whispered harshly. “Someone might figure it out. Sanguine’s bound to report a break-in. After all, we left the window wide open.”
Christina plopped into one of the orange corduroy chairs. “Sorry, boss. Didn’t mean to get you riled up. Any
luck on the accountant?”
“Are you kidding?” He threw himself into the other chair. “Derek is determined to do this case for next to nothing and doesn’t care if we lose it in the process.”
“Really?” Christina said. “That seems odd.” She meditated for a moment.
Ben dialed the combination on his briefcase and withdrew the manila envelope he had found beneath Adams’s desk drawer. He pulled out ten pages of paper, stapled in the upper left corner. Each page contained five vertical columns; the first contained letters, apparently in code, while the other four all contained numbers. At the top left of the first page someone had scribbled in pencil Comp Sang Summ. Some of the figures had been underlined in red.
“Have you figured out what it is?” Christina asked.
“No,” Ben replied. “I got into law so I wouldn’t have to deal with addition and subtraction and other forms of higher mathematics.” He threw the document back into his briefcase. “How about you? Weren’t you an accountant in a previous life?”
She smiled thinly. “Well, I was going to offer my invaluable assistance, but now I’m not so sure.”
Ben laughed. “C’mon,” he said. “Give me a second chance.”
“Well …” She brushed back her long strawberry hair. “I do have a friend in Bookkeeping here at Raven. Sally might consider taking a look at this on the QT, but you’ll have to make it worth her while.”
“That’s awfully suggestive. Remember, I’m just a naive waif from the suburbs.”
“Don’t worry, Ben. I’ll play chaperone and protect your virtue. I’ll call you when it’s arranged. Will you be home tonight?”
“No. I’m going on a recruiting function with Tom Melton.”
Christina gave him a long, questioning look. “Well, I’ll expect a full report in the morning. Don’t spare me the details.”
She departed, leaving Ben to wonder what that was supposed to mean.
The neon sign pulsed with irritating regularity in garish red: THE BARE FAX. The lights in the second A and X had almost entirely burned out, however, and from a distance the sign read THE BARE F. The windowless building was a small, flat rectangle, made of sloppy stucco and painted a dirty brown color. It looked as if it hadn’t been repainted in ten years, but then, Ben mused, there was no reason why it should be. It was not the aesthetics or architecture that drew in the customers.
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