by Walter Grant
He paused, as though collecting his thoughts, giving her time to consider his plight, before continuing despairingly. “As I explained to you on the telephone, Mr. Gilbird failed to show up for a required physical, and without a physical the company will not issue a new life insurance policy. However, in this case Mr. Gilbird assured the company representative that he would keep the appointment for the physical, so the local agent took it upon himself to write the policy, which is legal and binding even though the agent went against company policy. Since no one seems to know why Mr. Gilbird failed to keep the appointment, or of his whereabouts, the company is somewhat concerned. Well, more than concerned. I would say they’re in a bit of a panic. I suspect some heads will roll before all this is cleared up. So if you could just let me take a look at your books I can tell them everything is okay and when your boss gets back from his vacation he can make another appointment for a physical and everybody will be happy—especially me, since I’ll receive a fat fee for my efforts and will be able to catch up on my bills and stay in business for a couple more weeks.” Max hesitated for a few seconds, then with a look of desperation and a voice that pleaded said, “I’ll be in and out in just a few minutes; no one will ever know I was here.”
Max wasn’t sure if his emotional plea was having any effect. The woman seemed moved, but appeared to be more interested in her cinnamon roll than his problems. He continued to plead, “Lady, this job might mean the difference between keeping my business or closing my office and going to work for another agency.”
Max wasn’t sure whether his story or the lure of her cinnamon roll did the trick, but she pulled open a drawer, removed a ring of keys and said, “I’ll show you where the records are kept.”
Max followed the woman through the door designated Private into what was apparently the employees’ lounge. Two tables were lined up in the center of the long, somewhat narrow room. Several chairs were scattered about on either side of the tables. A counter with a deep sink, a coffeemaker, a toaster, and a microwave, with a refrigerator at one end and vending machines at the other end lined one wall. The entire opposite side of the room opened into the warehouse. At this time, however, a steel mesh curtain, similar to the ones used by merchants in shopping malls to secure their spaces at night, prohibited access to the warehouse. The mesh curtain also prevented two very large Doberman pinschers from entering the lounge.
The woman continued straight across the lounge until she reached a door with a large sign that read, Supervisor. She selected a key from the ring, unlocked the door, and swung it open. Max followed her into an office of comfortable size with two desks, each equipped as to be expected in a supervisor’s office—a telephone, in and out baskets and several stacks of papers. Two filing cabinets stood in each corner behind the desks and clipboards, numbered 1 through 30, hung in three neat rows of ten each along the wall. On the same wall a couple of dozen sets of keys with numbered tags hung on corresponding pegs. As in the lounge, the wall opposite the desks opened into the warehouse with the same type of steel mesh curtain separating Max and the woman from the Dobermans as they sat dutifully on the other side of the mesh curtain, watching their every move. No signs gave any indication of what might be behind yet another door at the opposite end of the room.
The woman unlocked one of the filing cabinets, pulled open three drawers and said, “Our tax returns are here, our accounts due are in this one, and you will find accounts receivable in this one.” She pointed to each drawer in turn.
“What’s behind that door?” Max asked, nodding in the direction of the unmarked door.
“I don’t know, I’ve never been inside. It’s Mr. Gilbird’s office.” She volunteered the information without being asked. “But I’m sure you’ll find everything you need in these files. I have to go back up front now.” She started to leave, and then asked anxiously, “You won’t be long?”
“No, I’ll be only ten or fifteen minutes,” Max assured her.
Max pulled a few pages from the records in the filing cabinets and slipped them into his attaché case before turning his attention to the unmarked door the secretary had indicated was Gilbird’s office. The lock had been difficult and took the better part of five minutes to open although he had the latest lock-picking device—Max wondered if he was just out of practice or if they were building better locks.
Max opened the door and was surprised to find the lights had been left on, whether on purpose or by accident he didn’t know, nor did it matter. He stepped into a plush and spacious office with 14-foot-high ceilings. A large desk stood in each corner, all neat and uncluttered. One glance and he knew his suspicions were right. Centered on the wall opposite the door was a 10-by-12-foot world map, an area drawn in and crosshatched, on the map, extending from the California coast to Kwajalein; he guessed it to be the Pacific Missile Test Range. Several other areas in the Pacific were also outlined and labeled. The wall to the right of the door had an equally large U.S. road map, with every military base labeled and color coded. Several major cities along the California coast had been circled; Max surmised the numbers written alongside the circled cities represented the populations of each city. The color-coded latitudinal and longitudinal notations starting just above Los Angeles and continuing down the coast into Mexico were puzzling; however, Max did not have the time to give the notations lengthy consideration. A chalkboard, wiped clean, hung on the wall left of the door. Each desk had its own computer terminal complete with monitor and printer. He didn’t know much about the janitorial business, but he did know that the computer mainframe standing against the wall adjacent to the door with a heavy-duty modem capable of handling a large number of incoming or outgoing calls all at the same time, could easily handle the needs of every business in town with room to spare. A bank of military-looking transceivers standing beside the computer was of considerable interest to Max, but first things first; he would check out the transceivers later. A copy machine and a fax phone sat on a table on the other side of the door.
Forgetting access codes was one of those things that a majority of computer operators feared and it seemed to be common practice to write down personal access codes, just in case their memory failed them, and hide them somewhere in their desk. It took only a couple of minutes to locate a list of access codes and corresponding files along with telephone numbers for the modem. This was all he needed. Unless the codes were changed, he could use any computer with a modem to search through the files in Gilbird’s computer at a more convenient time.
There was no corresponding ring, but a light blinking on the telephone, signaling an incoming call, caught his attention. He waited until the blinking was replaced by a continuous glow, indicating the girl up front had answered, before easing the receiver off the cradle and lifting it to his ear. The woman was trying to explain about the mix-up with his appointment when a voice on the other end, using a sufficient number of superlatives, declared the girl to be an idiot and instructed her, in no uncertain terms, to do whatever was necessary to insure that Mr. Jeff Price would be present when he arrived, adding the threatening phrase, “If you know what’s good for you.”
Max had no way of knowing how far away Bell lived, but he had no intention of being around when he arrived. The woman didn’t concern him. He had no reason to hide his activities from her or worry about when she would come back to find out what he was doing. Of course, if he had suspected her of being one of Gilbird’s people, he would have felt differently. He replaced the telephone receiver, opened his attaché case and took out a microcassette tape recorder.
Most touch-tone telephones had a system for automatically dialing prerecorded numbers. Max pressed a button to select a line different from the one Bell had used to call the woman’s office, then laid the receiver on the tape recorder so that the earpiece was directly above the built-in microphone and switched the tape recorder to record mode. Next he punched the redial button on the phone and recorded the series of tones as the telephone automatically dialed
the last number called. He momentarily held down the button on the telephone cradle so as to disconnect the outgoing call, and then touched a button on the phone labeled Memory and the buttons 0 and 1. A different series of tones were recorded. Again he momentarily held down the button on the receiver cradle before touching the buttons marked 0 and 2 and recorded the tones. Using the same procedure Max continued recording until he had the tones for all the pre-recorded numbers on tape. Later he could use the tones to dial from another phone or he could convert them to the actual numbers and use a reverse directory to find the addresses; hopefully, something useful would turn up.
He was placing the tape recorder back inside his attaché case when the woman opened the door leading to the lounge. She stopped dead in her tracks as she looked through the first office at Max walking out of Gilbird’s office. As he approached her she asked in a shaky voice, “How did you get in there?”
She recovered quickly as she obviously remembered that she was supposed to keep him around, not chase him off, so she answered her own question. “I guess it must have been unlocked.” Max knew she was well aware that the door was always locked, even when occupied.
She was still a bit shaken, but was managing fairly well. “Are you finding everything you need? I have some time now—can I help you with anything or assist you in any way?”
“No, thank you. I have all I need. Everything looks okay, I’ll send in my findings this afternoon and I’m sure the insurance company will be very happy with my report.” There was no reason to tip her off to the fact that he had eavesdropped on her telephone conversation. He headed for the door where she stood.
“Are you sure? I could make copies of any documents you might want to include in your report.”
She obviously wasn’t aware he had listened in on Bell’s phone call. She had only taken a couple of steps into the room and now stepped backward in an attempt to keep Max from opening the door.
“I was kind of hoping you might stay around awhile.” Her voice had taken on a seductive tone, her eyes fluttered, and her tongue flicked out to moisten her lips. Max figured Bell must have scared the hell out of her because she sure was doing her best to detain him.
“It gets kind of lonely around here.” She took one step toward him, but, still blocking the door, added, “If you know what I mean.” She brought her hands up to cup her breasts and gave them a little squeeze. Desperation was beginning to show in her face and she was having a difficult time keeping her voice from breaking.
“I could lock the front door; no one would disturb us.” Max felt sorry for the woman.
“Thanks, but I have to go.”
“Please, you can’t leave, you have to stay.” She was pleading now.
“I’m very sorry, but I can’t.” He took her by the shoulders, moved her aside, opened the door, and walked out into the lounge. She ran after him, catching up just as he entered her office. “You lied to me!” she yelled.
He continued walking through her office and onto the loading dock. She followed, clutching at his arm. “You lied to me, and now I’m going to lose my job!”
She started to cry. “I need this job,” she sobbed.
“Damn!” Max swore under his breath. He knew he should walk away and never think about her again. It was frightening that he should consider anything other than walking away; the fact that the woman was telling the truth wasn’t the problem. Yes, he had lied to her and played on her emotions—probably the reason his ploy had worked so well was that she really did need her job and was sympathetic to a fellow human being in the same boat. But so what—he had more to worry about than some naïve broad. In his world the weak died young and he wasn’t ready to die just yet. He wanted to walk away, but couldn’t. She was right; he had lied to her and jeopardized her job, and maybe even her life. Of course, there was always a chance she was one of Gilbird’s agents, and the tears were just an act, but he didn’t think so. She appeared to be frightened half to death. If she was acting she was one of the best he’d ever encountered.
“How long before they arrive?” She kept right on crying, seemingly oblivious to the question. Max grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, repeating the question. “How long before they arrive?”
The crying stopped; she seemed a total blank for a moment or two. “Ten minutes, maybe more, maybe less,” she replied after looking at her watch. Then she volunteered, “Mr. Bell lives in Vandenberg Village. It’s a twenty to thirty minutes drive, depending on traffic.”
“Damn!” Max swore again, mumbling under his breath, and then said, talking to himself, “Ah, what the hell.”
Then he spoke directly to the woman, “Okay lady, I know I got you into trouble and against my better judgment I’m going to try to get you out of whatever danger you may be in right now, but you’ve got to trust me, okay?”
“I, I, I don’t know,” she stammered.
“Alright, I’m going to tell you something I shouldn’t and you had better make up your mind fast. Otherwise, I’m out of here.”
Looking straight into her eyes he said. “Gilbird is dead.” He let her think about what he had said for a moment or two, and then repeated it for effect and slipping in a lie he figured would do the trick unless she was either stupid or crazy or both. “Gilbird is dead and I think Bell killed him.”
For good measure he flipped open a leather-bound ID case exposing an FBI identification card and badge and let her take a good look at it. She sucked in her breath; her skin suddenly became clammy and turned a ghostly white. Max thought she was going to collapse; he grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her hard. As she recovered her senses he snapped, “Well, what’ll it be?”
She could barely speak. “What do you want me to do?” she asked in a shaken, almost inaudible, voice.
“Do you have a family in town?”
“No, I have a boyfriend, but he moved out two days ago and took all my money when I told him I was pregnant. That’s why I need this job so badly. My rent is due next week and my car payment is already a month overdue.”
“Damn!” He swore under his breath again, and asked without thinking, “How did you get your life so screwed up, lady?”
She started to cry again. Well, at least she had no ties in the area, which was good. Max grabbed her by the shoulders again and forced her to look him in the face, then asked, “Is there someplace at least a 1,000 miles from here where you could start a new life, if you had the money?”
She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and answered, “I have a sister in Coos Bay.”
“When I say a new start, I mean one without relatives or friends.”
She thought for several seconds, then said. “I used to visit my aunt in Atlanta when I was a teenager. I haven’t been back since she died about twelve years ago. Is Atlanta okay?”
“Atlanta sounds good, but don’t call or write anyone in Lompoc or tell anyone you lived here and don’t ever mention Spic and Span Janitorial. Don’t visit or write any relatives or old friends for at least a couple of years, okay?”
“Okay.” She seemed even more frightened than before; he certainly hoped so, since scaring the hell out of her was exactly what he was trying to do. Well, she certainly seemed willing, at this point, to do whatever he suggested.
The paranoia plaguing agents who spent too much time on the other side of the wall crept into his thinking as he wondered if maybe she was too willing. Recognizing the symptoms, he dismissed the question. He knew this was in itself dangerous. One day he might attribute a logical question to paranoia and it would cost him his life.
“One question first.”
“Okay.”
“Why did you call Bell?” He knew she hadn’t called, but he just wanted to hear her respond to the question.
“I didn’t. He called me, wanted to know who was in Mr. Gilbird’s office.”
“I guess I must have tripped an alarm. We probably have less time than you think, so let’s di di mau.”
“Let’s wha
t?” He didn’t bother to explain; she wouldn’t understand anyway. Hell, you had to have been there.
“Take your car to the shopping center just past the post office and park near Safeway, then walk back to the post office and wait for me inside. Don’t leave with anyone no matter what they tell you. If they insist, yell your head off. Do not, and I repeat, do not, go home, don’t stop to see anyone, and don’t call anybody.”
She hurried down the steps and opened the door to the Tempo before realizing she didn’t have her keys or purse. She ran back up the steps, through the door into her former office, and was back in a flash with her purse. “What are you going to do?” she asked in a worried voice as she fumbled through her purse for the keys to her car.
Max knew she was wondering what to do if he failed to show up as promised. “Don’t worry, I’ll be there. I just want to check on one more thing.”
She wasted no time getting her car started. He waited until she made the turn onto the highway before walking down the steps to the TransAM.
He reached the pullout above Highway 246 before anyone arrived at the warehouse; at least no vehicles were parked beside the loading dock. He parked the Pontiac, got out, unlocked the trunk, snapped open the locks on a small suitcase with padded compartments and removed a portable tape player and headset, resembling those used by walkers, joggers, and cyclists. He closed the suitcase and trunk compartment a couple of seconds before a Camero IROC Z28 made a fast turn onto the dirt road leading to Spic and Span Janitorial and slid to a stop beside the loading dock. Two guys piled out of the “Z” and took the steps two at a time, ran across the dock and into the warehouse. Less than a minute passed before a late-model Cadillac pulled in behind the Camero. A man got out and hurried into the warehouse.