“Yeah, but-”
“No buts.” Mike shook his head. “She’s crazy. Jesus, I was scared.”
He was two feet from the biker. He could’ve just shot him but the loud noise could draw more nosy guests. He swiped a hand across his forehead and said, “You see how it was, right? I couldn’t take the chance.”
Suddenly his fist lashed out and hit the biker on the nose. A spray of blood and the young man flew off the rear of the bike. Mike calmly walked over and easily lifted him off the ground. He yanked the helmet off his head and let it drop to the ground. The young man weighed about 160 pounds, but Mike was terrifically strong and he held the howling man under his thick arms and sprinted full-speed toward a large oak tree beside the trail. Like the tip of a battering ram, the biker’s head went straight into the bark and split open like a melon. His body went completely limp, and Mike dropped it at the base of the tree. He bent over and checked the man’s pulse-definitely dead.
Anne was just shoving the bike off her body when he returned. A deep gash on her forehead and another cut on her right shoulder were pouring blood. She looked at him and started to scream, when he leaped forward, slapped one hand over her mouth, and lifted her into the air with the other.
He murmured into her ear, “Hey, Anne, we got off on the wrong foot. No more lies between us. This is going to really, really hurt.”
Her eyes bulged with understandable terror as he dragged her with one arm and began picking up the discarded bikes and hauling them into the thick underbrush.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Monday morning-seven o’clock sharp, Indian Summer had come and gone, and I was seated behind my desk at the firm, booting up the computer. The numbers had been crunched and recrunched, the final audit was being drafted, and I was left with a few hours to kill.
So I thought I’d use the opportunity to make a more thorough examination of Lisa’s file. I wasn’t buying into Janet’s suspicion, but the possible theft of Lisa’s computer and briefcase did raise an eyebrow. We had searched her e-mail, and now I thought I’d check her general work file, noodle around, and see if anything struck a chord. It was this or spend the morning with the accountants. So it was this.
The two little boxes appeared, I typed in Lisa’s name, then “J-A-G,” and that pesky “Incorrect Password” message popped up. This was odd.
I was thinking about how odd it was when my phone rang. I lifted it up, said, “Drummond,” and a voice curtly demanded, “Turn off your computer and come see me. Now.”
“Who are-”
“Hal Merriweather. Ninth floor. Three minutes or I’ll send a security officer to get you.”
He hung up. I hate it when people do that.
I walked down the hallway to Elizabeth, who sort of blinked a few times as I approached. But I think she was starting to look forward to our occasional encounters. In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king, or whatever.
I smiled. “Morning, Elizabeth. You look stunning today.”
She giggled. “Oh, you are a flirt, Major Drummond. Rob any banks lately?”
“Gave it up. Too many cameras and security guards.”
“Found a new hobby, have we?”
“Not yet. But I’m looking into overbilling and corporate graft. The boys upstairs swear that’s where the big bucks are.”
She laughed.
I leaned across her desk and asked, “Hal Merriweather?”
“Hal, is it?” She diddled with something on her desk. “You haven’t managed to land on his bad side, have you?”
“Who is he?”
“Our superintendent of administration. Not one to have mad at you, I should say.”
“Why?”
“He’s quite powerful, really. My supervisor. In charge of security, administration, personnel.”
English people tend to speak in these odd half-sentences, like only an idiot needs a fully expressed thought. Well, I’m an idiot.
I tapped a finger on the desktop.
“Oh, let me see. He’s youngish, early thirties I should think. Very efficient and quite competent, though I should say a bit difficult to get along with.”
Subtlety is another English trait, and I translated this to mean Hal was a type-A asshole. I had reached this conclusion already. I told her, “I need the key to go up and see him.”
“Ring you up, did he?”
“He heard what a great guy I am and wants to meet me.”
She laughed. “Be on your toes, Major. Hal’s manners could stand a bit of polish.”
So she handed me the stairwell key, and actually, Hal’s office wasn’t that hard to find. His name was inscribed in gold letters on his doorway, like the partners’, and happened to be located in the connecting corridor between the junior and senior partners. Given that all kinds of people downstairs with law degrees were killing themselves to get an office on this floor, and that the rest of the administrative staff were packed on the seventh floor, it struck me that Hal’s stature within the firm perhaps exceeded his title.
The door was locked, so I knocked, a buzzing sound emitted, and I entered. Nobody was present, just two vacant desks in what appeared to be a narrow outer office. I walked to the next door and knocked again. Maybe this was like one of those dozens of boxes inside a box thing, and I’d keep walking into smaller and smaller rooms, and Hal was actually a midget who worked inside a tiny drawer.
But another buzzing sounded, and I entered what appeared to be the inner sanctum, where a guy who looked like he was named Hal was seated behind a desk. He was, as Elizabeth warned, in his mid-thirties, short and pudgy, with balding dark hair, flat black pig eyes, and a thick, imperious nose.
He also wasn’t alone. Harold Bronson, the managing partner, and Cy, my titular boss, stood directly behind him. From Cy I was getting the old avoid-my-eyes routine. And from Bronson the-old-happy-guy-who-wasn’t-happy act.
Hal was scowling and ordered, “Take a seat.”
So much for pleasantries. I stood.
“Suit yourself,” he said.
“I always do, pal.” Regarding Hal’s office, the desk, files, and bookcases appeared to have been purchased from an Office Depot sale. No paintings of ships or lush oriental carpets, nor was there any of the general clutter you associate with a real working office, suggesting Hal either didn’t have much of a job, or was one of those anal neat freaks. Also of interest were the video monitors mounted on wall brackets. One showed the entryway, where sat Elizabeth, energetically buffing her nails. Another showed an empty stairwell, presumably the one that led to the partners’ floor. And last, the interior of the elevator.
Among his other talents and duties, Hal appeared to be the partners’ watchdog. He probably had a gun inside another drawer and would love nothing more than to cap somebody for trespassing, or farting in the partners’ elevator.
Anyway, I smiled and reminded him, “You called me, Hal.” I looked at my watch. “My time is billable. You’ve got thirty seconds and I go back to work.”
It seemed clear that we were on the verge of a nasty little power spat, and I wanted to get in the first blow.
An eyebrow twitched, he flopped open a manila folder, and studied something with great care and interest. With no preamble, he mentioned, “At 5:46, on Thursday night, you signed a Miss Janet Morrow into the firm. Correct?”
“Does it say that on the sign-in form?”
“It does.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“At 5:55 P.M. you logged onto the firm’s server. Correct?”
“What form does it say that on?”
“The central server monitors all transactions. I receive a complete printout twice a day.” He snapped, “At 5:55, correct?”
“You’re sure it wasn’t 5:57?”
The piggy eyes turned piggier. “The server is recalibrated every fourth second by the clock at Greenwich. It is accurate to within three microseconds. It does not make errors.”