That’s when one of them, a man I would not recognize if I ran him over with my Winger twenty minutes later, extracted from somewhere a black briefcase, which slid open to reveal my shiny semi-automatic. Very nearly made my jaw pop out of joint.
I got suspicious. “Never seen a murder weapon returned in any of the police dramas,” I said.
They got a good chuckle out of that one.
“We would certainly understand if you preferred for us to keep it, Mr. Whales,” the tall fed, Agent Bright One or something, said finally when the smiles were turned off.
“Can’t possessing a murder weapon implicate me somehow?” Their merriment was renewed.
Bright One shook his head. “Not unless it’s used again. The case is also yours, Mr. Whales. It has a good lock. Compliments of the Bureau. To add to that official apology.”
So I took the gun and the briefcase and, instead of stopping by the network, drove straight home, feeling suddenly vulnerable.
At the garage check point I was halted by Jeffrey’s face.
“Mr. Whales.”
“How is it going, Jeffrey?”
“Very good, sir. I have a package for you. Would you like me to bring it upstairs?”
“A package?” I asked, and for some reason glanced at the briefcase on the passenger seat.
“Yes, sir. I believe it’s a telephone.”
“A cell phone! Of course. It’s all right, Jeffrey. I’ll pick it up on my way.”
“Very good, sir. But…” Here he brought his face closer to the cam, spilling it beyond the borders of the screen on my side. Anxiety, so recently banished, sprung up inside me again. What could it be this time? I held my breath, waiting. “But there are reporters here,” he finished gravely.
I exhaled and even laughed. I must really be rattled, I thought. A gun that I myself chose and bought had me driving with both hands on the steering wheel. Now a pair of reporters almost spooked me into cold sweat. What’s next? A shoe squeak will cause a heart failure? I guess one day isn’t quite enough to heal my nervous system, even it if is, possibly, the happiest day of my life.
“Thanks for warning me, Jeffrey,” I said cheerfully. “I’ll be right there.”
I should have had Jeffrey deliver it. That was the wrong heroism opportunity to take advantage of. Instead of a pair, there were a couple dozen reporters with cameras on their heads swarming out of every corner of the vestibule as soon as I set my foot out of the elevator.
Taken aback, but only for the moment it took the professional instincts to kick in, I smiled and nodded and answered the same questions they’d asked me at the FBI, the only difference being the phrasing. FBI: “Upon entering your dwelling on the early afternoon of October the 28th, was your life directly threatened by a weapon held in Mr. Freud’s hand?” Media: “It must have been a horrific experience to open the door of you home and find a corpse and a gun brandished by a deranged man pointed at your head? What were his first words?” Uh-huh.
I don’t know why I did what I did as my closing act, but it seemed like a cute idea at the time. I opened the briefcase and showed them the gun, preceding its appearance with a nasal, Chase-like “Murder Weapon” announcement.
Let me tell you, when the Russian President had gone public with the “Vodka Tax” a couple of months earlier, the Red Square might have witnesses more raw emotion than the lobby of my building was presently enduring, but it wouldn’t win by too large a margin. You wouldn’t believe that much noise could be produced by twenty pneumatic drills, much less twenty reporters. I couldn’t make out a word they were saying, but at that point no one cared. They were oblivious to me. Their eyes stared unblinkingly at the gun as they continued to scream their questions. It was the gun the questions were directed at. Which was ultimately to my advantage. I was able to close the briefcase and, disregarding their collective groan, slip quietly out to the elevator, while they remained in orgasmic shock.
In blissful silence I entered my home, just in time to see myself — and the Silver Killer — “live” on TV.
I opened the package and caught my fingers punching in Iris’s digits. Shaking my head happily, I dialed Paul instead. This time he picked up.
“Luke?” he gasped. “What the hell, man? I’m watching you live on TV.”
“That was about five minutes ago.”
“How is it ‘live’ then?”
“Everything within thirty minutes is ‘live.’”
“Shit, well, that suddenly seems like a freaking rip-off.”
“I thought you worked for a network.”
“Yeah, but I was in sound. You know: lower the volume for entertainment, crank it up for commercial breaks.”
“That was you!” I exclaimed. “I always hated that.”
“I’m sure you did. Your mug was in half of those commercials. Speaking of your mug. How come you’re not on my display? I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I am ‘live’ on your TV.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“Just unpacked the cell.”
“Ah.” I heard the noise in the background stop. “So tell me what the hell really happened to you.”
“Come visit, and I will. And bring a bottle of something strong with you. All I have here is wine and I don’t want to go back out there.”
He shrugged. “Fine. I’ll show up. Got any food?”
“No, but I could order Chinese.”
He ordered beef and hung up.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Special Agent Brome read the transcript of Whales’s deposition at his desk, while everyone stopped by to express their congratulations, surprise at his being in the office and concerns regarding his health. To be sure, he was feeling not a little sick. Only some of it was caused by the lingering aftertaste of the greenish vomit he’d splashed all over the toilet back at his house.
Maybe it was good he hadn’t been present during Whales’s visit. Brighton, who was now gazing down at him from his perch on the corner of the desk, had said as much.
But Brome was in a bad mood. He was well past his usual, diplomatic indifference.
He closed the digital file, got up from his chair, bent down towards his partner and, having still retained enough control not to raise his voice, hissed, “This is bullshit.”
Brighton grimaced. “You see? That’s why you shouldn’t have come back today—”
“Listen,” Brome cut him off, deepening the grimace. “I was there. I don’t know what it was I shot, but it sure as hell wasn’t a fat mustached guy in a leather jacket.”
“Three bullets fired from your gun are still in his chest.”
“I was knocked out. Someone could—”
“Who? Whales? The old man? The chick? Why?”
“I don’t know why. And I don’t know who—” Brome did raise his voice now. Several heads turned and it was Brighton’s turn to hiss.
“Calm down. You aren’t thinking clearly. You should go back home—”
Brome inhaled deeply. “What about the holes?”
Brighton didn’t answer. For a moment he seemed thoughtful. Brome pointed down at the desk.
“There’s not a word about the holes in the walls in there. Did anyone bother to ask for an explanation of that? Or did you think this Dr. Young simply had a strange interior design taste?”
“Yes, the holes are bizarre,” Brighton admitted. “But we found an extremely high caliber weapon inside, which presumably belonged to Dr. Young. I tell you, that thing could make holes.”
“Why did Whales forget to mention it in his statement? And we forgot to ask him about it.” Some of that diplomacy was returning. Otherwise, Brome would have said, “You forgot to ask him.” Brighton caught the meaning nonetheless.
“It’s not that important. The important thing is he confirmed there was an altercation between Freud and the rest of them, which escalated. He confirmed the before and the after, and he didn’t get hit by a car.”