“But they got the wrong guy, right? I mean, the killer is still on the loose.”
“Maybe. The court held him over without bail. Before they could get a hearing, the guy hung himself in his cell. Or that was the official story. Everyone seemed satisfied that they’d gotten their man. No one bothered to ask how Kettler had gotten shoelaces into the cell. The case was closed.”
“Sounds like you don’t buy it.”
“I don’t. I had some connections at the jail. After things blew over a bit, I got in and discreetly interviewed a few people, including the inmate of the adjoining cell. He believed that kettler hadn’t committed suicide — he’d been murdered. He said that two men in suits had come to Kettler’s cell the night before he was found dead. From his description and other details, I think it’s possible, even likely, that the men were NSA agents.”
“But why would the Feds want to kill Kettler?”
“Maybe Ketter was a fall guy. I could just be a sucker for a conspiracy story, or the real killer could have been a policeman, or someone in the government. Maybe the government had a reason for getting rid of the victims. I’ve been following that angle, seeing if there’s any connection between the victims. On the other hand, maybe Kettler was the Killer, but for some reason the Feds didn’t want the case resolved. I don’t know. Regardless, there was a cover-up.”
“Mac Malden said that another victim turned up around here. How does that fit into the picture?”
“It doesn’t. The girl was a grad student at Berkeley. According to her family, she didn’t receive any of the notes associated with the other murders. Her mother is sure that she would have said something. The night she was killed, she wasn’t acting nervous or cautious. The next morning, she was found dead in her bedroom, strangled. A note was found in a desk drawer in the bedroom. As soon as the SFPD found the note, the Feds showed up and took over.”
As Pernell described the events surrounding the most recent murder, a tingling went down my spine. Unless my intuition was way off, the case was beginning to resemble a spider web. Threads, seemingly unrelated, were coming together toward an as yet an unknown axis. Fitzpatrick had told me about a girl from a nearby university. A girl who disappeared. My disbelief in coincidences had never been stronger.
“The girl… was her name Sandra?”
Pernell drain the rest of his burden. “Yeah. Collins. Sandra Collins.”
He got up from the table and excused himself. My mind was racing. What was the common denominator between Fitzpatrick, Malloy, Kettler, and this young woman, Sandra Collins? There were too few details, too many implications. I lit a cigarette. It helped, though it didn’t seem to have instant answers.
“Are you Mr Murphy?”
“Yes?”
The which has picked up the bourbon glasses and white down the table.
“Phone call for you. On the payphone… over there.”
Another noncoincidence. Someone was calling me on a payphone in a bar I’d never been in before.
“Murphy here.”
The voice was being fed through modulator. The video relay was off, of course. “Listen carefully, Mr Murphy. You’re on a very dangerous path. I want to see you reach the end of it, but there are many who would do anything to stop you. Even now, your name is reaching the ears of powerful people, people capable of removing all traces of your existence. If you fail, it will be as if you never lived a day on this earth. But there are more important things at stake than your life. Do you understand?”
I really didn’t, but I was just going along for the ride, and this guy was driving. “I’m pretty sure I do.”
“Good. In one hour and four minutes, you will be at 771 Santa Cena. There is a stairwell on the east side of the building. Go down two flights and wait by the red door. At exactly 2:45, You will hear a click. Open the door, enter, and close the door immediately. Move quickly to the third door on the left. Wait for another click, then enter the office. Check your watch. You will have exactly five minutes to search the office. There will be another click, and you will leave the office. The same thing will happen at the doorway you entered. Do you understand?”
I finished jotting down the information. “Yes. But what will happen if I don’t…”
Dial tone. I switched off the Vid-phone receiver. My PI instincts were napping on this one. Was it legitimate, or was I being set up? The mystery caller had known I was here and probably could have killed me, if he’d felt like it — but he hadn’t. That was encouraging… sort of. As much as I hated to, it seemed like the mystery caller would have to fall, provisionally, into the “Friends of Tex” category. I slipped my notebook back into my coat pocket and returned to Pernell. He’d ordered another round of bourbons, pulled out a notebook and pencil, and seemed ready to give me the third degree.
“I don’t suppose you’d tell me the name of your client.”
“Sorry. Confidential.”
“At least tell me the details of how you got the notes.”
“Wish I could. Unfortunately, it would violate my solemn PI oath.”
“How about letting me have the notes?”
I considered it. They probably weren’t going to help my investigation, but they were evidence. I wasn’t sure I should give them up. “What do you want them for?”
“Visual aids, man. This story has Pulitzer written all over it.”
“Tell you what. I’ll give you one of the notes in exchange any other information you come up with.”
“Deal.” Pernell pulled a business card from his jacket and handed it to me. “That number’s current. I know how to reach you.”
I took the card and handed over one of the notes. “I’ve got to get going. Is there anything else you think I should know?”
Pernell rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Your client is certainly in danger. She should have someone with her at all times.”
Either this guy wasn’t as bright as I thought, or I was a lot brighter than he thought. Like smart enough to tie my own shoes.
“Okay. Is there anything you know that I don’t and should know?”
“One more thing. When I was following the story in Nevada, I met a guy like you. PI. He asked a lot of questions. A week later, he had a tag on his toe. Suicide, I think.”
I threw a fifty on the table. “Thanks for the tip.”
Chapter Six
The building complex at 771 Santa Cena was no different than a dozen others within a ten block radius. Nicely landscaped, on the plain side. Functional, not flashy. The sign on the front said it AUTOTECH. I found the stairwell on the east side and slipped quickly down the stairs. Outside the red door, I checked my watch. I was early… and nervous. Time for a Lucky.
I heard a parental voice in the back of my mind: do you do everything your friends tell you to? What if they’re all jumping off a cliff? I dropped the cigarette butt and crushed it under my shoe. The door clicked — I opened it and stepped inside. The interior was as sterile as a tyrant oppressor. Grey carpet, grey walls, grey fluorescent lights. No decorative touches inside. I pulled the door closed behind me and hurried toward the third door on the left. I was several paces away when I heard a faint clicking sound. They certainly weren’t leaving me any margin of error. I grabbed the door handle and pulled.
It was an office. I was a bit disappointed. I figured on something a little more, well, startling. I checked my watch. 2:46. Five minutes to search an entire office. Luck and speed. I was hoping for luck.
A computer sat on a desk; I flipped it on and began searching the desk as it booted. I tore open the drawers, rifling as fast as humanly possible. Probably hundreds of important documents, but nothing struck me as relevant to my search. I turned to the first of two tall filing cabinets, quickly checking the time. It was 2:47. I opened the top drawer and leafed through a batch of manilla folders. Photographs, autopsies, receipts. It all looked interesting, but again, nothing useful. I turned to the second filing cabinet. All the drawers were locked. 2:48. The wall was bare, except for a certificate bearing an unfamiliar insignia, and several photographs. I didn’t bother to inspect the certificate, I pulled the frame from the wall and checked the back. Nothing.