Chapter Seven
“Coffee, wheat toast, eggs over easy.”
Mac Malden leaned way back in his chair and pulled a Merit out from under his moustache.
“What do I look like, Murphy? A damn waiter?”
“Okay, then, a cup of coffee and a doughnut.”
“There’s nothing here to eat.”
He reached around his gut and stuffed the cigarette butt into the hollow centre of a ceramic dog. Slumping back in his chair, he folded his hands atop the lumpy dome that ran from his sternum to well past his belt. No shame, no attempt to camouflage. Oh, they warned him about high cholesterol, a heart attack risk. He even cut back on a few things, like pastrami, egg rolls. But Mac loved his gut and was damn proud of it. Never in a million years would he turn his back on his gut.
“No doughnuts?”
Mac shook his head and reached for another cigarette.
“You’ve got to be yanking me. A huge building, full of cops… no doughnuts?”
“You know, Murphy, I get so damn tired of those half-ass doughnut gags, I could puke. I’m not serving breakfast here. All I wanna do is ask you a few questions, listen to some of your stupid jokes, maybe get a couple coherent statements out of you, and kick your but out of my office. Then you can buy your own breakfast.”
He stared at me, looking for all the world like a Basset hound, she exhausted from a trip to the slippers. “What d’ya say?Are you gonna play along?”
It was late, at least 10:30am it had been five or six hours since Emily’s would-be murderer hit Chandler Avenue. I was still on the roof in mid-lucky when the cops showed up. They called me down, and I got a look at the face of the Black Arrow Killer. It was the same mug I’d seen in the photo at 771 Santa Cena, shaking hands with President Linderman.
The cops took a statement, then asked me if I’d like to come with them and try the new coffee blend down at the station. I happen to know that the coffee tasted like camel spit — they were just being civil. At the SFPD complex, I was politely asked to take a seat and enjoy one of the many fine magazines available. Some of them were no more than two years old.
There was no smoking allowed in the waiting room. Instead, they had a TV. It was a crappy trade-off. I made one attempt to step outside for breath of unfilled refreshment, but the sergeant assigned to keep an eye on me didn’t like the idea much. Damn nonsmokers.
After what seemed like an eternity in cold turkey/ Network TV purgatory, I was escorted to Mac Malden’s office. By the time the sergeant closed the door behind me, I had my Lucky Strike in hand, already half smoked. Two other men were in the room, nice suits, standing in the corners. Being outnumbered always brings out the antagonist in me.
It turned out that Mac had been investigating a homicide all morning and it was now almost 11 a.m. — way past his bedtime. He always did the questioning whenever I got pulled in. Threatening with me with jail time always seemed to cheer him up, but now he was too sleepy to enjoy it.
Mac planted his elbows on the desk and leaned forward. “Okay. Let’s forget about breakfast and get this over with. Take it from the top. And for God’s sakes, not too many details. I should be in bed, dreaming of egg rolls.”
I recounted my story completely, leaving out any minor details, like Fitzpatrick, Malloy, the mysterious Vid-phone call, and the jaunt through 771 Santa Cena. After I finished, Mac didn’t seem to be satisfied with my version of things. The two suits didn’t move.
“So that’s the whole story.”
“Yup.”
“You’re sure.”
“Absolutely.”
Mac burned another Merit. I glanced down and saw that he’d left another one half smoked in the ceramic dog. Poor sap. Obviously a helpless slave to nicotine.
“Did you know the victim?”
“Who, Emily?”
“No, the one you threw off the roof. The girl’s gonna be fine.”
“Good to hear. What about Leach?”
“The big mutant? I guess a slug nicked him, nothing serious. Now answer the damn question — did you know the guy you threw off the roof?”
“I didn’t throw anyone off the roof. Like I told you, we were rollerblading… things got out of hand. He jammed his front wheel, and… well, you know the rest.”
“Knock it off, Murphy. You seemed to forget I’m a cop. A tired, hungry, pissed off cop. If you don’t get off my nerves, I’ll toss you in the drunk tank, and we’ll try again tomorrow.”
Lord, he was a grouch at this hour of the morning, and the well-tailored statues in the corners didn’t seem to be helping his disposition. To ease the tension, I proceeded to tell him what actually happened on the roof. Mac glanced through a sheaf of papers, then waved his hand toward the door.
“Okay, get outta here. Your story matches up.”
I got out of my chair. “Matches up? With what?” Fife
Mac looked up at me wearily. “We have a witness. You’re clear… hey, Robinson!”
The door opened, and the young cop who’d kept me from losing at least another seven minutes of my life poked his head into the office. “Yes, sir?”
“Escort Mr Murphy out of my office. He’s free to go.”
The young cop nodded. “Oh, and while you’re at it, find Ms Madsen and tell her she can go, too.”
I started after Officer Robinson.
“By the way, Murphy! Don’t go on any sudden trips for a few days. We may want to ask you some more questions.”
“Why would I take a trip, Mac? Around here, every day’s a vacation.”
Mac waved me out. I stopped by a vending machine and spent $2.50 on a cup of hot camel spit. As I passed the waiting room, Officer Robinson was speaking to an extraordinarily attractive woman. The young cop tipped his hat and walked away, leaving her to gather her coat and purse. According to Mac, this woman had been my star witness. It was fate. I moved in. Destiny had a smell; it was warm and musky. I doffed my fedora.
“Good morning.”
“Hello.”
My future partner in eternal bliss seemed to be uninformed of, or at least oblivious to, the aura of destiny that surrounded us. Laying her coat gracefully across her arm, she prepared to walk off with my heart crammed into her handbag.
“I hope you won’t think I’m being forward.”
She glanced up at me with clear eyes. “I won’t. Excuse me, please.”
She glided past me. I move quickly to intercept her before she could reach the automatic doors. “Listen. My name’s Tex Murphy, and I understand that you just did me a real big favour. I’d like to, you know, repay the debt.”
“Thank you, but I’m really not interested.”
She was cool. Very cool. Charm was exuding from every pore. Yet somehow she resisted. It was only a matter of time.
“You want to have dinner tonight?”
“I was planning on having dinner, just not with you.”
Ouch. Deep in my Psyche, Commander Hormone called for a retreat. I moved aside. The beautiful woman swept through the sliding doors, down the steps, out of my life and into the shuttle entrance.
Breakfast or sleep? Food generally takes a back seat to almost everything. I took a taxi back to my office and caught a quick power nap. When I woke up, it was late afternoon, and my initial hunger had passed. It was just as well; I always think more clearly on an empty stomach. After firing up a pot of Java and breakfast Cubana, I sat down at my desk and ran through a mental list of things to get done.
I needed to find out the identity of the man I’d run into last night. For now, I’d call him…Bob. between the clandestine caller at the Twilight and the photographs of Sandra Collins, I had to conclude that Bob was not just a run of the mill pervert. The fact that he appeared to have been searching Emily’s apartment implied another agenda besides serial killing. And what about the mysterious Black Avatar speeder? No, Bob was a part of something bigger. Much bigger.