I thought back to my conversation with Jackson Cross. It seemed like it had been a week since I been taken to the NSA office, but I realised suddenly that it had been less than two days. I checked my watch — the thirty-six hours Cross had given me were almost up. I knew that I couldn’t give up the box, but I was also concerned with my future. I decided to lay out my cards and let Fitzpatrick help me figure out my best hand.
“The NSA gave me an ultimatum to give them the box within thirty-six hours. That was about thirty-three hours ago.”
“You’re surely not thinking of turning it over?”
I shook my head. “No, but I don’t know what I should do. If I run out on the NSA, they’re not going to rest until I’m slowly, painfully dead. I’d just as soon avoid that.”
Fitzpatrick seemed lost in four for some time. “How would you feel about giving me the box?”
“I’m not sure. Can I trust you?” the biggest sucker question in the world. Asked a million times, always answered the same way.
“Yes, you can. I have as much money and other luxuries as I could ever want. My motives here centre solely on following the trail my old friend pointed me toward. I don’t know where it will lead, but I intend to reach the end. If you join me, I believe that will improve my odds of success.” With that little pep talk, he’d convinced me to trust him. I was going to give him the box. Now I just had to find it.
Chapter Sixteen
The phone rang five times, followed by a pause, a click, and a pleasant, girlish voice. “We’re not in at the moment. Please leave a message, and we’ll get back to you. Thanks.”
I hung up. Under normal circumstances, I’d wait until I could talk to Chelsee before breaking into her apartment. Unfortunately, I was short on time.
The door to Chelsee’s apartment was dead bolted. I pulled out my bank card, but it was no use. Without a key, the only possible way to get in was to kick down the door, and always a last resort. I searched around the doorway, hoping to get lucky and find a spare key. No dice. I lit a smoke and paced around, waiting for my muse to speak. Where would Chelsee keep a spare?
The newsstand.
I flew back to Chandler Avenue and made my way furtively to the newsstand. The street was pretty quiet, with almost no foot traffic. I ducked in behind the magazine racks and glanced up toward my office. It seemed to be empty. I didn’t feel like I was being watched, but I still tried to be a stealthy as possible, just to be on the safe side.
I began my search, flipping through magazines, opening books, moving huge piles of publications. Around my hands along the side and bottoms of all the shelves. Ultimately, I reached a point where the only thing left to do was dismantle the entire newsstand. I thought it over. If Chelsee kept a spare key here — which was appearing less and less likely — she would hide it somewhere easily accessible. Tearing down the shelves wouldn’t turn up anything. It looked like I’d have to go back and kick in the apartment door after all.
As I turned to leave, I accidentally bumped a metal frame full of newspapers. Before I could react, it tipped over, spilling papers everywhere and making a loud clatter. I peeked up over the counter. No one was around. Then I reached down and started to pick up the newspapers. There was a 99 brick facade behind where the metal frame had been standing. One of the bricks appeared to be loose. I grabbed it and pulled. It slid out neatly. I leaned down and lit a match in the opening. A house key sparkled in the firelight.
Ten minutes later, I was inside Chelsee’s apartment. It was a small place — a piece of cake to search. At least that’s what I thought for the first half hour. I looked through every drawer, every cupboard, every closet, under the furniture. The box was nowhere to be found. I sat down at the Vid-phone and tried once more the number Chelsee had left me. Still no one home.
It occurred to me that I hadn’t checked the appliances. I went to the kitchen and looked through the stove, the microwave, and the dishwasher. Finally, I opened the refrigerator. It was practically empty. I pulled up the crisper tray. Nothing. I opened the freezer compartment. Two ice-cube trays and a half gallon of chocolate ice-cream. I closed the refrigerator and fired up a cigarette. Where else would it be? I smoked and malt for five minutes. Maybe I was going to hurry up and wait after all. I crushed out the Lucky Strike. I could use a snack.
I got a bowl from one of the cupboards and a spoon from the silverware drawer. Opening the freezer, I grabbed the ice-cream, set the container on the kitchen table, and lifted the lid. There was the box.
I punched in the number for the Imperial Inn. The operator connected me and, a few moments later, Regan Madsen’s staggeringly beautiful face appeared on the screen.
“Hello, Tex.”
“Hi.”
“You ready to get together?”
I certainly was. Stay cool, Murphy. “I think I can squeeze you into my busy schedule.”
Regan smiled exquisitely. “I like the sound of that. When?”
“Whenever you’re free.”
“Oh, I’m never free, but I do have some time. Why don’t you come over here? We can meet in my room.”
It was an appealing suggestion, but I was bringing the box along and wasn’t completely sure I could trust her. “I never go to a woman’s hotel room on the first date. It’d be scandalous behaviour for a chaste young man like myself.”
Regan raised an elegantly curved eyebrows. “I promise, I’ll be gentle.”
“Well, in that case, it’s totally out of the question.”
Her smile was flawless. “You know, some men wouldn’t be so resistant.”
“Yeah, well, some men see a pretty face and turn into a pile of goo. I’m not superficial.”
Regan conceded with a feigned pout. “All right — if we have to — we can meet somewhere that won’t affect your integrity or virtue. There is a lounge here at the Imperial. When can you be here?”
“Give me half-an-hour.”
“Make it twenty minutes. I hate to wait.”
The Imperial Lounge was a class joint — real leather seats, wooden phone booths, and a sofa in the men’s room. Scores of celebrity-autographed photos were hung over shiny silver wallpaper. The bartender wore a tie and didn’t seem to hate his job.
“Guest?”
“Meeting one.”
“First time in, right?”
I nodded and blew out a stream of Lucky smoke.
“What will you have?”
“Bourbon, straight up.”
The Bartender turned and poured two fingers worth into sparkling crystal. He turned back and placed the glass in front of me with the care of a paediatrician. “I’ll comp this one. Think of it as the Imperial Welcome Wagon.”
I pulled out a ten-spot and tossed it onto the bar. “Think of this as a tip.”
The Bartender tapped his forefinger twice on the bar and picked up the bill. I took a sip and slowly scanned the lounge. The bourbon was first rate — another reason to love the Imperial Lounge. The place was pretty big. There were maybe a dozen people in various stages of intoxication, but they were so scattered, it made the place look practically empty.
I had known it would only take me 10 minutes to get here, but I wanted to get in before Regan did and survey the territory. There was no particular reason to think the NSA would be following her, but I wanted to check for myself. The place looked clean. I turned back to the bar and picked up half a Lucky from the large crystal ashtray. A minute later, as I extinguished the smoke, I caught an alluring scent, and Regan slid onto the bar stool to my left. The Bartender hurried over.
“Evening, Ms Madsen. What can I get for you?”
“A glass of Pinot Noir, Douglas. And one more of whatever my friend here is drinking.”