“Mulder Memorial Museum. How can I help you?”
“Is Oliver in today?”
“I’m sorry. Mr Edsen won’t be in for several days. Can I do something for you?”
Oliver Edsen. By the way the young man referred to him, he was probably the museum director or had some other important position. I asked the young man for the address and business hours. After I disconnected, if I checked my watch. If I topped out my speeder, I might just get to the museum before it closed. Within five minutes, I was headed south.
I flew like a man possessed and reached the museum in record time. As I made my approach, I got a good look at the building. It was impressively designed and appeared to have been recently constructed. Three storeys of gleaming glass and steel. I jumped out of my speeder and hurried to the front door. I was only seconds late, but the door was locked. Pressing my face the glass, I peered inside, but there was no one in sight. These people took closing time seriously.
I considered my options. First, I could try to get inside, but it would probably be better to attempt a breakin later, when normal people would be in bed. Second, I could just get a room somewhere and start over tomorrow.
After some quick contemplation, I decided I didn’t feel like waiting that long. I’d come back in a few hours and practice my burgling skills.
Not far from the museum, I found a reputable looking cafe. I hadn’t eaten all day and suddenly realised I was famished. Breakfast being the most important meal of the day, I ordered blueberry pancakes with a side of bacon and coffee. After I ate, I spent the next couple hours exploiting the restaurant’s free-refill policy and reading the LA Times.
Eventually, the traffic slowed down, and I figured it was probably late enough for criminal activity. I flew my speeder to a used-speeder lot, about half a block from the museum, then walked the rest of the way. From the front door, I could see lights on in the back. A cleaning woman emerged and flipped on the lights in the front. I moved quickly away from the door and walked around to the right side of the building, into a narrow alley. A Van with the words Carl’s a Cleaning Service stencilled on the side was parked here. Maybe twenty-five feet down the alley, a short, mustachioed man was leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. Just behind him, I saw a door slightly ajar, with a thin beam of light streaming out. Suddenly, a smoky, drinky voice spoke from behind me. I turned to see two working girls giving me the eye.
“Hello, sailor. Lookin’ for a date?”
The woman who’d spoken looked at me with bleary eyes under a wig coloured in a way God never intended. Her face was made up to the point of disguise. For all I knew, it could have been J Edgar Hoover under there, and he’d been dead for decades. Her companion looked younger, though, of course, I was just guessing. The younger woman’s eyes were still moderately clear, contrasting disturbingly with a painted face.
“How’re you girls tonight?”
“We’re doing all right. Why don’t you let us show you a little piece of heaven?”
“You’re not Jehovah’s witnesses, are you?”
The older woman look to the younger one and smirked. “We can be if you want us to. You wouldn’t be the first.”
“No thanks. Actually, I’m not looking for any company right now.”
The older woman shrugged indifferently. “Your loss.”
The working girls turned and started sauntering back the way they came. I peeked around the corner and saw my little swarthy friend was still there. I turned and caught up to the women. “Tell you what. My friend’s taking a smoke break just around the corner over there. It’s his birthday, and I’d kind of like to give him a surprise. How much do surprises cost in this part of town?”
The older woman didn’t blink. “Two hundred. Each.”
“I only need one of you.”
They looked at each other. The younger woman spoke for the first time. She wasn’t as young as I’d thought she was. “What the hell? It’s a slow night.” I shelled out the cash and sent them around the corner. After a minute, I peeked around and saw my little friend flanked by the women, heading toward the dark end of the alley. I crept toward the door and slipped inside.
“Carl? Get in here, Carl!”
Off to my left, I could hear the cleaning woman yelling. I ducked to my right and hurried out of sight. Behind me, I could hear the woman stomping toward the side door. I took cover behind a table and looked up as she appeared. She was holding a mop and looked pretty upset. Then she stuck her head out the door and yelled for Carl again. Setting down the mop, she went outside. As she moved through the doorway, I caught a glint of something on a counter by the door. I walked over and saw a ring of keys. Snatching them up, I turned and moved away from the door.
I figured Oliver Edsen would have had an office somewhere in the mu-seum, probably on one of the upper floors. I ran up a flight of stairs to the second floor, moving as quickly as possible and keeping my eyes and ears wide open. If there were other cleaning people in the building, I at least wanted to see them before they saw me. Luckily, the second floor seemed to be deserted. It didn’t take long to find Edsen’s office. According to the nameplate on the door, he was the museum’s director. I tried the door knob, but the Office was locked. Pulling out the keys, I began trying each one. On the eighth key, the door unlocked. I threw it open and stepped inside.
I thought for a minute before flipping on the light. Maybe a light would attract attention — but the cleaning people were here, and they were turning lights on and off all over the place. It would probably be OK. Unless, of course, the cleaning people saw the light. Maybe the cleaning woman had found Carl. If she had, I doubt they’d notice much of anything for a few minutes.
Turning on the light, I went to Edsen’s desk. All the drawers were locked. I glanced at the key ring, but Edsen would certainly keep his own desk keys. The one bookcase had nothing much that I could see. A filing cabinet was also locked tight. I look through the things on Edsen’s desk, but he seemed to be annoyingly organised.
Several framed photographs were mounted on the walls. In one, I saw the familiar face of Elijah Witt. Standing next to him was a tall, thin man with a gaunt, clean-shaven face. Since he appeared in several of the other pictures, I figured he had to be Edsen.
As a last resort, I checked out the garbage can. Beneath the Styrofoam coffee cups, newspaper, and cigar butts, I found an envelope. It was empty, but there was a sticky note attached to it. On the note was written: LAX Flight #1881, Dep. 4/22, 4:05 p.m., C-16, Arr 4/26, 11:33 p.m. it had to be the itinerary for the trip Edsen was on. I thought back to what I’d heard at Witt’s when they were talking about Edsen: He said he received it, but he doesn’t have it with him… we have to wait until he gets back. He said he can get it as soon as he returns. He’d left the box at the airport! That’s where it had to be!
I turned off the lights and left Edsen’s office. No voices came from the first floor as I descended the stairs. I set the keys on the counter where I found them and peeked out the door. From the end of the alley and around the corner, I could hear the cleaning woman giving Carl an earful. Poor guy. I ran to my speeder and set course for LAX.
Like any other major airport, LAX is a sprawling, bustling, overcrowded Tower of Babel. Apart my speeder and entered the main terminal. After following signs for several miles, I found myself in the vicinity of gate C-16. I looked around and saw six different banks of storage lockers. If my hunch was correct, Edsen had dumped the box into a locker just before getting on his plane. Provided that the NSA hadn’t yet been talking to him, and airport storage locker would be as safe a place as any to keep the box.