Aaron Conners - Tex Murphy 02 by Under a Killing Moon Page A
Authors: Under a Killing Moon
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There was only one guy inside, slumped in the passenger seat, eyes closed and mouth open.
The man talking to Chelsee left the newsstand and walked toward the cop speeder, holding two Styrofoam cups and a bulging bag. What were the cops doing on a stakeout in our sleepy little neighborhood? I’d been accused of taking too many things personally, and this was no exception. I moved away from the window and returned to my desk.
Over a second cup of joe, I wondered what the chances were of me being the target. I tried to think what I could possibly have done to piss of the SFPD. Except for the job in Mexico City, the most interesting thing I’d done since sobering up was experimenting with a tartar control gel. Everything before that was a bit blurry, but I couldn’t remember doing anything illegal. Despite being reasonably sure I wasn’t in trouble, I decided to keep a low profile.
My first priority was to find out who’d set me up. I’d never enjoyed being played for a sap, and I was about to get a hospital bill that I had no intention of paying. Besides, there were no messages on my vid-phone, no cases lined up, and I was determined not to fall back into a life of sloth and slobbering.
A good place to start would be the Century 22 real estate agency. I’d jotted down the number from the For Sale sign at the countess’s “bungalow.” I punched in the number on my vid-phone. After three rings, a handsome black woman with large, shiny eyes and a perfect, easy smile answered.
We chattered for several minutes about 2429 Filmore. Kaitlyn Abbot, the real estate agent, told me that the house had been owned by an older woman named Mrs.
Greenburg, but that she’d passed away some time ago. Mrs. Greenburg’s two children, both of whom lived out of state, had decided to sell the house. Mrs. Abbot went on to say that the place had been unoccupied for at least six months.
After I disconnected, I mulled over the fact that the mansion had supposedly been vacant for months. Countess Renier, if that was her real name, had certainly shown a bold streak by staging her ruse in the empty house. I had to admire the audacity.
Unfortunately, that didn’t take the sting out of being used like a Kleenex. If I’d been a realist, I might have filed the whole episode under Learning Experiences, but I’d never been accused of being a realist. Besides, I had nothing else to do. The question was, where to begin? The mansion was all I had to work with. Maybe the imposter countess had left something traceable behind. I decided to make a return trip.
A light acid rain was falling as I left the office and hurried to my speeder, carefully sidestepping the street’s minefield of oily pools. I was sporting my good Dexter wing tips and always tried to keep them safe from inclement weather and low pH puddles.
Inside the speeder, I lifted off and headed toward Pacific Heights.
I parked several houses away from 2429 and made my way to the back of the mansion without being seen. I entered the “bungalow” and spent the next hour going through the sitting room, looking for anything that might give me a lead. The high point of my search was finding a full ashtray. The cigarettes were marked with a symbol I’d never seen before.
I poured some of the cigarette butts into an envelope I found in my overcoat pocket, then left the residence and stealthily made my way back to the speeder. Maybe a tobacconist could identify the brand of cigarettes. It wasn’t the greatest lead in the world, but it might be just slightly better than nothing.
I lifted off and flew several blocks, until I reached a convenience store with pay phones out front. Jumping out of the idling speeder, I jogged through the misty downpour. At the pay phone, I inserted a dollar bill, and the directory menu appeared on-screen. I accessed the listing for tobacconist shops and decided to start at the Cigar Bar, since it had the catchiest name, as well as being the closest to my
The man talking to Chelsee left the newsstand and walked toward the cop speeder, holding two Styrofoam cups and a bulging bag. What were the cops doing on a stakeout in our sleepy little neighborhood? I’d been accused of taking too many things personally, and this was no exception. I moved away from the window and returned to my desk.
Over a second cup of joe, I wondered what the chances were of me being the target. I tried to think what I could possibly have done to piss of the SFPD. Except for the job in Mexico City, the most interesting thing I’d done since sobering up was experimenting with a tartar control gel. Everything before that was a bit blurry, but I couldn’t remember doing anything illegal. Despite being reasonably sure I wasn’t in trouble, I decided to keep a low profile.
My first priority was to find out who’d set me up. I’d never enjoyed being played for a sap, and I was about to get a hospital bill that I had no intention of paying. Besides, there were no messages on my vid-phone, no cases lined up, and I was determined not to fall back into a life of sloth and slobbering.
A good place to start would be the Century 22 real estate agency. I’d jotted down the number from the For Sale sign at the countess’s “bungalow.” I punched in the number on my vid-phone. After three rings, a handsome black woman with large, shiny eyes and a perfect, easy smile answered.
We chattered for several minutes about 2429 Filmore. Kaitlyn Abbot, the real estate agent, told me that the house had been owned by an older woman named Mrs.
Greenburg, but that she’d passed away some time ago. Mrs. Greenburg’s two children, both of whom lived out of state, had decided to sell the house. Mrs. Abbot went on to say that the place had been unoccupied for at least six months.
After I disconnected, I mulled over the fact that the mansion had supposedly been vacant for months. Countess Renier, if that was her real name, had certainly shown a bold streak by staging her ruse in the empty house. I had to admire the audacity.
Unfortunately, that didn’t take the sting out of being used like a Kleenex. If I’d been a realist, I might have filed the whole episode under Learning Experiences, but I’d never been accused of being a realist. Besides, I had nothing else to do. The question was, where to begin? The mansion was all I had to work with. Maybe the imposter countess had left something traceable behind. I decided to make a return trip.
A light acid rain was falling as I left the office and hurried to my speeder, carefully sidestepping the street’s minefield of oily pools. I was sporting my good Dexter wing tips and always tried to keep them safe from inclement weather and low pH puddles.
Inside the speeder, I lifted off and headed toward Pacific Heights.
I parked several houses away from 2429 and made my way to the back of the mansion without being seen. I entered the “bungalow” and spent the next hour going through the sitting room, looking for anything that might give me a lead. The high point of my search was finding a full ashtray. The cigarettes were marked with a symbol I’d never seen before.
I poured some of the cigarette butts into an envelope I found in my overcoat pocket, then left the residence and stealthily made my way back to the speeder. Maybe a tobacconist could identify the brand of cigarettes. It wasn’t the greatest lead in the world, but it might be just slightly better than nothing.
I lifted off and flew several blocks, until I reached a convenience store with pay phones out front. Jumping out of the idling speeder, I jogged through the misty downpour. At the pay phone, I inserted a dollar bill, and the directory menu appeared on-screen. I accessed the listing for tobacconist shops and decided to start at the Cigar Bar, since it had the catchiest name, as well as being the closest to my
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