Deadly Detail by Don Porter Page A

Fluorescent tubes flickered on until I felt like I was in a spotlight. My problem was that there were no window shades, and once the lights were on, I couldn’t see much outside, but I would sure be visible in the office. Freddy had left a flight ticket on the counter for me, numbers already filled in. All I had to do was note the arrival time and sign it. I carried it back to Celeste’s desk, sat in her chair, and dug a pen out of her center drawer. A whiff of perfume reminded me of the dimples, altogether pleasant.
    Two large drawers on the right side were labeled In and Out . I pulled the In drawer and finger-walked to the front. Several invoices were loose, then a folder, and the tab was dated yesterday. The next file was the day I wanted. I tried to look down and riffle pages without being terribly obvious. Pages were in reverse order, the earliest pickups at the back, latest in front. The final pickup of the day was the Nevada Kid grocery store, four hundred pounds of perishables at four-fifty. Before that was Fairbanks Building Supply, a thousand pounds of hardware picked up at four-twenty. Neither seemed likely to be hanging around after six. I moved down to the bottom drawer.
    I had just opened the drawer when a pickup stopped outside and two doors slammed. Conscience doth make cowards of us all . I pretended to study the flight ticket while I shoved the drawer closed with my knee and cursed myself for leaving the pistol under the car seat.
    The door burst open and two cops came in. One held a big, ugly .45 pointed right at my face, but this cop was wearing a badge and it said Airport Security.
    “Keep your hands on the desk and don’t breathe. What are you doing here?”
    “Filling out my flight ticket.” I tried for an innocent smile. “I just got in, you must have seen me land the Twin Otter.”
    “Maybe, but I haven’t seen you around before.”
    “New hire, just started today.”
    The partner had picked up the phone from the counter and consulted a list from his pocket. He dialed, and turned away so I couldn’t hear his conversation until he looked up and spoke to me. “What’s your name?”
    “Alex Price.”
    He nodded and waved his partner to put the gun down. That was a relief. Staring down the barrel of a .45 automatic is decidedly uncomfortable and sweat inducing.
    “Thanks, Freddy, it’s him alright. Big and ugly, brown hair nineteen fifties style and a cut from a barroom brawl on his forehead.” He nodded. “Sorry to bother you at home.”
    They turned toward the door. The one who had been threatening my life said, “Have a nice day.” Car doors slammed again and they were gone.
    I took a couple of deep breaths, promised myself a drink shortly, and opened the bottom drawer.
    The last outgoing shipment was Fairbanks Furniture Factory, eight hundred pounds at three in the afternoon. I checked the next folder, and the first shipment of the day was Stan’s motor, listed at eight in the morning. There was his signature. I just stared at it, feeling that all this couldn’t be real. I needed to wake up from this nightmare.
    I noticed that the next shipment was charged to Alyeska Pipeline, five hours of Twin Otter time, and another for the pipeline in the afternoon. I glanced back at the previous day and that, too, had two charges for the pipeline. No wonder they could afford new aircraft.
    I closed the drawer, signed the flight ticket claiming a six-fifteen arrival. I left it center desk with the keys on top of it, switched off the light and left. I should have known that when getting into the office late was so easy, it wouldn’t do any good. Murphy’s Law would never stand for a plan working that well.
    Angie was sitting on her bed, propped up on pillows, white blouse, dark skirt, hair shining and shoes off. Seinfeld was bantering with Elaine on the tube.
    I rinsed off the travel dust and made a nest on my bed to join her. Maybe television still has some redeeming qualities.
    “Any