Nocturnal by Nathan Field Page A

gaps in his research.
    Firstly, I was broke, or at least illiquid. My mortgage soaked up most of my spare cash, and although I’d built up a reasonable slab of equity in my apartment, from what I’d heard, banks weren’t too keen on lending against property anymore, especially not to self-employed script editors with diminishing cash flows. I’d be lucky to pull out fifty grand, which hardly seemed worth the trouble.
    More importantly, I had a history of responding aggressively to bullies. Anyone who knew about my final days in Sacramento would’ve thought twice before pushing me into a corner.
    I’d already decided to pack my 9mm. I didn’t particularly like guns, but when dealing with intruders and blackmailers, I reasoned it was better to be armed than not. Ralph didn’t look like the sort of guy who’d rely on his fists.
    My thoughts were drifting into the city haze when my head snapped around. I stared at the television in disbelief. The blonde newsreader had just uttered Ralph’s name – muffled but immense, like an underwater explosion.
    Ralph Emerson .
    I’d missed the first part of the story, but my eyes zeroed in on the headline at the bottom of the screen: Bay Area Lawyer Murdered.
    “…shortly before nine o’clock this morning at his Palo Alto home,” the newsreader continued gravely. “His wife is understood to have discovered the body after dropping their two young children off at school. Mr Emerson was just thirty-nine. No other details have been released, but we will keep you updated on this tragic story throughout the evening.” 
    I grabbed the remote and switched off the television. My head was spinning. I went to the sofa and sat down, taking a minute to gather my thoughts.
    Ralph T Emerson was dead .
    Not just dead. Murdered.
    In all likelihood, I wasn’t the only person he’d tried to fuck with. A scumbag like that always ran the risk of pushing the wrong guy too far. But instead of relief, a clammy new fear crept over me.
    He was more trouble to me dead than alive.
    The cops would soon discover where Ralph worked. They were probably there already, gathering information. But I couldn’t simply avoid the office. My name and address were on the lease.
    “ Fuck it! ” I cursed, slamming my fist into my palm.
    Although it went against my gut instinct, my best option was to show up at work like nothing had happened – to bend over backwards to co-operate with the cops, and hopefully eliminate myself from the investigation before they dug into my past. After all, if Ralph was killed at nine o’clock, I had a pretty solid alibi. My swipe card would prove I was at the office until five a.m., and then CC was at my apartment from six until her early morning bank appointment. Even if she left right after I went to sleep, at around eight-thirty, there wasn’t enough time for me to get to Palo Alto by nine o’clock. Not by a long shot.
    I stood up and went to the window, breathing a little easier as I watched dusk settle over the city, the sky slowly draining of color. My thoughts turned to Ralph T Emerson, the man whose plump-cheeked mug had decorated my office for the past six months. Despite his untimely death, I couldn’t feel any sympathy toward him. Not after the delight he’d taken in tormenting me. I was no angel, but I drew the line at killing innocent pets.
    It was only then that the gaping hole in the timeline occurred to me.
    If Ralph T Emerson had been killed in his home at nine a.m., how the fuck had he managed to break into my apartment a few hours later?
     
    I’d expected a swarm of patrol cars and media vans to confront me as I approached my office building, but the streets were even quieter than a regular Wednesday night. I swiped my key-card at the garage and drove down to the basement level. As usual, only a couple of vehicles were still in the lot.
    It was rare to find anyone in my office building after 7pm. My fellow tenants were a motley assortment of freelance