on the front desk—it would have a programmed data list.
He went back to the reception area. The woman on the couch hadn’t moved. He went to the phone, tried to access its database
of phone numbers and found something he didn’t like. It was erased clean. On a whim, he picked the phone up, got the dial
tone, then held his breath as he pushed the redial button. A number started dialing out and feeding to the video screen.
1-4-10-5—suddenly something hard and cold was jammed into his other ear. A slurred voice said, “Drop the phone or I’ll blow
your head off.”
He dropped the phone, started to turn around.
“Put up your hands, asshole.” The woman started to frisk him with one hand. She found his holster. He let her take his gun.
“Wouldn’t you know it, another cop.”
“I’m not a cop.” He started to put his hands down.
The woman rammed the gun further into his ear. “Then who are you?”
“Take the gun away from my head, and maybe I’ll tell you.”
The woman took a step back. Scott showed her his hands, made sure she understood they were empty, then slowly reached down
to his boot. “Two fingers. I’m not going to try anything, so please don’t shoot,” he said as he lifted the gun from his boot
and set it onto the desk. “If you’re going to frisk someone, do it right.”
The woman lowered the gun a bit and took another step backward. She wasn’t very steady on her feet and the gun swayed all
over the place.
“Look, if you point the gun away from me, we can talk. Or better yet, put it away.” When she didn’t, he shrugged and turned
up his hands. “If I was going to hurt you, I would’ve. You were passed out on the couch, remember?”
She dropped her arm. Scott lurched forward and snatched the gun from her hand, sticking his thumb in front of the hammer as
he did so. The woman started screaming and staggered backward. Scott released the hammer on the gun, set it onto the desk,
then helped her over to the couch.
She eyeballed him, bewildered. “Trash can next to the desk. Bring it… I’m going to be sick.”
He brought it.
He waited for the color to return to the woman’s languid face. Good thing he had made coffee.
His watch said it was almost 6 a.m., but what little he could see of the street through a gap in the thick curtains was still
dark and dreary. The rain hadn’t stopped. It had been raining for hours, pounding and cleansing the concrete. “How’s the coffee
going down? Too strong, more cream?”
The woman shrank farther into the corner of the couch. It seemed the more sober she became, the more frightened she became.
She drank the coffee almost reluctantly as if she didn’t want the drunk to end. Scott could remember days like that—sometimes
you didn’t want to remember the things you’d done the night before.
She said, low yet firm, “Don’t want to rob me, don’t want to kill me, don’t want to rape me—too old and ugly for you now,
is that it?” Scott noticed the youth hidden behind wrinkles and puffy blue eyes. “You’re Helen?” She relaxed a bit. “My body,
not my brain, or is that vice versa.” She frowned, put a hand to her forehead. “My head’s going to kill me in the morning…
I’m not a drunkard if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“It is morning,” he said quietly. “What time does the office open on Mondays?”
“Just who are you and what are you doing here?”
He said what was safest. “I’m conducting an investigation.”
“On Jessica?”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re not the first. A P.I. was here a few weeks ago. My sister’s not in any trouble, is she?”
He pointed to the red sweater on the coat rack. “Your receptionist, what’s her name?”
“Give me a minute—No, there it is, May. May Parker… Wait, if you’re following Jessica, you have to know where she is. We were
supposed to meet last night, to celebrate.”
“Her return from
He went back to the reception area. The woman on the couch hadn’t moved. He went to the phone, tried to access its database
of phone numbers and found something he didn’t like. It was erased clean. On a whim, he picked the phone up, got the dial
tone, then held his breath as he pushed the redial button. A number started dialing out and feeding to the video screen.
1-4-10-5—suddenly something hard and cold was jammed into his other ear. A slurred voice said, “Drop the phone or I’ll blow
your head off.”
He dropped the phone, started to turn around.
“Put up your hands, asshole.” The woman started to frisk him with one hand. She found his holster. He let her take his gun.
“Wouldn’t you know it, another cop.”
“I’m not a cop.” He started to put his hands down.
The woman rammed the gun further into his ear. “Then who are you?”
“Take the gun away from my head, and maybe I’ll tell you.”
The woman took a step back. Scott showed her his hands, made sure she understood they were empty, then slowly reached down
to his boot. “Two fingers. I’m not going to try anything, so please don’t shoot,” he said as he lifted the gun from his boot
and set it onto the desk. “If you’re going to frisk someone, do it right.”
The woman lowered the gun a bit and took another step backward. She wasn’t very steady on her feet and the gun swayed all
over the place.
“Look, if you point the gun away from me, we can talk. Or better yet, put it away.” When she didn’t, he shrugged and turned
up his hands. “If I was going to hurt you, I would’ve. You were passed out on the couch, remember?”
She dropped her arm. Scott lurched forward and snatched the gun from her hand, sticking his thumb in front of the hammer as
he did so. The woman started screaming and staggered backward. Scott released the hammer on the gun, set it onto the desk,
then helped her over to the couch.
She eyeballed him, bewildered. “Trash can next to the desk. Bring it… I’m going to be sick.”
He brought it.
He waited for the color to return to the woman’s languid face. Good thing he had made coffee.
His watch said it was almost 6 a.m., but what little he could see of the street through a gap in the thick curtains was still
dark and dreary. The rain hadn’t stopped. It had been raining for hours, pounding and cleansing the concrete. “How’s the coffee
going down? Too strong, more cream?”
The woman shrank farther into the corner of the couch. It seemed the more sober she became, the more frightened she became.
She drank the coffee almost reluctantly as if she didn’t want the drunk to end. Scott could remember days like that—sometimes
you didn’t want to remember the things you’d done the night before.
She said, low yet firm, “Don’t want to rob me, don’t want to kill me, don’t want to rape me—too old and ugly for you now,
is that it?” Scott noticed the youth hidden behind wrinkles and puffy blue eyes. “You’re Helen?” She relaxed a bit. “My body,
not my brain, or is that vice versa.” She frowned, put a hand to her forehead. “My head’s going to kill me in the morning…
I’m not a drunkard if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“It is morning,” he said quietly. “What time does the office open on Mondays?”
“Just who are you and what are you doing here?”
He said what was safest. “I’m conducting an investigation.”
“On Jessica?”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re not the first. A P.I. was here a few weeks ago. My sister’s not in any trouble, is she?”
He pointed to the red sweater on the coat rack. “Your receptionist, what’s her name?”
“Give me a minute—No, there it is, May. May Parker… Wait, if you’re following Jessica, you have to know where she is. We were
supposed to meet last night, to celebrate.”
“Her return from
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