“Yeah, okay, go,”
grunted the guard. “Just tell Freda she’s supposed to phone up here when she’s
expecting a delivery.”
Now I was forced
to go through with the charade. The guard watched as I descended the steps to
the basement, my hands leaving sweat streaks on the curlicued iron railings.
Data Processing was just as I’d remembered it. A dump. The floors were cracked,
pipes ran along the ceiling, the fluorescent light fixtures buzzed like angry
flies, and the central area had been partitioned off into chest-high prairie
dog cubicles that offered the privacy of public urinals. It looked as though they’d
modeled it on the inmate-processing center at Taycheedah.
In for a penny,
in for a pound. As long as I was here I might as well try to track down Freda.
I strode briskly along the row of offices that lined the outer walls. The
secret to success as a fugitive, I’d discovered, was appearing to know where
you were going. B89 was halfway down the hall, its door open but the room
unoccupied.
Freda had come
down in the world since her days as Kip’s secretary. Back then, she’d had her
own office suite, a view of the river, and a private bathroom. Now her office
was a nine-by-twelve-foot box with a steel desk, a shabby swivel chair, and
ranks of oversized file cabinets that looked like body drawers in a morgue.
Freda’s cat photos provided the room’s only splash of personality. No view of
the river here—just a coat closet.
Clumping into the
office—Erbert and Gerbert at your service!—I plopped the sack lunch
onto Freda’s chair while scoping out the appointment calendar on her desk. She
had a meeting that ran until four o’clock.
It was 3:45 now. I just had
to stay out of sight for a few minutes until Freda returned.
Pretending
to scribble something on my clipboard, I covertly studied the closet door. It
appeared to be stout oak, with a brass key the size of a teaspoon resting in
the lock.
It would be bad
manners to unlock that door. Bad business ethics, too; Erbert and Gerbert would
frown on their delivery personnel poking their noses in their customers’
closets. On the other hand, people shouldn’t leave keys out in plain sight if
they didn’t want doors opened, I rationalized, using the same logic Vicki Jean
employed to forage her way through supermarkets. Stifling whatever pangs of
conscience I still retained, I unlocked the door, angling it so it screened me
from the view of anyone passing by.
The door opened
into a supply closet. It was crammed with broken furniture, old wastebaskets,
electric typewriters, file boxes, manila folders that appeared to go back to
the nineteenth century, and other bits of junk quietly moldering away until
they reached the age where they could officially be considered antiques. The
disturbed dust floated into the air, sending me into a fit of sneezing. Trying
to stifle the sneezes made my sinuses back up like clogged drains.
Being a fugitive
sucked.
Time dragged by.
It was dark in the closet, illuminated only by the light through the half-open
door. To keep myself occupied, I began picking up random files and skimming
them. Compulsive reading is one of my worst habits. If I don’t have something
to read before bedtime I can’t sleep. At times I’m reduced to reading my
toothpaste tube.
But what was
this? Beneath a rack of outdated files and a stack of burned-out fluorescent
light tubes was a cardboard box labeled in black marker:
Save
—
Mr.
Vonnerjohn’s Personal Possessions.
Freda must have cleaned out Kip’s office
when he died, boxing up all his possessions and hauling them down here. I
dragged the box from the shelf and flipped off the lid. Keeping one ear alert
for approaching footsteps, I pawed through the box’s contents, wondering
whether Freda occasionally fondled through this stuff, hoping for a faint whiff
of Kip’s cologne. It was mostly junk: a stray golf glove, pens, gum, Post-its,
coffee mugs, outdated calendars, and a slinky-type letter holder crammed with
receipts, invoices, unpaid traffic tickets, and a copy of the rear end of some
female staffer who’d sat bare-assed on the Xerox machine.
There was an
entire
collection of female tushes here, I discovered. They were
autographed:
Darci. Brittani, Traci, Staci,
the
i
’s
dotted with little hearts.
Could this be
my first actual clue? Maybe some female employee with exfoliation needs was the
dark-haired woman who’d worn my nightgown in the nanny cam video. I set aside
the tushes and began flipping through the receipts, not really expecting
anything more cluelike than an Office Max sales slip. A number caught my eye
and I blinked, certain it was a case of a misplaced decimal point. I examined
it more closely, squinting in the dust-speckled light. Davidoff Automotive
Imports, River Hills, Wisconsin
. One Maserati Quattroporte Sport DST, with
customized options, sold to K. Vonnerjohn, $143,000, paid in full with cashier’s
check. Estimated delivery date: 11/18.
I rubbed my eyes.
Kip could barely afford a glue-it-yourself car from Hobby Lobby, let alone pay
for the world’s priciest sports car. Where had Mr. Garnisheed Salary gotten the
money for a Maserati? It had to be a joke.
Hastily I thumbed
through the other receipts. All were for expensive items—tailored suits,
titanium golf clubs, a lease on a luxury box at the basketball arena, a new Jet
Ski. All were paid by cashier’s check and purchased in the two or three weeks
prior to Kip’s murder.
There was a noise
behind me and I whirled around.
“M-Mazie!”
Freda
Schermerhorn stood framed in the doorway, her face white and terrified. The
office supplies she’d been clutching exploded out of her arms. For a horrible
moment I thought I’d shocked her into a heart attack.
She looked
unwell. When she’d been Kip’s secretary, she’d worn tons of makeup and dressed
in expensive suits. Now her hair was thin and dry, her makeup was a bare scrimp
of lipstick, and her eyes were pouchy behind unflattering glasses. I’d lost
touch with fashion, but even I could see that Freda’s sweater and pants were
off the clearance sale rack. Probably her salary had taken a hit when she’d
been downgraded to this department.
Forcing a smile,
I spoke in a soothing, nonthreatening manner. “Hello, Freda. It’s good to see
you ag—”
“You shouldn’t be
here!” Freda’s voice trembled and her caramel-colored eyes watered. “I could
get in a l-lot of trouble.”
She bent to pick
up the stuff she’d dropped and I quickly stooped to help her, handing her
stacks of folders, an office stapler, markers, and printer cartridges.
“I don’t want you
to get in trouble, Freda. I just want to ask a couple of questions.”
She looked up at
me, obviously terrified, her voice edging into a panic-stricken squeak. “You
have to go
now
!
I’m calling the police.”
“Come on, Freda—we’re
friends, right? You know I didn’t kill Kip.”
“I don’t know
what I think anymore,” she whimpered.
I felt like a
schoolyard bully bracing kids for their lunch money. I reached out to give her
a reassuring pat, but she jerked away.
“Don’t touch me,
you—you
convict
!”
I should have
been used to it by now, but it still hurt. “All right, fine, I’ll leave. Just
one tiny question.” I held up the wad of receipts. “These were in with Kip’s
things. Do you know anything about—”
“Those are
company
documents,” she hissed, snatching them out of my hand.
Shame on me! I’d
let a sixty-year-old woman get the drop on me; I was losing my prison reflexes.
“No, they’re Kip’s personal stuff. Look at them. They’re receipts.” I moved
closer, trying to point out the proof, but Freda backed away.
“Don’t come a
step closer!”
I wanted to grab
the receipts back, but hesitated, worried that an aggressive move on my part
might send the poor old dear reeling over the edge. Which just goes to show
what happens when you try to do the decent thing: Fate jumps on you with
steel-toed boots.
Freda’s arm
suddenly shot out and she rammed a staple into my cheek. I shrieked in pain, my
hand flying to my face. It stung like red-hot needles! She came at me again,
jabbing, vicious as a hornet. Furious at myself for being suckered twice, I
pivoted around Freda, sidestepped out of the closet, and slammed the door in
her face, then turned the key in the lock.
“Help! Police!”
Freda started pounding on the door, screaming. But the solid old door muffled
sound. No one looked up as I hurried out of Freda’s office. It was the hour
when employees are sneaking in a round or two of computer games or checking
their fantasy football teams before they start shutting down for the day.
Eventually someone would notice Freda’s pounding and go check it out, I
thought, tossing the closet key onto a desk as I passed. Didn’t want Freda’s
death by suffocation on my conscience.
Keeping my head
bent over my clipboard as I returned to the lobby, I scurried past the nosy
security guard at a brisk, man-on-mission pace, hoping he wouldn’t notice my
stapled face, and heaved myself back out through the revolving doors. Outside,
I retrieved my toolbox from beneath the bushes. Muffin scooted up to me, tail
wagging and tongue lolling, his mouth rimmed with slimy orange gunk.
“Didn’t go well,”
I told him, yanking the staple out of my cheek. Jesus, that hurt!
Muffin in my
wake, I skulked away, expecting to hear police sirens any second. A delayed
reaction body twitch set in, and I couldn’t get my arms and legs to work
together. If I had, I would have strangled myself for my stupidity. Had I
actually believed that Freda Schermerhorn would be eager to help me? Yes, as a
matter of fact, I
had
believed it. I was way too good at making myself
believe what I wanted to believe. This would be a lesson to me. No more
ridiculous risks.
I needed time to
think. I needed a place where I could sit down and sort out everything I’d
learned so far. I needed a shoulder to cry on. There was only one person in the
world who could provide all those things, and he’d never failed me yet.
I just had to
find him before the police found me.
Escape tip #16:
The clipboard is mightier
than the metal detector.
A brisk ten-minute
walk brought us to Wisconsin Avenue, the main artery through downtown
Milwaukee. I halted in front of a chunky skyscraper surfaced in bright blue
tiles the exact shade of the Phillips’ laxative bottle. Its official name is
the Henry C. Reuss Federal Building, but locals call it the Milk of Magnesia
Building. It houses the IRS, the immigration service, and a host of other
bureaucratic nightmare agencies. To even get to the elevators you have to pass
through metal detectors, security guards, and body cavity searches. Okay, maybe
not the cavity thing, but bored guards can do some nasty stuff with electronic
wands. The home office of Stanford T. Brenner, United States Senator, was here
on the tenth story. I stood across the street, clipboard clutched to my chest,
staring up at his offices. How was I supposed to get to him—throw pebbles
at his window?
Enter
through the front and I’d be nabbed by a sharp-eyed security guard faster than
you could say
dangerous escaped fugitive
. Instead, I sidled around to
the rear. Bingo! Security here was as porous as Swiss cheese. Construction
trucks were blocking the alley and workmen were trundling ladders, tools, and
other equipment in and out of the propped-open service doors. My all-purpose
navy blue uniform was my magic ticket. Checking off nonexistent violations on
my clipboard, I tagged along behind a muscular guy in denim coveralls hauling
rolls of insulation on his shoulder. Scampering through the door with me,
Muffin was instantly obliterated by the cloud of dust being kicked up by a
metal grinder.
No
one questioned me; I was just another guy with a clipboard, making everyone’s
life miserable by turning off the water or crashing the computers. I found a
freight elevator and got in, Muffin squeaking in by a tail hair just as the
doors closed. He was flagging; the long walk had worn him out and he had
construction grit in his fur. I scooped him up and set him in my toolbox, where
he immediately curled up for a nap.
I
got out on the tenth floor. Since I’d been up here once before, I knew the
layout. The senator’s office was on the east side of the building, with a
crow’s nest view of Lake Michigan. Toolbox in hand, I hustled down the hall.
Just as I approached the receptionist’s desk, a security guard strutted around
a corner, shoulder epaulets flashing, gun holstered at hip. I dived into the
womens’ restroom. Force of habit. A female employee emerged from a stall and
shot me the look women reserve for guys who pee in city parks.
“Checking
for radon,” I said in a gruff voice, swiftly backing out. The guard and the
receptionist were now carrying on a conversation. I ducked into the mens’ john
adjoining the ladies’ room. Bladder close to bursting, I locked myself in a
stall and peed in nervous spurts, checking out the graffiti on the stall wall.
Mens’-room graffiti is always way more entertaining than womens’. Never mind
how I know that.
Do not throw
cigarette butts in toilet,
a sign sternly warned. Below that someone had
scrawled
It makes them soggy and hard to light.
As I was pulling up my
Jockey shorts, someone entered the bathroom, strode to the urinal and noisily
did his business. I peeked out through the crack in the door.
Stanford
“Bear” Brenner, United States Senator, stood five feet away, zipping his Act of
Congress back into his trousers.