The Pandora Directive: A Tex Murphy Novel (14 page)

PS You left a couple of things at my place. I dropped them off at Louie’s.

I slipped the note in my pocket and left. Now I had yet another thing to think about. It wasn’t fair. My brain was already sore. I needed a bourbon. I decided to risk a trip to the Brew and Stew.

The place was packed. Louie’s diner usually got the insomnia crowd. He stayed open until everyone went home and usually did a lot of business even after the sun came up. I was too beat to visit the Flamingo — the least that’s what I told myself. I’d leave the dirty work for tomorrow. Besides, I had a suitcase full of things to look through.

I stepped inside the Brew & Stew and breathed in the hearty scent of Louie’s famous lamb stew and fresh buttery biscuits. The place was jumping, and Louie was bustling around, face red and eyes bulging. Despite his bulk, he was a miracle of efficiency, filling coffee mugs, juggling plates, and remembering a dozen drink orders, all at the same time.

He also seemed to be moderately clairvoyant. I’d been standing at the door for only a few moments when Louie turned toward me. He looked me over, then pointed toward the kitchen. Firmly grasping the handle to Malloy’s suitcase, I stepped through the crowd and behind the bar like I owned the place. Louie held the swinging door open and ushered me into the heart of the Brew & Stew. The place was an olfactory factory. The smell of onions, garlic, cilantro, feta, sharp cheddar, fresh bread, and butter all mingled with the primary aroma of lamb stew and biscuits to create an almost visible culinary palate.

“It’s a little crazy out there, Murph. Sorry I don’t got a table for ya.”

“That’s OK, Louie. I really wasn’t hungry until I stepped in here.”

Louie flashed his big, toothy grin. “My diner seems to have that effect on people. I think it’s my gift in life. Have a seat. You want a drink?”

I nodded gratefully. “Bourbon, if you don’t mind.”

I sat down on a chair in the back corner. Louie ducked out of the kitchen and returned a minute later with a triple bourbon straight up. I took a deep swig and of felt better. “So… you need a place to stay tonight?”

I was caught off guard. How did Louie know?

“Sorry?”

He motioned toward the suitcase in my hand. “I figured they might have kicked you outta for your place.”

I laughed, a little nervously. “No… everything’s settled up at the Ritz.”

I thought for a second, then decided to confide. “I’m in kind of a jam right now. I shouldn’t go back to my office for awhile.”

Louie gave me a big grin. “Geez, Murphy. You know you can always crash here.”

“You don’t mind? It’d only be for tonight… well, maybe two nights.”

“No problem. Those stairs go right up to my apartment. There’s a couch up there that folds out. The place is kind of a mess, but make yourself a home.”

Louie turned to leave. “If you’re not ready to call it a night, come out to the bar. Or you can stay in here if you like.”

“Thanks, Louie.”

The big galoot waved me off and stepped out through the swinging door. Carrying the bourbon and Malloy’s suitcase, I walked up the stairs. Louie was one hell of a guy. Anyone else would have asked questions. Not Louie LaMintz. He was, however, a real slob. His apartment look like the aftermath of a Shriner’s convention, or like my office after the NSA had come to play. I cleared out a small area on the floor and sat down. After a long slug of bourbon, I opened Malloy’s suitcase and went to work.

After fifteen minutes, I turned up nothing more interesting in Malloy’s clothes that lint balls. Setting the clothing aside, I picked up one of the notebooks. It was filled with drawings of the strange symbols and incompre-hensible chicken-scratch liner notes. I flipped through it for several minutes, but someone would have to decipher it for it to be of any use to me. The other notebook seemed to be a journal, but the entries, like the liner notes in the first notebook, looked as though they’d been written in some kind of unintelligible shorthand. I’d need to find someone who could translate them, though who that would be, I didn’t know.

Next up were two old paperback books. The first was called There Are Messages from Outer Space, written by J I Thelwait. I opened it up, and a slip of paper fell out. Probably a bookmark. Malloy had only gotten to page 57. I picked up the slip of paper and read ASE_%[email protected]. the then I put the slip of paper back into the book and dropped it into my coat pocket.

The second book was titled Puzzles to Amuse and Challenge. At a quick glance, it looked like Malloy hadn’t done any of the puzzles. I slipped the book into my coat pocket, too. Puzzles were always a good way to kill time, though admittedly I didn’t foresee myself enjoying much free time in the immediate future. Malloy had had some other miscellaneous items, like a traveller’s alarm clock and a penknife, but none of them looked particularly important.

I emptied the suitcase, then turned to my bourbon and emptied the glass. Except for the unreadable notebooks and maybe the e-mail address, I felt like I’d come up empty. I had to be overlooking something. I turned my attention to the suitcase itself. After poking and prodding the interior for five minutes, I was pleased to discover a false panel. Using Malloy’s penknife, I pried it open. Inside, there was a small computer disk. I didn’t have a computer handy, so I stuck the disc in my pocket.

In the lining of the false panel, I discovered a small pocket. Reaching inside, I found several photographs. One was an old picture of a youthful-looking Malloy, in uniform. I flipped a photo over and saw the words Promotion — 1988. A second snapshot was a wedding picture, showing Malloy with a beautiful woman. An inscription on the back read: Wedding Day — April 5, 2007.

The next picture showed a newborn baby. There was nothing written on the back. The last picture showed Malloy, his wife, and a teenage girl. The young woman’s face looked familiar. I turned the photo over and read the inscription: Dad, Mum, Regan — 2028.

I sat back, stunned. The girl in the picture was Regan Madsen. It was a fairly old photo, but I was sure of it. She was Thomas Malloy’s daughter.

I thought back and ran through my conversation with her. Nothing in what she’d said would indicate her relationship to the dead man. I wondered why. What was her angle? Was she trying to find her father? Was she working with him or against him?

Too many questions and no answers. She and I needed to have a little chat.

I found Ms Madsen card, with the number handwritten on the back. A vid-phone sat on a stand by Louie’s bed. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I punched in the code.

A bland female voice answered. “Imperial Inn. How may I direct your call?”

“I’m trying to reach Regan Madsen.”

“Is she a guest?”

“I suppose so.”

“One moment.”

I listened to dead air for a few seconds, then an annoying beeping sound. After about thirty seconds the beeping stopped, and the bland voice was back again. “There’s no answer. Would you like to leave a message?”

I wasn’t sure where I was going to be for the next few days. “No. I’ll try back later.”

It was late, and I’d had a full day. As I disconnected the Vid-phone, I suddenly couldn’t keep my eyes popped open. I laid back on the bed, intending to rest for a few minutes.

I woke up to see Louie’s battered looking face grinning down at me. “Hey, Murph. I’m makin’ breakfast. You want some?”

I rubbed my eyes and tried to get my bearings. At first, I couldn’t even remember where I was, let alone why Louie was there. I sat up on the edge of Louie’s bed and looked around groggily. The sofa-bed was folded out.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep on your bed. Looks like I forced you onto the couch.”

“Don’t worry about it. When I came up, you were out cold. Didn’t even take off your overcoat. I figured I’d better leave you alone. Besides, the sofa’s pretty comfy.”

He was lying again. The fold-out bed looked like a torture device.

My mouth felt like a dirty dish towel — I hadn’t brushed before bed. Damn. My toothbrush was back at the office. A slug of mouthwash would have to do, though a cup of Louie’s Armageddon blend would probably be an effective substitute. I stood up and stretched. Breakfast sounded good. Louie clapped me on the shoulder. “You look hungry. I’ll go down and put on some coffee.”

He opened the door and turned around. “Oh… you probably want to wash up. The bathroom’s through that door.”

Washing up sounded almost as good as breakfast. I splashed cold water on my face, then stuck my head under the faucet and soaked it. Slowly, my brain began to function. As I towelled off, I went through the events of the night before, listing the things I needed to get done. First, I needed to contact Regan Madsen and get the scoop on her and her father. Second, I needed to tell Emily. Third, I had to call Fitzpatrick and tell him what happened. I was sure that he knew more than he told me, and now that I was right in the thick of things, maybe he’d clue me in.

My clothes smelled like a barroom floor around closing time, but the rest of me was refreshed. Louie’s place might not be pretty, but it was safe and homey. Stepping out of bedroom, I caught a whiff of French toast, coffee, and bacon. My heart leapt for joy. If I ever decided to get married again, I was going to find someone like Louie, only more attractive. Maybe he had a good-looking sister. Hmmm…. unlikely.

Louie was standing at the grill, waving a spatula like a conductor’s baton and humming “Hit the Road, Jack” in at least three keys. He caught me out of the corner of his eye and gave me a sheepish look. “Cup of coffee for ya on the counter.”

“Thanks.” I sat down on a bar-stool and pulled out my Lucky Strikes. It looked like I’d slept on the pack. I took out a flattened cigarette and lit it up. The Armageddon was piping hot and went down like high octane fuel. By the time I finished Heath the cigarette and coffee, I’d been transformed from a Vesper scooter into Harley Hog. My engine was revving when Louie exploded through the kitchen door, loaded with sizzling plates of food and a steaming pot of coffee. “I hope you’re hungry, Murph. I went a little crazy.”

The plate Louie slid in front of me was piled high with thick, golden slices of French toast, glistening with maple syrup. Strips of crisp bacon were stacked around the edge. Louie set a similarly laden plate and a coffeepot on the counter. Making his way around the bar, he plopped down onto the bar stool beside me and proceeded to fill our coffee mugs. I cut a four-layer pie slice out of the stack, drenched it in the buttery syrup, took a bite and saw angels. A bite of hot, salty bacon and a slug of Joe. A three-way marriage made in heaven.

For some time, we spoke nothing but the language of food: chewing noises, grunts, saying Mmmmm, and pointing toward related objects, such as coffeepots and syrup bottles. After a good twenty minutes, my gas gauge hit full, and I set down my fork and knife. The plate still contained enough breakfast for a family of three. I poured my cup of Armageddon and reached for a post-prandial smoke. Louie was mopping up the last of the syrup on his plate. Even he was slowing down.

“You should be canonised, Louie. The Patron Saint of Greasy Spoons.”

He dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “I ain’t too half 5th religious, Murph. Besides, they already got a St. Louie.”

We sipped our coffees faith. Louie’s face turned serious. “Chelsee came by the other day.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Louie gave me a quizzical look. “She left me a note at her place… said she was leaving and that she was gonna drop off some things of mine over here.”

Louie nodded. “I got your stuff of in my apartment. Forgot to get it… remind me before you leave.”

Another pause. I didn’t want to seem too eager, but I was curious. “So, did you talk to her at all before she left?”

The big, ugly grin. “You mean, did she say anything about you?”

I blew out a stream of smoke through a conceding smile.

“We If hoof talked for a bit. She’s having a hard go of it.”

“Meaning what? Me? Turning thirty?”

“Yeah. All of it. I told her everyone goes through a phase like this. I haven’t yet, but of course I’m still young. I’m fifty-eight, and I still ain’t ready to settle down.”

Louie took another sip of the Armageddon. “Tell me, Murph, You ever been in true love?”

I crushed out my cigarette. It was a symbolic gesture. “Sure. I was married before, remember?”

Louie snorted. “The only thing easier than falling in love is getting married. I’m askin’ if you ever been really, truly in love.”

I thought for a moment. “Well, I’ve always had this thing for Jayne Mansfield.”

“C’mon, Murph. I’m trying to talk here.”

I shrugged. “I suppose I’ve been in love a few times. I don’t know about being truly in love…whatever that means.”

“I tell ya, Murph. its chemicals. Up in your brain. We got these chemicals going nuts. That’s why we fall in love too easy.”

“So what’s your point?”

“My point is, falling in love don’t mean a lot. What’s hard is knowing someone well and still likin’ ‘em. But that ain’t even the hardest thing … and the hardest thing is what makes all the difference.”

“So what’s the hardest thing?”

Louie’s voice was soft. “Finding someone you can trust.”

My big, lumpy friend took our plates and lumbered into the kitchen. I lit up another smoke. Louie was right. In retrospect, I’d never really trusted anyone. That wasn’t why my marriage hit the skids, but it was probably my excuse for not trying Again.

Louie emerged from the kitchen and refilled his coffee mug. I flipped an ash off my Lucky. “So what’s your advice?”

Louie took a sip of steaming Java. “Chelsee’s ready for commitment. She’ll give you the first shot, but she ain’t gonna wait around forever. A lot of guys in this world would give their right arms for one minute of Chelsee’s attention.”

Donor programmes being what they are, Louie might or might not have been exaggerating, but I got the point. Once again, I was mired in my ever repeating pattern of wanting only the things I couldn’t have. Chelsee was beautiful, intelligent, strong, and sexy. She represented everything good I’d ever looked for in a woman. I was probably in love with her. Maybe I even trusted her — at least as much as old capable of. All requirements were satisfied. Only now I wasn’t sure. It was like the old Groucho Marx line: I would never get involved with a woman who’d get involved with someone like me. The indecision was unbearable. Maybe Chelsee was right, and a little break would help to clear things up.