I flipped quickly through the drawer, and then I went back and checked it methodically again from front to back. At first I thought that perhaps I had just overlooked them, but I hadn’t. All of Howard’s files were gone.
Had I returned them to the file room? I was reasonably sure I hadn’t, but then it had been a while since I had last looked at any of them and I supposed it was possible.
The main file room was a few doors down the corridor from my office, but when I turned the handle I discovered it was locked. I pulled out my office master key and pushed it into the deadlock. It didn’t turn. I jiggled it a couple of times, pulled it out and put it in again, but clearly it wasn’t going to open the door no matter how many times I tried.
I was certain that I had never found the file room door locked before, at least not during office hours, but then I never came in on weekends so I couldn’t say for sure whether it was normally locked then. Regardless, my key was supposed to be a master-presumably it fit every lock in the office-so I made a mental note to ask someone on Monday why I couldn’t get into the file room.
Walking back down the corridor I was just opening my office door when I heard a noise in the distance. This time I was certain. It was a voice.
I followed the sound across the darkened reception area and toward the opposite corner of the building. It led me straight to Dollar’s office. Dollar must have shown up early after all. That was out of character for him, I mused, so whatever our meeting was about, it had to be something that was making him anxious.
Dollar’s door was standing slightly ajar and I had my hand on the knob before it registered that it wasn’t Dollar’s voice I heard inside. I stopped and listened quietly. I couldn’t tell who it was or make out what the voice was saying, but it sure as hell wasn’t Dollar. He must have someone else with him, I decided. With a sinking heart I realized that it was probably Howard the Roach.
Dollar hadn’t told me Howard would be here or I might not have turned up. I still hadn’t decided whether to tell Dollar about Jello’s suspicions, but with Howard also here that was going to be even more difficult to do. It appeared that Jello was going to get his way. His trap was about to snap shut on me with a bang.
I knocked lightly. Then I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
TWENTY FOUR
I was surprised to see that there was just one man in the office after all. I was even more surprised to see that man was neither Howard the Roach nor Dollar Dunne. It was someone I had never seen before, and he was sitting in the chair behind Dollar’s desk talking on the telephone. He glanced at me and immediately hung up.
The man was a well-built westerner with big ears, the lean face of a chain-smoker, square shoulders, and an even squarer haircut. He was wearing an inexpensive-looking blue suit with a crisp white shirt and a red and blue striped tie neatly secured in a Windsor knot and he had an unblinking stare, rather like a stuffed owl it occurred to me.
“Who the fuck are you?” he snapped. His accent was American with a trace of rural twang in it, too.
For a moment something seemed terribly familiar about the man and I just stared at him. Then I realized what it was. He looked like George Bush on steroids.
“I said who the
“I work here,” I answered, feeling lame and defensive in spite of myself. “What are you doing in Dollar’s office?”
The man studied me carefully, but he didn’t say anything.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll call the police and they can deal with you.”
“Not necessary,” he said, and then he held up something in his right hand. It was a small black folder with an ID card on one side and a gold badge on the other. I stepped closer and looked at the card: Special Agent Franklin D. Morrissey, United States Federal Bureau of Investigation.
I was still taking that in when I heard the sound of rapid footsteps in the hallway and Dollar burst into the office. He saw the man in his chair before he saw me and nodded slightly to him, but then he realized I was standing there and stopped dead, staring at me.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Dollar looked awful, like a man who hadn’t slept in days. His eyes were cloudy as if they couldn’t quite focus properly and he was pale underneath his golfer’s tan. I had never seen him like that before.
“You asked me to come in for a meeting at eleven.”
“About what?”
“I have no idea. Probably something about Howard, if I had to guess.”
“Howard?” Morrissey spoke up. “Howard Kojinski?”
I looked at Dollar, not sure what to say, and I saw him staring steadily at Morrissey.
“What the hell is going on here?” I asked, but nobody answered me.
Dollar jammed his hands in his pockets and flopped down on a leather sofa off to the side of his desk. He swung his feet up onto the coffee table, crossing them at the ankle, and looked at Owl Eyes.
“You may as well tell him,” Dollar said.
Morrissey snorted slightly at that, but he nodded. “The local cops found Howard a little before seven this morning,” he said.
I sat down slowly in one of the chrome and leather chairs in front of Dollar’s desk. I had no doubt at all what was coming next.
“You’re saying he’s-”
“Yep,” Owl Eyes finished for me. “Deader’n shit.”
“Where did they find him?”
“He was hanging from a girder underneath one of the bridges over the river, the Taksin Bridge.”
That took me by surprise and I’m sure it showed.
“Suicide?” I asked.
Owl Eyes blinked for what couldn’t have been more than the second time since I had found him sitting in Dollar’s chair.
“Nope,” he said, “the mechanics don’t work. He had help.”
“Then you’re saying Howard was murdered?”
Owl Eyes nodded.
“And hung off a bridge over the river?”
“
I said nothing. I didn’t know what to say.
Dollar asked me to wait in the reception area while he talked to Morrissey, which seemed odd to me, but it was Dollar’s office, so I did. After a few minutes Morrissey came out and sat down on the other couch opposite me.
“Somebody on a ferry spotted the body just after dawn this morning and called the cops,” he told me.
“Was that when it happened?”
“Could have been anytime last night.”
“Then you don’t really know
“We don’t know jack shit. There’s a Pepsi bottling plant just upriver from the bridge. Anybody who had been watching from there could probably have seen who strung the little bastard up, but it was the middle of the night, so-”
Morrissey stopped talking and spread his hands.
I was still trying to get a grip on Morrissey’s story when the glass doors from the hallway opened and Jello came in trailed by four cops in skin-tight brown uniforms with white Sam Browne belts and big guns riding high on their hips.
“What are you doing here, Jack?”
Jello’s rumbling voice had an edge in it and right then it rubbed me the wrong way.
“I just found out a friend of mine was murdered last night,” I snapped.
