'Your friend here said it was a professional. I don't know any professional killers. For that matter I don't know anyone who owns an automatic rifle.' Except for Art Altschule, I thought suddenly as I spoke.
Mahoney noticed my hesitation. 'What is it?'
I told him about Art's interest in guns.
'We'll check that out,' he said. 'Is there anything else we should know about Mr Altschule?'
'No, not really. He doesn't like me.'
Mahoney raised his eyebrows. 'Why not?'
'I've been asking awkward questions.'
About?'
'BioOne.'
'BioOne, eh?' Mahoney looked at me closely. 'The deal John Chalfont wanted to talk to you about.'
'That's right.'
'And what's the problem with BioOne?'
'I don't know. That's why I was asking Art. Don't you know?'
Mahoney's questioning was irritating me. I had just been shot at, my nerves were frayed, and although he was asking the right questions, I still felt he was trying to figure out how I could be responsible for shooting myself.
'We've been making inquiries,' Mahoney said stiffly. 'Assuming we're talking about a contract killer here,' he went on, 'who else do you think might have hired him?'
'I don't know. The person who killed Frank and John, maybe?'
'But that was someone who knew them. They were both shot in the back with handguns. This is a totally different MO.'
I shrugged. I was feeling tired. 'You're the detective. I'm just the poor bugger getting shot at.'
Aren't you used to it by now?' Mahoney was watching me with that annoying half-smile.
He was referring to my time in Northern Ireland, I assumed. I felt a flare of anger, but I controlled it. I stared at him.
Mahoney stood up. 'We'll no doubt be talking again,' he said as he left the apartment. Martinez threw me a worried look and followed him.
It was hard to sleep that night. When I did drop off, it was into the graffiti-strewn streets of West Belfast. In reality, my tour of duty had been nerve-jangling anticipation for the shot that almost never came, then complacency, and finally the death of Lance Corporal of Horse Binns. In my dream, the streets were wider, with no cover, and I knew for certain that a sniper was lying in wait for me in a lone house fifty yards ahead. I had to walk on, my feet growing heavier and heavier, towards the house. I couldn't turn and run, but my steps became slower and slower until I wished I'd reach the house and get it over with.
Then I started awake. My mind turned somersaults along the blurred line between sleep and wakefulness. Time blurred as well, as minutes became hours and the night seemed to last for ever. Eventually I fell back to sleep and that never-ending road. This process repeated itself, until I gave up at five thirty, and crawled out of bed, my brain muzzy and tired. I checked the living-room window. There was a blue car parked right in front of the house, and one of the two men in it was alert enough to have noticed the movement in the curtains. I waved to him, and he nodded back. Mahoney had been good enough to leave me under surveillance, at least for the night.
I was in trouble. Someone wanted to kill me. Someone with the wherewithal and the contacts to hire a man with an automatic rifle. They would try again. I might well be dead within a week.
I hoped Mahoney would check out BioOne. Although he hated me, and would love to hold me responsible for my own murder, he wasn't stupid. But I couldn't rely on him to clear this up before a bullet hit me in the skull. With a shudder I remembered again the damage that could do.
I wasn't sure how long the police could or would protect me, or even if their protection was a guarantee of safety against a really determined killer.
I was in the office early, by seven o'clock. No one usually showed up before about a quarter to eight. Daniel and Diane were usually first in; most of the others came in between eight and half past. But I wanted to be finished before anyone saw me.
So I went straight to Art's office. A wooden filing cabinet had five drawers marked 'BioOne'. It was locked. Damn!
I searched around for a key. Couldn't find one.
All of Art's other filing cabinets were unlocked, but there was nothing interesting in any of them.
I tried his desk. The drawers were locked too. That was odd. People didn't lock their desks at Revere. I jiggled and pulled, but nothing. It was a feeble little lock and if I'd had any expertise I would have been able to pick it. But I hadn't.
I had an idea. I quickly strode back to my own desk, checking my watch on the way. Twenty to eight. No one was in yet. I opened my own desk drawer. In one corner, next to my spare set of house-keys, were my own desk keys, which I never used. I hurried back to Art's office and tried them on his drawer.
None of them worked.
I sat in Art's chair looking at his desk. His son glowered back at me. Next to the photo frame was a box of paper-clips.
I unravelled a large one, and poked it into the keyhole. For two minutes I bent and twisted the metal, gently pushing and pulling, but still nothing.
I checked my watch. Quarter to eight. I shouldn't be here, I should be at my own desk by now. I checked that the office was exactly as I found it, and slipped out.
Just in time. I passed Art in the corridor. 'Morning!' I said, with too much jollity.
Art just grunted.
I sat at my desk, trying to work out what to do. I couldn't force my way into Art's files, that would be too obvious. But I wanted to know what was in there.
The only person with a key was Art. And there was no reason for him to give it to me.
Unless.
I checked my watch. Five to eight. I thought I had heard Diane come in, but no one else.
I made my way back to Art's office and knocked.
'Yes?' He was drinking a cup of coffee and scanning the
'Can I borrow your key to the supplies closet?' The supplies closet was a large cupboard behind the reception area where some of the more valuable office supplies were kept: computer equipment and so on.
'Can't you get a key from Connie?'
'Not in yet.'
'Is it locked?'
'Yes,' I lied.
'But it's never locked.'
I shrugged.
Art grunted, and pulled out his keys. He fiddled with one of them, trying to detach it. Damn. I needed the whole lot.
'I'll bring them right back,' I said.
'All right.' Art threw me the whole bunch.
I caught them, nipped out and checked the supplies closet. It was indeed unlocked. Then I took the elevator down to the street, and hurried round the corner to a small hardware store. There were three keys on Art's ring that looked like they might open filing cabinets or desk drawers. I had all three of them copied.
It seemed to take the man for ever, but eventually I was back up in Revere's offices. I knocked on Art's door, and handed him his keys back. He was on the phone.
He put his hand over the mouthpiece. 'Where have you been? You said you'd bring them right back.'
'Gil wanted to speak to me,' I lied again. 'Sorry'
Art grunted and went back to his phone conversation.
I spent a lot of time in the corridor that morning. At about a quarter to ten I saw Art enter the elevator, jacket on. I waited five minutes, and then slipped into his office, closing the door behind me.
