A Breath of Dead Air (The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse Book 8) (15 page)

B
omer Calypso was seated
behind his desk, miserably staring at his computer screen, which stared, unblinkingly, back at him. Dad had told him to return to his office, lest the rest of the company would think that the accusations leveled against him were true. A morale booster, he’d called Bomer’s triumphant return. But since he’d forbidden him to touch anything—not even switch on his computer—there was little triumph in his return.

The general consensus, after a thorough FBI investigation and an equally thorough internal one, was that Bomer had inadvertently set up the slush fund himself, by hitting a wrong set of keys. Since both the FBI and his own father deemed him too dimwitted to have actually gone and done this on purpose, the case against him was on hold, awaiting further investigation, and Bomer forbidden to access the CalypsoCo mainframe ever again.

To add insult to injury, his dad had even taken away his gaming privileges, so no more Candy Crush, Donkey Kong or Minecraft for him.

So he now sat at his desk, a ledger in front of him, a ballpoint pen, and a stack of letters he was supposed to date-stamp and enter into the ledger.

After doing the first dozen or so his mind had gone blank—which was more or less its default state—and he started pacing the office, in search of something more interesting to occupy his time.

He walked from his desk to the window of his corner office and stared out across the vast expanse that separated Calypso Tower from Falcone Tower, the next monstrosity in downtown Manhattan. He thought he could look straight into Chazz Falcone’s office on the top floor, and wondered what Ricky was doing right now. Probably something fun and exciting, unlike himself. He sighed. Life hadn’t been a barrel of laughs for him lately.

No gaming privileges. Dad’s orders. No drinking privileges. Wife’s orders. He wasn’t even allowed to leave his dad’s condo unless to be escorted to work. All to avoid facing tough questions from the press or CalypsoCo investors. Then, suddenly, he saw something glint back at him from beneath one of the fauteuils in his conference nook, reflecting the late afternoon light.

He ambled over and bent down. His face lit up with delight when he saw that it was one of his old Game Boys. And as he slipped it from beneath the leather fauteuil, he chuckled with glee. He must have dropped it there a long time ago, for the thing was ancient! In fact he couldn’t remember playing it in years and years. But it was better than nothing, so he quickly switched it on, and was delighted when it showed signs of life, so long past its expiration date.

He quickly glanced at the door, hoping his father wouldn’t suddenly waltz in here and catch him. But all was quiet on the Grover front, so, his tongue between his teeth, Bomer started clicking through the menu.

The odd thing was that no matter which game he selected, the darn thing always returned to the start menu. With sinking heart he started to wonder if this discovered treasure might actually be broken after all. And he was just giving it a vigorous rattle, when a deferential knock sounded at the door.

Wasting no time, he shoved the device back where he’d found it, and yelled, “Yup!”

A very nervous-looking little man entered, and when he saw Bomer on the fauteuil, his discomfort seemed to increase exponentially, and he seemed to mutter something that sounded a lot like, “Oh, dang it.”

Bomer, who was anxious to return to his exploration of the Game Boy, had no time for this nonsense. “What do you want, Samuelson?”

“It’s Emerson, sir.”

“If you say so.” He had a vague recollection of the man. He was one of a small pool of assistants, appointed by his dad to do the actual work a CalypsoCo executive was supposed to do. He’d been introduced to the lot of them the first day he’d started work here in Calypso Tower, and had rarely seen them since. They did their thing—whatever it was—and he did his thing and only very rarely the twain met, except at the coffeemaker, of course.

“I, um… I thought I’d left something in here, sir, but now I’m not sure.”

He beamed a big smile at the man. “Happens to me all the time, Michaelson. Not to worry. It’ll come to you. Or not.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Right. Well, off you go, then, Jameson. I’m sure you have plenty of work to do. And I’m sure I do, too.”

“Yes, of course, sir. Um… How long will you be in today, sir?” He smiled apologetically. “It’s just that—no one told me you’d be back today, you see.”

“My father didn’t inform you about my triumphant return?”

“No, he did not, sir.”

“Well, that makes two of us. He kinda sprung this on me, you know? Decided a bit of work would do me good. Probably got tired of seeing me mope around the condo. Cooped up in there with his son and heir must have given the old boy the willies.” Then he realized he was discussing private matters with a complete stranger, and he abruptly stopped talking. When he looked up again, the little man was still hovering. “Well, what do you want now, Ferguson?” he asked a little peeved, for his Game Boy was waiting.

“Um—how long will you be in today then, sir?” the man asked.

He frowned, trying to remember. Then he got it. Dad had told him he’d be picking him up after work. Whenever that might be. “No idea, actually,” he told the assistant truthfully. “Whenever the work is done, I suppose.”

“Of course, sir,” Anderson said, now looking positively miserable. “Good day, sir,” he added, and disappeared from view, closing the door.

Good riddance, Bomer thought as he snapped up his Game Boy and set out to crack the code on the old contraption. He pressed a few buttons and rattled the thing a bit more, but all to no avail. The games he used to play had all been wiped away by the hand of time, and the only thing the contraption now seemed good for was the scrapheap. So he carried it over to his desk and dumped it into the wastebasket. As it landed with a dull clunk, it emitted a plaintive beep, and as he fished it out again, he saw to his surprise that rows and rows of numbers had started rolling on the small screen. Then, as his jaw dropped, he watched his computer spring to life as well, and the same rows of numbers appear there, too.

Gawking, he looked from the Game Boy to his computer screen and saw that the program he’d inadvertently triggered was mirrored on the computer.

So he quickly picked up his phone and put in a call to the IT department, figuring he better get the geeks in here before his dad found out he’d once again managed to wreck the CalypsoCo mainframe.

Five minutes later, a surly-looking pimpled IT guy strode in, wearing a black turtleneck sweater. He took one look at the Game Boy, another at the computer screen, and blanched to the roots of his pimples. Within seconds he was on the horn with internal security, and moments later Bomer’s office was swarming with scowling burly types, and then suddenly his father came hurrying in, demanding to know what the hell was going on.

He, too, watched the strange phenomenon unfold, and finally a wide grin split his round face. This took Bomer by surprise, as he’d very rarely seen his old man smile, and most definitely not since the embezzlement thing began.

Dad even went so far as to slap him on his back, telling him he’d always known he wasn’t cut out for the job. Why the old billionaire found that so pleasing was a mystery, but it was better than being reprimanded again.

It was quite a shock, therefore, when the same FBI guys who’d grilled him to within an inch of his life the last time suddenly decided to join the party. Bomer’s office now definitely resembled a reunion of the Schwarzenegger family, what with all the beefy serious-looking buzzcut types, all staring intently at his Game Boy. He didn’t get it, and when he voiced this sentiment, everyone present laughed heartily and started slapping him jovially on the back, as if he’d said the funniest thing in the world.

Finally, there was talk of an arrest being made, and Bomer clenched his buttocks. He’d been there and done that and wasn’t looking forward to doing it again. But then it turned out he wasn’t the one being arrested, but Samuelson, or Michaelson, or whatever his name was, and Bomer relaxed.

And when finally all the hullabaloo had died down, and he still hadn’t been handcuffed and escorted to 26 Federal Plaza, the entire matter was already slipping from his mind. And soon all he could think about was his dad’s promise that from now on he could play Candy Crush, Donkey Kong, and Minecraft to his heart’s content. He could even install an entire Game Room in his office if he liked. Yup, Christmas had come early this year.

D
etective Garfield was frowning
before him, trying to remember how many double macchiatos he’d had since arriving at the precinct that morning when there was a commotion outside his office. When he looked up, not one but three women barged in, all speaking simultaneously. He held up his hand like a traffic cop. “Hey. Hey! One at a time!” He pointed to Bo Vickar, for he was a secret fan of Temptation Town. “You. Talk.”

“Reece Hudson is in grave danger, Detective,” she gasped anxiously.

“You have to help us find him!” the petite blonde cried.

“All we know is that he’s still in New York,” added the busty redhead.

“He was taken by the same men who murdered my father!”

“The gardeners!” cried the blonde. “It’s the gardeners that did it!”

“Here! We have pictures!” The redhead plunked a smartphone down in front of him and pointed at a picture of three burly guys with buzzcuts.

“Please, Detective!” the Vickar woman implored. “They’re gonna kill him!”

“Quiet. Quiet!” he shouted over the hubbub, raising his hands in a calming gesture. “I know exactly where Reece Hudson is right now, and I can assure you he’s in no danger at all. Except maybe from overexposure to a bunch of deadly dull old guys.”

“You know where he is?” cried the blonde.

“First of all, who are you again?” he asked.

“Alice Whitehouse,” breathed the blonde. “I’m Reece’s fiancée.”

“Felicity Bell, I’m Alice’s best friend and Rick Dawson’s fiancée.”

“Okay, all right. Your boyfriend, Miss Whitehouse—”

“Fiancé.”

“Your fiancé is at The Parton Club on Sixth Avenue. I bumped into him about an hour ago, and he looked fine to me. So forget this nonsense about gardeners trying to kill him, all right? Who fed you this rubbish?”

“I told them, Detective. I have… visions. I know these things!”

“Know what things?”

“I know that Reece is in mortal danger,” Bo said dramatically.

“It’s the gardeners!” repeated the redhead, pointing at her phone again.

For the first time, he took a better look at the phone. He saw a picture of three gardeners in front of a black van wearing the lettering
‘Checkered Daffodils, Gardening Since 1999’
. “So? What about them?”

“They’re the ones who were staking out the senator’s house the day before he was murdered!” the Whitehouse girl exclaimed.

This was news to him. And since he didn’t like things his own people hadn’t discovered, he decided to dismiss this information out of hand. “Impossible,” he said. “My men canvassed the neighborhood. If some funny stuff was going on with a bunch of gardeners, they would have told me.”

And he was just about to throw these three out of his office when another person came rushing in. It was Rick Dawson.

“Come on!” he cried, sitting back in his chair. “Now what do
you
want?”

“Detective!” Rick cried, panting. “I know who killed the senator!”

“You too, huh? Everybody seems to know who killed the senator. Don’t tell me. It was the gardeners that did it, right?”

The reporter raised his eyebrows. “How do you know?”

He smirked. “Because your girlfriend just told me!”

“Fiancée,” the redhead corrected him.

Only now did Rick notice there were others present in the detective’s office, and he seemed pleasantly surprised. “Hey, you guys. I know who those gardeners are. I put a Missing Persons ad in the paper, and the minute it was posted on the site we got our first hit. They’re ex-military and now work as muscle for hire. At least according to the old army buddy of theirs who called in.”

“So who hired them?” asked Felicity.

“That, he didn’t know, unfortunately. But I have a pretty good idea. I just got off the phone with another source, and he claims—”

“Look, enough already, Dawson!” the policeman cried. “Why don’t you all clear out right now, and leave the investigating to the investigators?!”

“No, but this is a real scoop, Detective. This new source of mine—”

But just then, the door to the office was slammed open again, and another person barged in. Garfield recognized him as Grover Calypso, one of New York’s most prominent businessmen. He eyed him balefully. Billionaire or not, he didn’t like people barging in without making an appointment. “So what do
you
want?!” he demanded irritably.

“I know who messed with our computer system!” Grover boomed.

The policeman squinted, trying to remember. Then it hit him. “You mean that fraud thing your son was involved with? Aren’t the feds handling that?”

“The feds are handling it, but you’re the guy who’s in charge of the Vickar murder investigation, right?”

He was glad at least one person remembered. “I am in charge, all right,” he declared through gritted teeth, raking the others with a withering glare.

“I know who killed him!” stated the guy triumphantly.

The detective closed his eyes, pained. “Don’t tell me. It’s the gardeners.”

“I don’t know about any gardeners, Detective. But we just discovered one of my employees hacked the computer network. He used a very ingenious method that the FBI are still puzzling over. Apparently he planted an old Game Boy in my son’s office, programmed to launch a software hack on the mainframe from his computer and set up this slush fund. He wanted to make it look like Bomer embezzled the funds himself. Only everybody knows he could never be involved in something like that. My son is simply too dumb!” He beamed as if this was something he was particularly proud of. Then he added, “The FBI took the guy—name of Emerson Worsnop—into custody and he confessed. Said he was hired by none other than Ashley Wince!”

This time, Garfield’s interest was piqued. “Ashley Wince… Isn’t he the president’s chief of staff? You mean he set up this embezzlement thing?”

“He did! And it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s involved with Senator Vickar’s murder as well. He must have set up this slush fund to try and blackmail the senator, and when that didn’t work, he had him whacked.”

Bo Vickar started at these words but then nodded vigorously. “Mr. Calypso is right, Detective. I sense that this Ashley Wince is Tarantula.”

“Exactly what my source claims!” Rick cried. “Wince is the evil genius behind this whole thing, Detective!”

“And now he’s after Reece!” Felicity exclaimed.

“Please, Detective,” Alice implored. “You have to save Reece!”

Garfield’s head was about to explode, with all this talk about gardeners, tarantulas and the president’s chief of staff. It took him another ten minutes to extract the story about the gardeners from Alice, Felicity and Rick, and another five minutes to make the connection to The Parton, of which Ashley Wince was apparently a prominent member. Why Wince would hire gardeners to hack Grover Calypso’s computer, or why he would go after Reece, he still didn’t understand, but he did understand that if he didn’t act now, Grover Calypso and Rick’s father Chazz Falcone would talk to the mayor, and he could probably kiss his job goodbye. So he stormed out of his office, the entire troupe close on his heels, gathered a small team of boys and girls in blue, and promptly launched Operation Save Reece Hudson, if for no other reason than that it would get these infernal people off his back.

Another ten minutes later half a dozen squad cars were rolling from the NYPD parking lot, en route to The Parton Club, where Reece might or might not be suffering torture at the hands of three vicious gardeners.