Coffin Dodgers (12 page)

Amy's enthusiasm doesn't seem to be rubbing off on Dave. "It's not enough to take to Burke, though, is it?"

"No. Not yet. We need to know who Sleazy Bob's involved with. That's why the bug's so important. Did you manage to get it into his office yet?"

"Not today. He wasn't in, and nobody knows his entry code." The security guys have the entry codes to every bit of the casino, including the money rooms, but not Sleazy Bob's office. You might think that's a sign that he's a pompous arse. I couldn't possibly comment.

"Dave, you never said -- how are you going to do it anyway?" I ask.

"I've been giving that a lot of thought. I've considered every angle, given it a full risk assessment, explored every option, run a few ideas up the flagpole --"

"Dave," Amy says.

"And I've decided I'm going to walk into his office and stick it on his desk."

Amy and I are in unison. "You're what?"

"I'm going to walk in and stick it on his desk. Well, under his desk."

"You're kidding," I say.

"It's either that or dress as a leprechaun and try to persuade him he's hallucinating," Dave smirks. "I don't think that one's really got much chance of working, to be honest."

Amy's face is serious. "You're just going to walk in?"

"Yep."

"And you really think that'll work?"

"Yep," Dave says. "What could possibly go wrong?"

As plans go, Dave's one is risky, stupid and potentially dangerous. So naturally it goes without a hitch. As he explains it the following afternoon: mid-shift, security gets a call from Sleazy Bob demanding some files. Dave offers to take them up, which makes the other guys happy; like all sentient beings, they can't stand Bob and would rather not spend any time in his company if they can possibly avoid it.
 

So Dave grabs the files, heads for the office, turns on the bug and knocks on the door. Once he's in he deliberately puts the files too close to the edge of Bob's desk. The files fall to the floor, Bob swears, Dave ducks down and sticks the bug to the underside of the desk. He retrieves the files, puts them down properly, and that's that.
 

For once, Dave doesn't appear to be exaggerating when he tells me the story. It's just as well that the casino's cameras can't detect smugness, though, or Dave would be well and truly busted.

Amy seems to be in a good mood, despite being at work.

"If one more ancient --"

"Arrogant --"

"Obese --"

"Corpulent --"

"Corpulent? Get you, dictionary boy!"

"Anyone we know?"

"Not this time. Some random."

Amy checks that no customers are within earshot.

"Did he do it?"

"Yep. Halfway through his shift."

"And he didn't get caught?"

"Amazingly, no."

Amy grins. "Excellent. Let's tune in tonight."

We meet up at the end of the shift and, as ever, decide to go to my place. Dave makes a half-hearted suggestion that we should go back to his, but I tell him that I'd done a beer run that morning. Which is true, but it isn't the reason we don't want to go to Dave's. My apartment is a mess, but it's nowhere near as bad as Dave's. Nothing is.
 

It's weird, because Dave isn't a dirty guy. His uniform's always immaculate, his shoes are always sparkling. And yet his apartment has mysterious things under chairs and dust bunnies the size of Alsatians. You know those movies where there's a nuclear holocaust and people live in the ruins? If you're ever making one, don't bother building sets. You can film the whole thing inside Dave's apartment, although you'd probably need to tidy it up a bit first. You don't even need to bring your own monsters. Give it a few weeks and the contents of Dave's fridge will have evolved into something more terrifying than any special effects lab could ever come up with.

I'm on the sofa, laptop open and Dave and Amy sitting on either side of me. We're crammed close together so we can all see the screen, and I'm very conscious of Amy's leg touching mine. Dave's leg is touching my other leg, but it isn't having quite the same distracting effect.

"Okay Dave," I say, trying to keep my mind on what we're supposed to be doing. "How do we get into it?"

"There's a program that comes with it. I've installed it already, so it should just be a matter of opening it."

"That one?" I'm no computer whiz, but even I can guess that the program with an icon of an insect is probably the one for the bug.

"Yep. Open that."

A login screen appears. "Enter user name and password, it says."
 

"The username is 'sneaky1'," Dave says. "Lowercase, all one word, the number one at the end."

"Okay. Password."

"Daveisgreat."

Amy and I give Dave a look. "It's what?"

"Daveisgreat. All one word," Dave says. He's blushing.

I'm tempted to tease him about it, but I want to know if this thing's actually working. After a few seconds, a folder appears containing a few dozen icons. Each one has a date and time and then a number.

A thought strikes me. "If we can access the bug from here, doesn't that mean the IT guys can find it too?"

"I doubt it," Dave says. He's stopped blushing. "We give wireless to everybody who stays in the casino, and it's in all the public areas except the gaming floors. Even on a quiet day that means dozens of computers, phones and other things are popping in and out. On a busy day it's hundreds. Nobody's going to notice one more thing. And even if they do, if they don't have the right software they won't be able to get into it. It could be a toaster for all they'll be able to tell."

"Where did you put the receiver?" Amy asks.
 

"Store cupboard on the same floor as Sleazy Bob's office. Nobody goes in there apart from the cleaning staff, and it's on a high shelf. Nobody'll notice it. Even if they do, it just looks like a box. It doesn't have any lights on it or anything."

Amy turns to me. "Dave is great, isn't he?"

"He is, Amy. Dave is great."

Dave's grin is halfway across his face before he realises we're taking the mickey.

"This is going to be a very big deal, and I want every single thing to be perfect. Better than perfect. I mean it. If you screw this up I swear, I'll have your balls."

Hello, Sleazy Bob.
 

He's on the phone, and while we can't hear the other side of the conversation Bob's voice is crystal clear. As the clip plays we hear Sleazy Bob in full effect, making dire threats and the odd promise to people who couldn't care less if he lives or dies. This call seems to be to an interior design firm. We've got a big charity dinner taking place in a few weeks, and Bob's talking about decorating one of the function suites.

"And remember, I want it classy."

That makes us laugh. Bob wouldn't know classy if it fell on him and crushed his head.

The rest of the conversation is about money -- prices, discounts, deposits and so on -- so we click on the next file. Bob wanting to know when his dry cleaning will be picked up. Click. Yelling at one of the cashiers. Click. Yelling at housekeeping. Click. Yelling at security. Click. Listening to a teacher spanking a naughty student.

Wait. What?

It takes ten seconds or so before we realise what's happening. The bug isn't just picking up speech. We can hear movement too.
 

"Oh, good God," Amy says.

"He can't be." Dave says.

"I think he is," I say.

He is.
 

I don't know what's worse: Sleazy Bob watching porn in his office, or us listening to Sleazy Bob watching porn.
 

Amy has her fingers in her ears and her eyes screwed tight. "La la la la la la la," she chants. "La la la la la laaaaaaa."

We stop the clip. If Sleazy Bob confesses to the whole plot halfway through, names his co-conspirators and explains exactly where to find the smoking gun we need to convince the police, we've missed it. It's a risk we're all happy to take.

"I am going to pour bleach into my ears," Dave says. "And then, I'm going to pour some more. And after that, I'm going to join the Foreign Legion."

The rest of the clips can wait until tomorrow.

The next two nights are a waste of time. There's plenty of audio, but unless you're desperate to know more about Sleazy Bob's tastes in pornography, nothing of any interest happens.
 

CHAPTER TEN

It's nine o'clock.  Amy has the phone, and I have a trumpet that I found in a charity shop.  It's in terrible condition, but that's okay.  I can't play the trumpet anyway.

Amy makes the call and I parp like a man possessed.

We wait until Dave turns up before finding out what Sleazy Bob's been up to. Nothing, again. There's plenty of talking, but nothing that sounds relevant. We've been bugging Sleazy Bob's office for more than a week now, and while we've heard three pornographic movies, two over-the-top disciplinaries and God knows how many shouted phone calls, we haven't heard anything that could actually help us. That's another evening wasted, and it's safe to say that our enthusiasm is flagging.

"Maybe it's just that nothing is happening right now," Amy suggests.

"Or maybe he's not doing it from his office," I say. "Maybe he's been getting up to all kinds of things, but he's been doing it out of office hours. What do you think, Dave?"

Dave shrugs. "Dunno. Could be either one. I think we should give the bug a bit more time."

"I think so too," Amy says.

"I don't."

"It's only been a few days, Matt. Even murderers take time off."

"But what if he's arranging something and we've missed it?"

"We've no way of knowing."

"That's my point! We're just sitting around, hoping that whatever he does, he does it in the office. We've got a pretty good idea of what he does do in the office --" Amy winces -- "but we've no idea what he gets up to when he isn't there. He could leave work every night and drive straight to Murderers'R'Us for all we know."

"Murderers'R'Us?" Amy's smirking.

"You know what I mean."

"Sure, but it's just as likely that he goes straight home and goes to bed. More likely, in fact."

"But we don't know, do we?"

"So what are you suggesting?" Dave says.

"I think we should follow him."

"And do what?"

"That depends on where he goes."

"What if he sees us?"

"We need to make sure that he doesn't."

"He doesn't exactly have a fixed routine," Amy says. "How do we know when we should be watching him? We can't spend our whole lives hanging about outside work."

"Actually, that's pretty easy," Dave says. "When he turns up, he tends to stay for a full shift, usually a back shift or a late shift. So if he's been around since two, he'll probably head off around ten. If he doesn't turn up till six, he'll probably be around until two. Whichever of us is on, we can let everyone else know when he turned up. Gives us a pretty good idea of when he'll leave."

"See?" I say to Amy. "It's not that hard."

"I still don't think it's necessary."

"You won't be volunteering to do the first one, then?"

"Not on your life."

"I'll do it, then. I'm on dayshift tomorrow anyway. What about you, Dave?"

"Day."

"Okay. Can you let me know if anyone spots Sleazy Bob coming in?"

"Sure."

"So what's your plan after that?" Amy asks.

"Play it by ear. I'll call if anything interesting happens."

"I'll be waiting with bated breath."

"Is that sarcasm?"

"Sarcastic? Me?"

I shoot Amy a sour look and go to the fridge to get more beers.

I'm pretty sure I've thought of everything. I've got the bike good and muddy to make it harder to see, and I've disconnected the headlight: it's designed to be on whenever the bike is so that it's easier for people to see you, which of course is the last thing I need tonight. I'm dressed entirely in black, I've got a torch in my pocket in case I need to look at things in the dark, and I've made sure that my phone's got a full charge and that the bike does too. All that's missing is Sleazy Bob.

Sleazy Bob wandered in just after two and it's twenty past ten now, so if Dave's theory is correct he should be leaving the casino any minute now. I need to see him come out, because I don't know what kind of car he drives. I should have asked Dave. It would have made my morning a lot easier.
 

By eleven, I'm ready to give up -- but then I spot Sleazy Bob's hair coming out of the casino with Sleazy Bob attached to it. When he reaches his car I realise I should have guessed which one it would be: it's probably the most expensive and most tasteless car out here, which is quite an achievement in a casino car park. It's some kind of ridiculously oversized SUV, and I think Sleazy Bob ticked every single box in the options list. Lowered suspension that makes you look like a drug dealer? Tick. Too-big wheels? Tick. Completely unnecessary skirts and spoilers? Tick. Darkened privacy glass that screams "look at me! Look at me! I'm really important!"? Tickety-tick. I don't know what's worse: that anybody could make a car look so bad, or that Sleazy Bob's ride -- I just know he calls it a ride -- costs more than I'll ever earn. I'm glad I can't see the interior from here, because it's not likely to be a pleasant sight.

Sleazy Bob starts the car, winds down the windows and rests his forearm on the driver's window sill. Apparently deciding that his car isn't already loud enough, he's turned up the stereo. Soft rock is playing at such volume that I think I can hear the singer's knees moving.
 

He drives out of the car park and onto the main road. I put the bike into gear, twist the throttle and follow him.

Sleazy Bob drives with all the intelligence, care and consideration he brings to his day job, which means I feel like I'm following an angry lunatic in a clown car. He shoots red lights. He changes lane at the last possible second. He tailgates. He cuts people up. It's like he thinks his car only has two modes: Far Too Bloody Fast, and Oh My God Oh My God Brake Brake Brake We're All Gonna Die. I've only been following him for ten minutes and he's already had three near misses. Much more of this and I'll be a nervous wreck, or involved in a real wreck.