The Pandora Directive: A Tex Murphy Novel (2 page)

Holding his coat and hat, Fitzpatrick lowered himself back into the booth. His face was lit up like a hundred watt bulb. “A private detective! Delightful! I didn’t know that one could make a living as a flatfoot in the twenty-first century.”

“Well now, I didn’t say I made a living at it. I just got a licence.”

“So, you only gumshoe part-time? What else do you do?”

“Well, drinking takes up a lot of my time. Avoiding bill collectors and the IRS also keeps me fairly busy.”

Fitzpatrick seemed delighted. “Well, Mr Murphy, it seems that we could do each other some good. I need assistance and you, apparently, need income. Perhaps we should shake on it — or would you like the details first?”

This seemed too good to be true, so it probably was. But Fitzpatrick seemed more than willing to solve at least some of my money problems. Reaching into my overcoat, I found a dog eared, coffee-stained business card. I apologetically handed it to my future client.

“I prefer to do business in my office. Why don’t we meet there tomorrow morning? Bring anything that might help. We’ll wait to discuss payment, but I think you’ll find my rates reasonable. In fact, if you bring a few of those Cubanas along, I’ll give you the special Friends of Tex discount.”

“This is wonderful.” the old man looked around my digs like a kid at a petting zoo. “I feel as though I were in one of the detective movies I enjoyed as a boy.”

I nodded, as conversationally as possible. Fitzpatrick had knocked on my office door during a period of valuable REM sleep, and I wasn’t fully conscious. Fortunately, he’d brought along a box of Cubanas and, together with a cup of thick coffee, high-quality nicotine for breakfast was bringing me around. My future client seemed as chipper as a poker player holding a royal flush.

“Why, I’d half-expected to see the name Samuel Spade printed on the door.”

“I always believe that setting and and the ones I essential to reaching a desirable clientele.”

“Without a doubt.” he brushed a piece of lint from his hat. He seemed to enjoy my film noir philosophy as much as I was enjoying his cigars. I took another puff.

“I don’t know about you, Mr Fitzpatrick, but I’ve always felt I belonged in the Thirties. 1930s, that is. Ever since I can remember. When the other kids were locked on to Sesame Street Interactive, I was reading Hammett and Chandler. Real paper books, of course.”

“Naturally.”

“So… now I’m a private detective.”

Fitzpatrick seemed almost envious. “It must be quite exciting.”

I took another long draw of the Cubana. “Well, let’s just say it’s a good thing I enjoy the work; it sure as hell doesn’t pay very well.”

Fitzpatrick nodded sympathetically and reach delicately inside his coat. “That must be my cue.” his hand emerged holding a calfskin chequebook. My heart fluttered. I tried not to breathe heavily.

“I charge $500 a day, plus expenses. Contingent, of course, upon my taking your case.” Fitzpatrick didn’t hesitate. “That seems perfectly acceptable. I suppose you need me to give you some details.” I leaned back in my chair and formed a perfect smoke ring. “Please.”

Fitzpatrick’s face became more serious, and I noticed for the first time how old he looked. Deep lines etched his forehead and surrounded his eyes and mouth. His skin had a transparent quality, though his complexion was quite ruddy for a man of his age and apparent lifestyle. His eyes were the only feature of his face that didn’t seem odd. He wore no glasses or corneal inserts, and his eyes seemed uncommonly clear and focused. Sure, maybe he had radial keratotomy or TDA surgery, but they didn’t explain an indefinable something about his eyes, somehow foreign, yet compelling. I looked away.

“As I told you last evening, I’m searching for a man named Thomas Malloy. Before I retired, I was a research scientist and worked quite closely with Dr Malloy for a time. Our paths diverted some 20 years ago, and we didn’t stay in touch. Recently, however, I saw a picture of my old friend in a local newspaper, the Bay City Mirror. My friend was in the background of the photograph. It was taken at a nearby university, Berkeley. When I went to look him up, I was told that no one named Malloy work there. I spoke to several people, even showing them the picture from the newspaper, but no one recognised — or admitted to recognising — Dr Malloy.

“I was close to abandoning hope when a young woman approached me, saying she might be able to help. She introduced herself as Sandra and said that she had worked with the man I knew as Malloy. He had been known to her as Tyson Matthews. Sandra did not seem comfortable talking to me at that time, so we agreed to meet later.”

Fitzpatrick paused dramatically and leaned toward me. “She did not keep our appointment.”

My eyes widened appropriately. “Did you talk to her again?”

“I had every intention of doing so. When I returned to the university, I was told that Sandra had quit her job and withdrawn from her classes. Other attempts to locate her prove fruitless.”

The story was starting to interest me. With a delicate cough, Fitzpatrick motioned toward my water cooler. “May I?”

“Certainly.”

He filled a paper cup halfway, returned to his seat, and took a sip. “As you can imagine, my discouragement gave way to a sense of empowerment. I feared not only for the well-being of the goal, but also of my friend. Macabre as it may seem, I began searching the obituaries in addition to my other inquiries. After several months, I came to believe that I would not see Dr Malloy again. Then I found another reference to my friend.”

Fitzpatrick paused and took another sip from a paper cup. I’d forgotten the Cubana — it had gone out. I set it in the ashtray.

“I have always had an interest in the paranormal and regularly read several periodicals in the genre. In one of these, the Cosmic Connection, I read that an upcoming feature would be an interview with a Dr Thomas Malloy. I contacted the publishers, but they would give me no information. In fact, the interview failed to appear in the magazine. I was never able to determine what had transpired, but $500 bought me an address where Malloy could supposedly be reached.”

“Here at the Ritz?”

“That’s correct.”

“Apparently another dead end.”

“I suppose we have yet to determine that. It is, however, as far as my story goes.”

Of course, I was in. The money alone would have done it, but the old man’s story had me hooked like a hungry bass. I had an image to maintain, though. I took a moment to relight the Cubana. “I think I can make time to look into this for you. I’ll need a copy of the picture from the newspaper and a number where if you can be reached. And if you think of anything else that could help, give me a call. The numbers on my card.”

Fitzpatrick seemed relieved. He produced a business card from his breast pocket and placed it carefully on the desk. “As per your instructions, I brought with me a copy of the photograph.” Pulling a neatly folded piece of paper from yet another pocket, he set it carefully beside the business card. He then opened his chequebook and slowly wrote out a cheque. To avoid staring, I picked up the photocopy of Malloy’s picture and unfolded it. In the background of the photograph I could clearly make out the face of an older man, at least in his mid-Seventies. I looked up to see Fitzpatrick finish signing his name. He removed the cheque methodically, blew on it lightly, and handed it to me. I tried not to look, but a bunch of zeros caught my eye and wouldn’t let go.

“The Cubanas were more than enough for a retainer, Mr Fitzpatrick.”

The old man replaced the cheque book in his coat pocket. “Consider the cigars a gift from one patron of a dying art to another.”

He rose slowly and smoothed the pleats of his tailored trousers. I stood and leaned across the desk to shake his hand.

“I hope this venture will be to our mutual benefit, Mr Murphy.”

I smiled down at the old man. “Call me Tex.”

After Fitzpatrick left, I waited for an appropriate period time, then grabbed the cheque and my hat and took the fire escape down to the street. It was only 7pm. The banks wouldn’t open for a couple hours, but there was an ATM close by that would cash my cheque.

Chelsee’s newsstand sits directly across from the Ritz. I decided to say hello. She left me hanging the night before. I needed to know if I’d hurt her feelings, how much, and what kind of Band Aid would make it all better.

“Hey… sorry about last night.”

“Really. Why? Chelsee was oozing antagonism. I remembered it was her birthday.

“Well I… you know, I feel like I swallowed my foot. It left a bad taste in my mouth. Metaphorically speaking, of course. My feet actually smell good.”

Chelsee didn’t smile like she was supposed to. “Don’t worry about it, Tex.” her words were nice enough, but her tone was testy. She crossed her arms and looked down. “I know how I look. Is not like I have guys lined up to ask me out… not like they used to.” She looked back at me, her chin up. “I wouldn’t want you to mollycoddle me anyway.”

It was bizarre hearing Chelsee talk like this. It was so honest, so sad… so pathetic. I didn’t know how to react. “Listen, why don’t you let me take you to dinner tonight?”

“A date?” She said the word like she’d rather be doused in kerosene and given a lit cigarette.

“No, no, no — just two friends eating some food from the same table. Maybe some polite conversation.”

Chelsee mulled it over, then shrugged. “I guess that’d be OK. I mean… yeah, that’d be alright.”

Her shoulders seemed to relax slightly. “Look, Tex. I haven’t been feeling myself lately. I didn’t think this birthday stuff would be any big deal, but I guess it is.” She narrowed her gaze, completely unaware of her shiny eyes and moist lips. “I… appreciate you looking out for me.”

My face felt like it was turning a bit pink. “OK, is not a date then. I’ll pick you up. How’s five? Earlier? Later?”

Chelsee’s eyes flashed for the first time. “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we just have dinner at my place? It’ll be quiet, we can talk… plus it will be a lot cheaper than going out.” she paused. “Besides I have something I want to talk to you about.”

I really felt like telling her that, for once, I had enough money to take her out. On the other hand, she never invited me to her place before, and the thought of it was substantially arousing. And what did she need to tell me? The possibilities were testing my antiperspirant.

“You talked me into it, Miss Bando. I’ll be there at 5 o’clock sharp… I may even iron my shirt.”

“I feel so spoiled.”

“By the way, which should I bring — red or white?”

Chelsee looked all the way into my eyes. My knees wobbled. “Both.”

As I stood at the ATM, waiting to see if my cheque would get eaten, I filed Chelsee way for later (with some difficulty) and tried to devise a plan of action for locating Dr Thomas Malloy. With the little Fitzpatrick had given me to go one, I figured the best starting point would be back at the Ritz. Somehow, I’d need to get into Malloy’s former room. Unfortunately, getting information would involve talking to Nilo Paglio, the owner/landlord/extortionist, and I wasn’t his favourite tenant at the moment. It was the second week of April, and I was a little late on my February rent payment. I’d usually been able to hold Nilo at bay by doing the occasional house-detective job, but he’d run out of things for me to do. The Ritz hadn’t had the No Vacancy sign on for a while, and Nilo was breathing down my neck like a dancing sailor on the last night of leave.

For the first time in weeks, I entered the Ritz through the front door and stepped into the lobby. I had four five-hundred dollar bills in my hand and two in my shoe. As usual, Nilo was behind the front desk, sprawled over a chair in the corner, reading a skin mag. A soggy cigar stub smouldered between clenched jaws and cracked lips. It wasn’t a Cubana. He looked up, his eyes bulging out, and he almost swallowed his stogie as he struggled to his feet. “Hole it right dere, ya sneakin’ piece of snot!” Spittle flew everywhere.

“Calm down, Nilo. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Damn straight ya ain’t goin’ anywheres! Where’s my damn money?”

I pulled out the four McKinleys and held them up in front of Nilo’s red-scarred eyes. “I’ve got it right here. I just need to ask you about something before I hand it over.”

Nilo quit spitting on me, but his eyes didn’t leave the bills. “Wha ya askin’? Maybe I ain’t talking.”

I waved the cash slightly, letting Nilo get a good whiff of it. “Tell me about Thomas Malloy.”

“Never heard of him.” Nilo’s unblinking eyes remained focused on the money. It looked like he was still counting. Keep the bills in full view, I pulled out the copy of the newspaper photo Fitzpatrick had given me and pointed to Malloy.

The slug prised his eyes off the cash in my hand and glared at the photograph. “Used ta live here. Gone now.”

“Which room was he staying in?”

Nilo hesitated, then glaring up at me, hissed like a cornered alley cat. “Six.”

“Anyone else stayed there since Malloy left?”

“No!” the word was forced out like an abscessed molar. I moved the greenbacks tantalisingly close to the landlord’s snout.

“Give me the security code to apartment six, and these’ll be all yours.”

Nilo didn’t answer. I waved the bones around. The effect was Pavlovian. “Awright, damn ya! Four-eight-two-seven! Now gimme those damn things!”

Apartment six was on the second floor. I punched in the numbers, heard a click, pushed open the door, and stepped into the room. It looked like just the other rooms at the Ritz: ratty bed, lopsided dresser, nightstand, scratched-up desk. The place looked as empty as a politician’s campaign promise, but it was all I had to go on. I walked to the desk and grabbed one of the drawer handles. As I pulled the drawer open, I heard a floorboard squeak. It didn’t strike me as odd until I heard the whooshing sound. A blinding flash of pain seared through my skull as someone turned out the lights.

It felt like I was swimming to the surface of a pool of molasses. My eyes focused on what looked like a massive spider web. As the fog rolled off to sea, I realised I was staring at the cracked plaster ceiling in the Ritz Hotel, apartment Six. I rolled over and spend the next five minutes attempting to stand. A brighter shade of red light was seeping through the window. I checked my watch — it was 12:03pm I’d been out for more than sixteen hours.