The Whisper Box (5 page)

The plan Mac and Laura devised was simple. G-Mac would drive to Poughkeepsie, a rural town in upstate New York that was only about an hour away. This location was far enough away to pull all the government secret agents out of their foxholes for an hour or two, yet close enough for Mac to make a phone call from a public phone and get back to Laura's apartment before the agents did. He would wait until about five o'clock in the afternoon to leave. By the time he got back it would be around seven at night and dark, creating the perfect setting for his first attempt at burglary. He would slide into Laura's apartment in all black clothing, a black mask and all, ease under the bed to the hole in the floor, grab the manila folders and whatever tapes he found, and get back to the office. They planned to stay up all night, reviewing the evidence before calling a press conference. At least they had hoped to call a press conference in the morning. Mac’s sign would hang in the background as he spoke. Hart and Hart would be known across America by tomorrow afternoon. Mac and Laura disagreed on one subject. He had no intentions of leaving the country. He was going to milk this sucker. The law protected him. He would be safe. After he uncovered what he was about to uncover he would be loved, not hated. He told Laura that it would be Farnsworth who would have to go into hiding, not him.

First, he had to get the tapes and documents and review them.

**********************

Mac jumped in his 2000 Corvette, his pride and joy. As far as he was concerned, he went to law school for this car and this car only. He drove up the Taconic Parkway at blinding speed. The radar detector never made a sound. He was in Poughkeepsie in forty-five minutes, fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. The Parkway Cafe was just off the Poughkeepsie exit. From there, he called the
Daily Reporter
from a pay phone outside. When the receptionist answered, Mac did not even let her finish her greeting.

“I'm sorry to interrupt ma'am, but I'm in a bit of a hurry. I need to speak to someone in the news. I'm callin' 'bout that Laura Green woman. I've seen her, hell, I'm lookin' at her now.” Mac was trying to sound convincing while disguising his voice.

She put him on hold. It seemed like less than a second before Owen Randolph answered. He knew the voice from seeing him on The Morning Show several times. Owen Randolph was the most respected newspaper columnist in the New York Metro area. Mac knew that it was not just chance or luck that Randolph, a man almost sixty years old with forty years of experience in the newspaper business, took the call himself. They wanted Laura and they wanted her bad.

In the same fake Southern drawl Mac slowly stated, “Hey, that Laura woman y'all been lookin' fer is here in the cafe off the Taconic. I know it's her man. I seen her on the television about two minutes ago and then she comes walkin' in here to order food, man. She got a hat on like a disguise or somthin', but I ain't dumb man, I read the paper, I watch the news.”

Randolph took the bait and asked how to get there. Mac gave him directions. He knew Randolph would alert everyone. Randolph was very good at getting the television cameras to follow him. As a matter of fact, he was the best. Mac hung up the phone and headed south to Laura's apartment.

Mac barely made it out before the small town was buzzing. He noticed three different news vans going North on the Taconic while he traveled South, only minutes after his pone call. McFarland had everyone racing each other to get to Poughkeepsie. The media, the police, and the hungry attorneys were cutting each other off on the Taconic Parkway to beat the next guy. Mac laughed to himself as he headed in the opposite direction, away from Poughkeepsie, away from the cafe, away from the cops and towards Laura's place.

Who would have the story first? Who would have the client first? Who would take
America's Most Wanted into custody first? America was all about firsts. McFarland knew this and used it to his advantage. He sped down the highway. He would be at Laura's apartment in less than forty minutes where he would go to the hole in the floor that she had described. This time tomorrow, Mac's name would be all over the country, maybe even the world. Again, he pictured his face on television. He thought of the money, he imagined the future; the law was a beautiful thing. He also pictured Laura alone in his office, scared; he did care about his only client.

The bullet entered Michael's skull from the rear. He had not even finished taking his keys out of the door. The man grabbed him from behind, asked no questions, and fired. The tightly screwed on silencer startled no neighbors. Michael felt a tiny twinge for a half a second, and then nothing. The body was disposed of quickly in the Hudson River. Blocks were tied to the plastic wrapped around his corpse to make certain it would never surface. A note left under the neighbor’s mat read:

Joe and Jenny—

Unexpected vacation time from the boss! I am heading to the Jersey shore. Please check my mail for me. I'll be home in a week!

See Ya'- Mike

PS - If Tonya comes by, tell her I needed some time away; she'll know what you mean.

Michael's body would never be found. The orders had gone out this morning to take care of this matter immediately.

Mac turned the radio on and pondered what he had done. He had created a story that had caused all local members of the media to gather for nothing. The thought of one hundred eager, annoying paparazzi types running in circles comparing notes, twenty police officers, questioning locals, as three FBI agents attempt to control the crowd, amongst the clueless, nosy townies was laughable. There would be mass confusion for at least two hours before everyone realized there was nothing, absolutely nothing, to be found at the café. He created a cloud of steam. It appeared to be thick and solid, but when you reached into it, there was nothing to grab.

He pulled down the alley behind the apartment building with his lights off. His black Corvette almost seemed invisible. He felt invisible. His heart was pounding through his chest. He could feel the tension. In a sick way, he loved it. What he refused to admit to himself was that at any moment the villain could show up. This was serious.

Upon exiting his car, he realized how high the drop down stairway was. He jumped as high as he could, but he missed the stairway by at least six inches.

A wave of negativity hit him. There was no way he could make this happen, at least not this way. Ignoring his thoughts, he tried again. He was not even close. On the last attempt he landed in a puddle.

Puddles in the back of dark alleys are worse than puddles that form on a sidewalk. They are dirty. They always have some sort of oil in them. The oil forms a glistening film across the top of the water. There are also always chunks of mud in these puddles. This oily mud puddle was now up one side of his pants and down the other. He could not see it, it was dark, but he could feel it.

There was no use in jumping any longer. Frustrated, he stood there for a few minutes with his hands on his hips and looked around the alley. Suddenly, something caught his eye. In spite of the darkness, he could make out a small metal rod sticking out of the old brick building. If he used the rod to pull himself up he might be able to grab the stairwell that way. He jumped once, trying to be quiet the entire time. His hand grabbed the rod. For a brief moment he thought this would be a success. The greasy residue on his hand from the puddle made him lose his grip instantly. Before he knew what was happening, he found himself on his behind and on the ground again. He landed elbows first, then his rear end, and then his back. Now his pants were not the only things covered in the oil, mud, and water mixture.

He had not had the wind knocked out of him since playing football in high school, yet he instantly recognized the sensation. There are a few seconds where one actually feels all of the air exit the lungs. Most people panic, then realize what had happened and lie motionless for about thirty seconds. After that the pain sets in. This is exactly the order of events that Mac was going through.

The scheme he had devised was obviously not going to work out, but there had to be another way, he thought. He wanted to avoid the front door at all costs. In spite of his injuries and his activities in the back alley, he had actually kept it all pretty quiet. As he paced back and forth panting and thinking, he saw his saving grace.

The large wooden figure was off in the corner. These objects always piqued his desire. When he was in college, he really wanted one. One of his friends had one refinished and used it as a coffee table. He never knew what they were, but they look like big wooden wheels. The telephone and electric companies used them to wrap cable. He now had one. Now, he only wished he had seen it about five minutes ago; he would still be dry. He pushed it from the corner to the space directly below the stairwell. As he climbed onto the wheel and grabbed the stairwell at last, he shook his head in disgust about all he had been through. Then he slowly climbed the steps.

Laura's apartment was on the third floor. The metal wedge she kept hidden to use to unlock her window when she locked herself out was exactly where she said he would find it. He slowly slid it through the crease where the upper and lower window met.
Click!
It worked like a charm; anyone could break into this woman's apartment. Laura had said she kept it there for emergencies, but he wondered how the hell she got to the pull down steps to get to it. He made a mental note to ask her.

He eased the window open. This entire operation was going quieter than expected. When he climbed through the window into the bedroom, the first thing he noticed was the scent of pot-purée. It smelled feminine, as a woman's apartment should. The bedroom was your basic woman's bedroom. The bed had been made that morning or whenever she last slept in it. It was decorated with a small army of white throw pillows to match the color of the goose down comforter. He looked up and saw himself in the mirror standing on top of an oak chest of drawers. He looked like a vagrant. His sweater was torn and smeared with oil and mud. His pants were also torn. He could feel the blood trickling from his right knee down his shin. The same tingle was from his left elbow down his forearm. His hair was half damp and swirled about. Further more, he was soaking wet and dripping water, oil, and blood onto Laura's thick white carpet. As he tiptoed across the floor, searching for a light, his heart thumped harder and harder in his chest.

The barrel of the stranger's gun was Aaron's first clue that someone else was in the apartment with him. The barrel was pressed against his forehead. The tip of the silencer was cold. He froze. His mind went blank. Little did he know that the man holding the gun had killed Michael, his clerk, only hours before.

The stranger's gruff voice broke the silence. “Who sent you?”

Mac's throat was swelling up; he could not get the words out.

The stranger asked again, “I swear buddy, I will kill you. Who sent you?”

Just then, the lights came on. Another man in a sleek suit wielding another silencer-laden gun was leaning on the wall next to the switch.

The second stranger cut in, “What the hell are you doing Burt? The guy's a bum! We don’t need guns blowing off in an apartment building with tenants all around us because of a bum!”

Mac had no idea what they were talking about. Then like a bolt of lightening it hit him. He
really
did look like a bum, so they assumed he was one.

“How do you know he's a bum?” asked Burt.

“Look at the guy,” said number two.

“What the hell are you doin' here boy?” asked number two.

“Sir, I was, I was comin' to sleep. 'Dis here m'am ain't been home for a few days now, so I figured I'd help myself to a nice couch and some warm clothes. I watch her every day. She left wit' suitcases just a day o' two ago. I figured I got another coupla' days. I'm very sorry, I didn't mean no harm.” said Mac in his best southern bum slang.

Burt pushed Mac to the ground, held him face down on the floor, and wielded the gun again.

“I don't believe you!” shouted Burt.

“Burt, Burt, calm down man. We don't need this. There are tenants around.” He whispered softly but firmly.

As Mac shook with fear, he could see the hole under the bed. This was exactly where Laura was hiding her evidence. All he could think was how close these two goons were to what they needed. Number two grabbed Burt's trigger arm.

“Burt, calm down, put the gun away. I'm gonna' go check the hallway. I'm gonna' make sure we caused no ruckus and figure out what to do with our friend.”

Number two then looked sternly at Mac. “Sir, let's just say that you are in the wrong place at the wrong time. Keep quiet. Sit still and you'll be OK.”

Mac looked back at him and pleaded. “Sir, all due respect, but I ain't comfortable to sit in this room with 'dis man who jus' tried to kill me.”

Number two stared at Mac for a second and said, “OK Burt, you go look in the hallway, make sure the door is locked, and then come back.”

Mac breathed a huge sigh of relief. Burt left the room. It was apparent his higher-ranking partners decision to override his opinion angered him. Number two turned around for a split second to peak around the corner into the master bathroom. The coast was clear. As he was turning back around he heard Mac's voice.