Chapter 17
Frank closed and locked his office door, rounded his desk, and dropped into his chair. The springs creaked under the sudden weight. It was three-thirty in the afternoon, only six and a half hours since he’d gathered everyone in the conference room and told them that Barry Watts had been murdered the night before. Six and a half hours since the gasps and the crying and the questions had started.
“What?!”
“Oh my God!!!”
“You saw him?”
“How did it happen?”
“What did the police say?”
“Where’s Gleason?”
It was that last question that had quieted the room: two words, loud and clear, cutting through the babble, snuffing it out like a blanket on flame. Heads had turned toward Roy Harper standing with his arms crossed at the back of the room, his eyebrows arched, his face innocent and tinged with concern. “Anybody seen Arnold?”
Frank had wanted to point at Roy Harper/Paul Hyatt. He wanted to shout: Tell us where you were last night. Tell everyone how you caused that mall to collapse, how you changed your name, and Barry found out, so you sliced his guts and left him to bleed out on his kitchen floor, you sick son-of-a-bitch.
How was he supposed to address him, anyway? Roy? Paul? He settled on Paul -- there was something about calling him Roy that gave him the feeling that he was complicit in the lie. A greasy, nauseating feeling that made him want to take a shower.
But he hadn’t said anything. He’d choked down the impulse. It hadn’t been the time to point fingers. And he had to admit that the question had been a good one. Where was Arnold Gleason? He was normally at his desk, without fail, no later than 7am: first one in, last one out.
Frank had arrived at 7:15, the pent up energy from the previous night’s discovery propelling him through the early morning stillness of an office whose employees rarely showed up before eight. He’d marched up to Arnold’s office and knocked.
He knocked a second time.
And a third.
He tried Arnold on his cell phone. The call had gone straight to voice mail.
At eight, he spoke with Carol Green, Arnold’s assistant, a forty-five year old brunette who Frank suspected had come out of the womb with a day planner in one hand and a stack of Post-it notes in the other.
She checked her watch, and then checked her calendar, fearing she’d missed something. “His morning’s free,” she said, tapping her bottom lip with the nail of an index finger. She frowned at the calendar in the way one might frown at an old friend displaying the first vague signs of senility. “He should be here.”
“I know.”
She let out a soft “Humpf” and dialed Arnold’s phone. Her frown deepened, her thin, plucked brows dipping toward each other.
“It’s going straight to voice mail.”
“I know.”
She hung up the phone. It rang a second later. She scooped up the receiver. “Arnold Gleason’s office.”
Carol listened for a moment, then glanced up at Frank and shook her head. It wasn’t him.
Frank turned and managed three steps before Carol charged out of her office and grabbed his arm.
“It’s a reporter. He wants Arnold to comment on the murder of Barry Watts? Is Barry—”
Frank nodded.
Carol’s hands shot to her mouth. “When?”
“Last night.”
“How?”
“Tell him no comment,” Frank said. “Then send out an email asking everyone to meet in the conference room at nine.”
Carol didn’t move.
Frank wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her back to her office. “Let me know if you hear from Andrew, okay?”
“Okay,” she said, her voice weak, tremulous. She sat down and picked up the receiver to speak to the reporter.
“Can you keep this to yourself for an hour?” Frank asked. He hoped Andrew would show up by then and take the reigns.
By nine, Andrew still hadn’t appeared. The staff had gathered in the conference room, and he’d made the announcement.
Six and a half hours ago.
Frank leaned his elbows on his desk and rubbed his temples. Outside his office door, the ceaseless babble continued. A third of the staff had opted to go home for the day, while the rest had decided to stay and gossip and pretend to work. Andrew’s absence had factored into the conversation: Where was he? Has anyone heard from him? Was there a link between Barry’s murder and Arnold’s disappearance? There had even been talk about a supposed affair between Barry and Arnold’s wife. Frank hated office gossip. It was a waste of time and energy, and it reminded him of high school.
Someone knocked on his door.
“Go away,” Frank said. It was amazing to him how many people wanted to know the gory details, from the amount of blood at the scene to Barry’s appearance. Someone had even asked about the smell.
The door opened and Roy Harper/Paul Hyatt/Sack of shit poked his head into the office. “Got a sec?”
Frank perked up at the sight of him. He hadn’t planned on confronting Paul until he’d decided on a course of action. Now that Arnold was missing, it fell to him to report Paul to the police or the licensing board. Maybe both.
At the sight of Paul, the old anger train chuffed, the wheels on its black locomotive creaking, turning, the steam building. He was going to confront him at some point. Why not now? Why not get the ball rolling? It was out of his hands, anyway. The old anger train had left the station, and it didn’t have brakes. It never had. It stopped when it crashed. Roy would emerge from the wreckage, axe swinging, and Frank would be waiting for him with his soon-to-be-acquired gun. The sooner they got it over and done with, the better.
“Come on in,” Frank said with a smile.
Roy stepped into the office and closed the door behind him. He sat down in the chair opposite Frank and slid his cell phone across the desk.
Frank bent forward and looked at the image on the screen, the image of Roy and that goddamn axe. At the sight of the picture, something uncoiled itself deep in his gut. It slithered and rolled and squirmed its way up his throat. Frank swallowed hard and forced his face to remain neutral. He made a mental note to introduce Jasper’s ass to the working ends of his steel-toed boots.
“That’s not a good look for you,” Frank said.
Roy extended an arm and tapped the screen with the index finger of his right hand. “What is this shit?”
“I have a question for you,” Frank said, sliding the phone back across the desk. Somewhere in his head, the anger train’s whistle blew sharp and clear. “How long did you think you could get away with it?”
“Get away with what?”
“The Roy Harper act.”
Roy’s eyes narrowed. “That was you who called me last night.”
Frank nodded.
Roy sighed. “Barry showed you the article?”
“More or less.”
Roy looked confused. “What does that mean?”
“Here’s what I think: Barry stumbled across that article on ArkNet, he confronted you, and you killed him before he could talk to anybody.”
“I didn’t kill Barry. And I’ll tell you the same thing I told him: lots of people look like other people. Lots of people have birthmarks on the left side of their face.”
“Barry wasn’t an idiot.”
“Never said he was.”
“I’m not an idiot.”
Roy wiped a hand across his eyes and down his face. He looked tired, a burdened man whose shoulders had started buckling under the weight, a man who might do anything to rid himself of that weight. Frank glanced at the picture again and corrected himself: a man who will, at some point, do anything to rid himself of the weight.
“How much do you want?” Roy asked.
“What?”
“To keep it to yourself. How much do you want?”
Frank laughed. “I don’t want your money. I want to ship you back to Los Angeles. I want to see you rot in prison for the rest of your life.” The anger train belched thick black smoke. He shot to his feet, leaned forward, and planted his hands on the desk. “I want to see you buried under rubble. What I don’t want is to see you here. Don’t come to work tomorrow. Don’t even let me see you within fifty-feet of this building. Ever. If I do, I’m going to shove my fist down your throat and rip out your tiny fuckin’ spine.”
Roy didn’t flinch. “Think about my offer,” he said calmly, and then stood and picked up his phone. “And I didn’t kill Barry.”
He walked to the door, opened it, and left the office.
Frank sat down and leaned back in his chair, slightly winded. His body hummed the way it did after a workout.
Why can’t I catch my breath? he thought suddenly. He wiped his brow, and his hand came away slick with cold sweat, and his chest…Jesus. Why was it so tight? It was as if someone was slowly turning an invisible crank in his back, like a toy. The Heart Attack Doll! Wind him up and watch him flail around in total agony for a full thirty-seconds!
He checked his right arm. It wasn’t numb. Or was it the left? It wasn’t numb, either.
Shit. Shit. Shit it hurt.
Maybe Fate was getting back at him for not playing by the rules. He grabbed the phone and dialed 911. If Fate wanted him, he’d be at the hospital.