Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 1–3: The Hundredth Man, The Death Collectors, The Broken Souls. J. Kerley A.
Harry and I listened for a moment. Nothing. Harry settled back into the couch.
“What sort of business did Jerrold say your money was going for?”
“Something to do with computers and how they’re hooked together. He explained one office might have one kind of computer and another office had another and the computers couldn’t understand each other. He had a friend who’d invented a better way to make them talk. It made sense, since at my office the computers are always messing up like that.”
“You ever get to meet his friend? Or hear his name?”
“I just trusted Jerry, you know.”
Harry spent one year with Bunco, and this was a familiar conversation. “Once you gave him the money Jerrold stopped coming by as much, didn’t he?”
“I don’t know—he got busy with things…” Her eyes dropped to the carpet. “Yes.”
“Then the business went sour.”
Terri sighed. “He said some other company came out with the same thing first. Intel. I asked the guy who fixes the computers at our office about it. He’d never heard about Intel having anything like that; it wasn’t what they did. That’s when I filed.” Terri sniffled and plucked a pink wad of tissue from her pocket to dab her eyes.
“But a week later you dropped the charges.”
“He finally told me the truth,” Terri said, sniffling.
“Which was?”
“He used it to buy a share of some cocaine being flown into the county—it’s like a stock deal. You buy shares. Jerry didn’t tell me because he knew I’d never approve. He stopped seeing me because he was ashamed.”
“A…stock deal?”
“You remember that little plane that crashed up by Saraland? That was the plane—all the cocaine burned up and we lost our money.”
I recalled the incident; a Mercedes dealer in a Cessna 180 miscalculated his fuel by about a half gallon and dropped into the trees. There was nothing about drugs to it. Either Nelson was a world-class liar or Losidor was born for plucking. Or both.
Unless, of course, Terri was spinning us a story.
“One more thing, Miss Losidor,” Harry said. “How did you and Mr. Nelson meet?”
She paused for a moment. “At the Game Club, by the airport.”
The Game Club is a singles bar with a foxhunting motif: bugles and English saddles on the wall, servers in livery and gravy-bowl hats. I’d awakened to a couple of unsettling mornings that began in the Game Club, but that was months ago, before I’d matured.
Harry noted her hesitation. “Are you sure?”
“I always forget the name of the place.”
“Who initiated the contact?”
“Do what?”
“Who hit on who first?”
“I was sitting with a couple of friends. Jerry was standing at the bar. I kinda glanced over at him and he winked, y’know.”
Harry finished his questions, and we stood to leave. She followed us to the door. “We were real close before the money thing,” she said, dabbing a tear with a tissue. “We were in love. Je-Jerrold said I made him feel like he’d never felt before.”
Desultory images floated behind my eyes; Nelson atop Terri Losidor, grinding away like he’s milling wheat, she thinking she’s inspired her lover to dizzying feats of virility. Nelson is simply bored with everything but the chance of money. He pumps himself weary, then, dreaming of flying, empties joylessly, falling asleep on a sweat-damp mattress beginning to smell.
We were turning around in the far end of the lot when Harry slammed on the brakes.
“Looky there, Carson,” he said, pointing to a cat scratching at Terri Losidor’s front door, a fluffy white longhair with a pink collar. The door opened a crack and the cat flipped its tail and scooted inside.
I looked at Harry. “Mr. Puff, I presume.”
“Wonder who was that clumsy-ass cat jumping on her sill?” he said.
Harry dropped me off at the station. We’d meet later at Flanagan’s for some chow and a brainstorm session. He was going to gather copies of interviews in connection with the case, and I headed to the morgue to see if the prelim was ready.
The report sat at the front desk, a few pages detailing basic and unofficial findings. I didn’t expect any revelations at this point. Since I was already here, I figured to brighten Clair’s day by interrupting it. I also wondered if the chronically morose Dr. Davanelle had tattled, maybe telling Clair I’d spent my observation time nattering like an auctioneer and singing ribald sea chanties. Even Clair Peltier, the sultaness of strict, allowed a little light conversation during an autopsy.
I walked the wide hall to Clair’s office. The door was slightly ajar and I heard her talking. I thought I’d stick my head in and say hi, but my hand froze on the knob when I heard the tone in her voice.
“This is ridiculous, absolutely unacceptable,” she said, her words sharp as thorns, acid dripped into syllables. “I can’t even read your writing on these reports. They look like they were scribbled by a chimpanzee.”
I heard a low response, hushed, apologetic.
Clair said, “No! I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care how little time you had to get them out. I did three posts a day in my first position and still managed to make my paperwork legible.”
Another muffled response.
“Sorry doesn’t cut it. This work is simply unacceptable. I need to see some goddamn improvement.”
I’ve never enjoyed hearing someone getting tongue-lashed; it dredges up too many childhood memories. I felt as stricken as if the words were for me. Clair’s voice continued as I backed slowly from the door.
“Then there’s the matter of sick days. How many are you planning on taking this year? Six? Eight? Two dozen? It’s inconsiderate at best. When you’re not here—or when you’re late, more often than not, it seems—it throws my scheduling on its ass. No, I don’t want to hear lame excuses, I just want you to…”
I heard the sound of dismissal in Clair’s voice. Footsteps approached the door from within. I tiptoed a dozen feet down the hall. The only refuge was Willet Lindy’s office; his lights were off and I figured he was gone for the day. He often arrived before six a.m., left by three. I leapt into the office.
Lindy had a wide window to the hall, the blinds three-quarters open. I flattened against the wall and heard the footsteps approach. I watched Ava Davanelle stop in front of the window and push tears from her eyes with trembling fingers. Her face was gray. She squeezed her hands into white-knuckle fists and held them beside her temples. Her body began to shake as if her soul were being shredded by white-hot pincers. I watched, transfixed by the depth of her agony. She shook until a ragged sob wrenched from her throat and she grabbed her stomach and ran to the ladies’ room.
The door slammed like a shotgun blast.
Ava Davanelle’s misery left me breathless. I stared into the empty hall for a dozen heartbeats, as if anguish had been painted across the air, and I could not believe the intensity of its coloration. I crept breathless from my hidey-hole, escaping toward the front entrance, and passed Clair’s half-open door.
“Ryder? Is that you?” she called. I turned around, affected nonchalance, and stuck my head through her door as I’d done a dozen times in the past.
She said, “What are you doing here?” No venom in her voice, it was her usual no-nonsense tone. I smiled awkwardly and held up the report.
She