Webster City

CHAPTER FIVE

  In the elevator going down, Watkins turned to Davidson: "Do you think the woman he liked visited him last night?"

  "Maybe. Or maybe she didn't visit and that's why he jumped off the balcony."

  "That would be an over-reaction."

  "I agree. But some men over-react where women are concerned."

  "Do you?"

  "No."

  The building supervisor lived in a basement apartment. Davidson knocked on his door. It swung open to reveal a man about 50 years old, wearing a surly expression and a grubby overall. A big scar crossed his cheek. When he saw Davidson's imposing black uniform, his eyes widened.

  Davidson introduced himself and Watkins. "You're the building supervisor?"

  "Yes, Frank Lyndon. You're here about the body outside, I guess?"

  "Yes."

  "I've already talked to a cop - a Sergeant somebody."

  "He's not in charge of the investigation. I am. Can we speak to you inside your apartment?" Davidson liked talking to people inside their apartments because that gave him a better feel for who they were.

  The supervisor frowned. "It's not very tidy."

  "We don't care."

  He shrugged and limped into his apartment, with them behind him.

  The apartment was physically smaller than the ones they had just visited, and was made even smaller by metal pipes, gardening implements, timber boards and other bric-a-brac. It looked more like junk shop than a home.

  "There's more room in the kitchen," he said, and led them into a small kitchen with a grease-encrusted hot-plate, battered wooden cupboards with peeling doors and torn laminate benches. In the middle of was a pressed-pine table with rickety chairs.

  They sat around the table and Davidson said: "What happened to your leg?"

  "Wounded. Served for 20 years in the Armored Corps. Five years ago, we attacked an Outlaw village in upstate New York. Was supposed to be a surprise attack. Bullshit. Freedom Alliance was waiting. Missile zapped the troop carrier I drove and the ammo cooked off. There were 12 of us onboard. I was the only one to crawl out."

  Davidson remembered the fear he felt when he was a trooper in the Air Cavalry and his helicopter squadron swooped into Outlaw communities, usually at dawn. Some communities were defenseless; others were fortresses spitting fire. The memory made his pulse race. "You were invalided out of the Corps?"

  A snarl. "Yep, and given this job."

  "You miss soldiering?"

  A grimace and dismissive wave. "Of course. Look at this place. Wouldn't you?"

  Davidson responded with a silent yes.

  Watkins interjected. "Did you know the guy who fell from Apartment 211?"

  "A little. Robert Meredith, right? He sometimes complained that his windows leaked or the elevator didn't work, and stuff like that." A sigh. "People only talk to me when something goes wrong. Otherwise, I'm invisible. Any idea why he went over the railing?"

  Davidson ignored the question. "Did you hear anything unusual last night?"

  "Of course not."

  "Didn't hear the body fall?"

  "Nope. What time did he fall?"

  "We're not sure."

  "I was probably asleep. I turn in early these days."

  "Do you have security cameras in this building?" The law required that every apartment block have at least one camera.

  "There's one in the lobby."

  "That's all?"

  "Yes."

  "Can I see the film from last night?"

  "Nope, the camera is broken."

  "You're kidding?"

  "No."

  "How long has it been broken?"

  "A couple of days."

  "How'd it break?"

  "Looks like someone smashed it."

  "Deliberately?"

  "Think so. I checked the tape, to see what happened. Light in the lobby went off and then the tape stopped."

  If someone wanted to visit Robert Meredith and toss him off the balcony, that person would first destroy the security camera to hide his or her identity. Helen Watkins glanced at Davidson, obviously on the same wavelength.

  Davidson said: "Maybe someone bumped it?"

  "It's eight feet off the ground." A shrug. "Perhaps one of the kids in the building trashed it. Most are little hooligans. Kids these days have no respect. Their parents can't control them."

  "When did you notice the camera was broken?"

  "Yesterday. I called the company that installed it. They were going to send someone out to fix it. You think this had something to do with the guy taking a high-dive?"

  "I don't know. How long do you keep film used in the camera?"

  "It's on a loop, so it erases after a few days."

  "That's hopeless."

  "Show me a law that says we've got to keep it longer."

  Davidson and Watkins left the building supervisor and strolled around to where the body landed. On the way, Watkins said: "Do you think the destruction of the security camera is suspicious?"

  "Yes. I want to keep an open mind, but the odds of foul play have risen dramatically."

  In front of the building, Sergeant Whitaker stood next to the crime scene tape talking to the same uniformed patrolman. Behind him, forensic technicians in white overalls photographed and dusted the body. The number of rubber-necking neighbors had halved.

  Davidson approached the Sergeant. "When the crime scene guys have finished here, send them up to his apartment to look around."

  "Will do."

  He turned to Helen Watkins. "Alright, let's go and talk to Meredith's colleagues."

  She looked alarmed. "You mean, at the CDC?"

  "Of course."

  A frown. "Surely, that won't be necessary."

  As Davidson suspected, her main objectives were to monitor his investigation and protect the CDC from embarrassment. Tough. "Are you kidding? If anybody knows why he went over the balcony, his colleagues do."

  "They're busy people, doing important work."

  He reminded himself this woman was neither a friend nor ally, and he wore a black uniform that everyone feared; he scowled. "So am I, so don't get in my way. I assume you drove here?"

  A nervous nod. "Yes."

  "Then I'll follow your car to the CDC. Let's go."

  An ill-mannered shrug. "OK."

  Maybe he should have a social chat with her, to get her measure. "But I'd kill for a coffee right now. If you know somewhere that serves good coffee, stop and I'll buy you one."

  A wary look. "Alright."

  He strode over to his Cadillac, got behind the wheel and watched her stroll to a Chevrolet Impala. She got inside and pulled away from the curb. He followed.

  After driving for about a mile, she parked in the carpark of a diner called "Rusty's". He parked next to her. They got out and strolled into a long, narrow room with red-vinyl booths along the window facing the carpark. Above the counter was a gauche painting of Buddy Holly and Elvis Presley playing pool. A broken jukebox sat in the corner. For some people in Webster City, the 1950s never ended. This was obviously one of their haunts.

  They slipped into a booth facing each other and he casually examined her long fingers. No wedding ring. He picked up a menu. Coffee - particularly good coffee - was in short supply since the Freedom Alliance launched a major attack on the agricultural colony in Florida that destroyed most of its coffee crop. He wasn't surprised to see a cup of coffee cost $10.

  He looked at her. "What do you want? I'm paying?"

  She gave him a smile that he liked a lot. "Good. I'll have a double espresso."

  He laughed. "Sure you don't want a milkshake?"

  "Don't complain. I bet you earn a hell of a lot more than me."

  That was probably true.

  A chunky guy in an apron approached and smiled when he ordered two double espressos. The guy departed and he turned back to Helen Watkins. "Tell me: how long have you been at the CDC?"

  "Six years. Before that, I was a cop."

  "Unifo
rm?"

  "For a couple of years. Then I was a detective in the Drug Squad for five."

  "Enjoy that?"

  "You kidding? Drugs are destroying our kids. We're losing a whole generation."

  "What's causing it?"

  "This City. Kids are told in school that the future of mankind rests on their poor little shoulders. Then they grow up and find out they've got to follow orders and work in crappy jobs. No wonder they despair." She realized she was being far too candid with an ISB officer and shrugged. "Anyway, I got tired of the Drug Squad and moved to the CDC Security Unit."

  "How big's the unit?"

  "About thirty officers."

  "Interesting work?"

  "Not really. Our main functions are to guard the building and vet employees for Freedom Alliance sympathies."

  "Who's your boss?"

  "A guy called Eric Tanguy."

  "Really? I know him."

  "How?"

  "We served together in the Air Cavalry: went through basic training together and were in the same platoon for about a year. Then I transferred to the ISB and he stayed on. I lost track of him after that. He was earmarked for a big career. What happened?"

  She hesitated and shrugged. "Don't know. You'll have to ask him." She twirled a salt-shaker. "Tell me about yourself. Why'd you transfer to the ISB?"

  He transferred because he hated attacking Outlaw communities. The squadron usually helicoptered in at dawn, shot anyone who resisted and imprisoned any survivors who might belong to the Freedom Alliance. He didn't mind that so much. But he hated how, after destroying all homes and property, they left the remaining Outlaws - mostly women and children - stranded in the open with nothing. So he joined the ISB, hoping the job would make fewer demands on his conscience, and found it made more.

  He said: "I wanted a more contemplative life."

  She snorted. "Did you find it?"

  "Definitely not."

  The waiter put their coffees in front of them.

  He took a sip. Bitter. "Yuck."

  She took a sip and shrugged. "Better than nothing."

  "You're easy to please. He's obviously padded it out with something - maybe rat poison. I should arrest him."

  "I think we've got bigger fish to fry."

  "True."

  Most people in Webster City used the city's favorite sport, baseball, to make conversation. While he watched her drink the coffee, amazed at the resilience of her taste buds, they discussed the upcoming World Series between the Sector 7 Braves and Sector 2 Yankees. She supported the Yankees, who hadn't won a World Series for 50 years.

  He said: "Now I've got you pegged: you're a masochist."

  "I'm just loyal. My dad was a Yankees fan, and so am I. It's in my blood. Anyway, I think we can go the whole way this time."

  She finished drinking her coffee, but he didn't touch his again.

  He paid the owner on the way out. "That coffee was garbage."

  The guy blanched, kicking himself for serving adulterated coffee to an ISB officer. "Sorry, sir. It's pure blend."

  "Bullshit. You added something to pad it out, didn't you? Whatever it was, don't do it again."

  The owner cringed. "My apologies. You can have your money back if you want."

  "No, just don't do it again."

  As they left the diner and crossed the carpark, she said: "You enjoyed doing that, didn't you?"

  "Doing what?"

  "Intimidating him."

  Davidson was a little surprised. "Did I intimidate him?"

  "Of course. He almost wet himself."

  He smiled. "I'm not to blame for my uniform."

  "It wasn't just your uniform."

  "Well, I hope I don't intimidate you."

  "I'm not sure, yet."

  She was very forthright. He liked that, a lot, though it was a dangerous practice in Webster City.

  They stopped next to his car.

  He said: "Alright, I'll follow you to the CDC."

  "OK. I radioed my boss and told him we're coming. He wants to see you when we arrive."

  Eric Tanguy obviously wanted to size up Davidson and assess whether his investigation could prove embarrassing to the CDC. Fair enough. Davidson would take the opportunity to size up Tanguy. "Fine."