Adrenaline (25 page)

“Okay, so we lie to Jammer. Tell him he’s been identified getting out of the van that night,” Lazar said. “See what he says to that.”

Darlene opened the door. “Haven’t seen him.”

“How about the other girl, your roommate,” Lazar said. “Carly, isn’t it?”

Over Darlene’s shoulder, the apartment looked a mess: pizza boxes and Chinese food takeout cartons in the kitchen area. A porno movie was playing on the television and a man with a big white belly wearing just his underwear came up behind her and said, “Just who the fuck are you? She’s on my nickel.”

Lazar showed his badge. “Think there’s some time for us on that nickel?”

The man mumbled, “No problem,” and hurried away.

“He’s just a friend,” Darlene said.

Bannerman made a face and shuddered. “Ugly friends, Darlene.”

Darlene smiled slightly. “You know.”

“So where’s Jammer?”

“Haven’t seen him, honest to God. Or Carly. Couple, three days, anyhow. Maybe they took a trip. Try another time, okay?” She started to ease the door shut.

Lazar put his foot in the door. “Who’s the blond asshole? What is he to Jammer and Carly?”

“Huh?” She looked back over her shoulder.

“Not the pus gut,” Bannerman said, disgustedly.
“His
hair is greasy black. We’re talking about Geoff Mann.”

She shook her head. “I never had the pleasure, honest.”

Lazar stared at her and saw only emptiness in her eyes. The little trace of humor he had seen in her before had vanished. He took his foot from the door. On the way down the stairs, Bannerman mimicked her, “‘Honest.’ How many times a day do we hear that?”

“Let’s go ask Mann himself. Let’s see if he says it the same way.”

“Why do you care? You’ve got two days coming to us, why do you want to screw around with this shit now?”

Because I don’t want to go home to my empty house
was what Lazar thought. What he said was “This is a rich kid. If we find out he’s involved in murdering Ball, think how the papers will snatch that up.”

“I’m thinking instead how Mann made you look stupid, pulling those bananas out of the bag. I’m thinking maybe you just hate having a wiseass get away with something.”

“Could be. But think of it this way: a sexy photo of that Carly, a headline about a handsome rich guy getting involved in murder, hookers. Would have gotten away with it if two smart cops didn’t track him down … it’s good stuff.”

Bannerman grinned, knowing Lazar was playing with him. “Maybe you’ve got something there. The stuff of promotions.”

I don’t keep tabs,” the super at Geoff’s building said. He had a thin face and a shock of gray hair even though he looked to be only in his early forties. They were standing on the front steps of the red brick building.

“What can you tell us about him?”

“Nothing.” He held his thumb in a book and was obviously impatient. “These are nice apartments. Privacy is one of the things you get with the rent.”

Lazar and Bannerman’s eyes were now intent upon the man. “He thinks we’re wasting his time,” Bannerman said. “Don’t you hate that, you sit down with a good book and some schmuck shows up at your door trying to sell you something?”

“I hate that,” Lazar said.

“I wasn’t saying—”

“The thing is, we’re not schmucks selling something,” Bannerman said. “We’re cops asking questions.”

“Look, I don’t
care—”

“He doesn’t care,” Lazar said. “He doesn’t care if we waste
our
time, Bannerman. Our time screwing around with him doesn’t count.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Hey, I’m just a dumb cop,” Lazar said. “But my hearing is good.”

“No, no.”

Bannerman said, “I think you’re misunderstanding Mr. Calhoun here, Lazar.”

“Oh, you got to explain this to me because I’m
black,
is that it, Bannerman? Is that it, Mr. Calhoun?”

“No, of course not.” Calhoun looked nervously between the two cops. He edged closer to Bannerman.

“Well, what’s so hard here?” Lazar demanded.

Bannerman widened his eyes slightly. “How about it, Mr. Calhoun?”

Calhoun took his finger out of his book and held his palm up. “Okay, let’s start over. I know you’re busy. It’s just that I have a lot to do and I don’t know why I have to waste my time on these things if Mr. Mann isn’t here to deal with them.”

Lazar let his indignant expression fade away. Quietly, he asked, “What are ‘these things’?”

“Well, I have no way of knowing if anything was stolen. And maybe it was a friend who took the car, but I don’t think so.”

“Maybe
who
was a friend?”

“Mann’s got a parking space out back and he’s got a BMW. Or he had one.”

“And somebody picked it up?”

“Yeah. Guy showed up, bold as brass. He had a key, got right in, and took off.”

“And Mr. Mann wasn’t around to complain?”

“Well, that was just this morning. Mann
could have
been back since the break-in. I left a note and just put a padlock on the door … but no, he hasn’t been by to ask for the key. So I suppose he hasn’t been around.”

“The break-in?” Lazar repeated.

Calhoun told them about the man who had run by with the sledgehammer and mask.

“Did you report this?”

The super shrugged and didn’t meet their eyes. “Stuff happens. I have no way of knowing if anything was stolen. I called in to his apartment, nothing looked that messed up.”

They pressed him for details, but he couldn’t come up with much other than he thought the thief was probably white, fairly big.

“And you haven’t heard from Mann in how long?” Bannerman asked.

The super looked at the calendar on his watch. “Two days ago.”

Lazar said, “Mr. Calhoun, did you go through Mann’s apartment, go through all the rooms?”

Calhoun looked indignant. “Of course not. I called out and he didn’t come to the door. I simply put on a padlock. He’s got to pay for a new lock himself, a real one, and I want him to select the kind before I go to the expense and trouble myself.”

Bannerman and Lazar exchanged glances. “Would you have a key to that padlock, Mr. Calhoun?”

Calhoun brought them up to the third-floor apartment reluctantly.

“I mean it,” Bannerman said. “We can go away. We’ve got nothing definite saying the guy is in trouble. But really, you should have looked in the bedroom. What if the guy bashed in Mann’s head with that sledgehammer?”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

“Uh-huh. But look, if you smell anything really bad, you know, like when a mouse or squirrel gets stuck in the walls? Well, maybe you could just look in then, and give us a call.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Calhoun said. He unsnapped the padlock and stepped back. “Just stick your head in and if he’s not there, you’ve got to leave unless you get a warrant, right?”

“Right,” Lazar said.

Bannerman made a face. “Holy shit. Smell that, willya?”

Calhoun backed further off, looking a little green.

The two cops hurried into the apartment. “Jesus, is it in here?” Lazar said.

“I don’t smell anything,” Calhoun said from the doorway.

Lazar and Bannerman took in the place fast. It was nice, with high ceilings, light wood furniture in the foyer, a clean, well-laid-out kitchen.

Bannerman whistled, looking into the living room.

“Christ,” Lazar said, opening the bedroom door.

Photos of the man were all over the place. Sports scenes, enlargements of Geoff Mann caught at the height of action: skiing off the edge of a rocky cliff, fifty feet in the air; doing a high jump; boxing; motorcycle racing; running for a touchdown; pole vaulting, hang gliding; windsurfing; sailing; parachuting … the detectives laughed out loud, playing the game of finding the suspect in every photo.

And the sports equipment: skis, fencing gear, a compound bow and hunting arrows, a punching bag, boxing gloves, two bicycles, tennis rackets, a weight set, rock climbing rope …

“Look at this,” Lazar said. A kayak hung from the ceiling in the bedroom.

Bannerman waved him back to the living room. “Check this out.”

An ice axe was imbedded in the wall. Plaster was strewn about the floor. “Temper, temper,” Lazar said.

“Maybe the guy with the sledgehammer,” Bannerman said.

A huge television sat in the middle of the living room, and there were at least a hundred videocassettes in the rack.

“Stroke stuff?” Lazar asked.

Bannerman looked at the titles. “No. Action flicks:
Eiger Sanction, Treasure of the Sierra Madre, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Pulp Fiction.”

Calhoun stepped into the room. “There’s no smell here. What are you two talking about?”

“Hope you got a damage deposit,” Lazar said, jerking his thumb at the ice axe, as he and Bannerman brushed by the super on the way to the bedroom.

Bannerman opened the closet. “Hey, Lazar, check this out.” He held up a white karate uniform, a gi. Around the coat hook hung a black belt. He reached in and pulled out a nunchaku, two pieces of hard wood attached by a thin chain. He threw it over to Lazar.

“That’s Mr. Mann’s property,” Calhoun snapped.

Lazar whipped the nunchaku over his shoulder. The handle slapped into his palm, and then he made it whistle through a fast backhand; snapped it around his back and caught it behind his ear before tossing it back to Bannerman.

“Yeah, you’ve still got it,” Bannerman said. He gestured to the room, the equipment, the black belt. “But this boy is in some kind of shape.”

Over the phone, Lazar was bounced through the personnel office at Jansten Enterprises until finally a Ms. Barry told them that, “Geoff Mann is no longer employed by the company.” She told him Mann’s starting and ending employment dates and said that it was company policy to reveal no more.

“He left last week,” Lazar said to Bannerman. “Don’t know if he was fired or quit.”

“Getting more interesting,” Bannerman said.

So they went to Jansten Enterprises themselves and showed the receptionist their badges. Bannerman said, “We would like to speak to the president.”

“Are you sure you don’t want Security?”

“We’re sure,” Lazar said, cheerfully. “Tell him it’s in regard to a former employee, Geoff Mann.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “The acting president is Mr. Dern. I’ll call to see if he is in.”

She said into the phone. “Monica, the police are here to see Mr. Dern about Geoff Mann.”

After a few minutes, a cool-looking woman wearing white linen came out and walked them back to the executive offices. “Mr. Dern isn’t in,” the secretary said. “However, I talked with Mr. Jansten, and he agreed to meet with you.” She was quiet and professional, with short blond hair. They walked past a glassed-in conference room with a huge boardroom table, big enough for thirty people. Lazar found himself straightening his tie, and when he looked over at Bannerman, his partner winked. But he looked nervous, too.

Jansten’s secretary was a tougher sort and looked at both cops critically as she spoke into the intercom. “They’re here,” she said.

As they walked into Jansten’s office, Lazar heard her speak crisply to the other secretary. “Monica, Mr. Jansten is only in a few hours a day now, and we’ve
got
to nail down some of these dates.”

“I know, but Steve’s been busy, and hasn’t returned my calls—”

“Well, where
is
he?” the older woman asked.

Then Jansten waved them to the chairs. He was a powerful-looking old man with ruddy skin. “What’s Mann done now?” he boomed.

But as Lazar got closer, he noticed the weariness around Jansten’s eyes. The old man sat down heavily after shaking hands with both detectives.

Lazar began. “Mr. Jansten, would you know if Mr. Mann’s car was leased?”

“It was,” Jansten said. “In fact, I had them make a BMW available to him as sort of a ‘welcome to Boston’ gift.”

“Would you know if it has been repossessed?”

“I don’t. But it should have been by now if people are doing their jobs right. If Mann has a problem with that, he can talk with our attorneys. Did he send you concerning
that?”

“No, he didn’t send us. Just a routine question.”

“Ah. The famous ‘routine question.’ What’s he done?”

“He may be a witness to something we’re investigating,” Lazar said, smiling. “The TV shows have made the routine question phrase a problem, but we really do have them sometimes.”

“Have you been to his apartment?”

“Yeah,” said Bannerman. “He’s not there.”

“Then how can I help you?”

“Do you know how we can get in touch with his family?”

“Maybe it’s in his personnel file. Give me your card, I’ll have it couriered over to you this afternoon.” A smile touched Jansten’s lips. “It would be pretty interesting to know what kind of family he had. Met one of his girlfriends once, beautiful young girl out in San Francisco. Spent some fund-raiser dinner whispering in my ear, ingratiating herself for his benefit. Kelly. Don’t know her last name. She said his parents died when he was young. Grew up with his grandparents. I would have figured wolves myself.”