The Pandora Directive: A Tex Murphy Novel (16 page)

“I assume you don’t have the box with you.”

“No, I don’t have it with me. It’s hidden away someplace safe.”

“Tell me more about it. What does it look like?” he asked eagerly.

“It’s fairly small, about the size of a recipe box, if you know what I mean. The strangest thing is that it doesn’t open — at least I can’t see how to open it.”

Fitzpatrick nodded, as if he expected to hear this.

“Are there any markings on the exterior?”

“Just some scratches by someone trying to get it open.”

Fitzpatrick picked up my empty glass and went to the well for the third time. “I think I’ve seen the box you described. In China, Malloy had four or five such boxes. They were unique versions of the traditional Chinese puzzle box. Malloy’s said he had been made specifically. They were made out of material recovered at Roswell, which he’d made off with after Project Blueprint was disbanded. At the time, the boxes were simply a novelty. Malloy kept spare change and other trifles in them. In fact, I think he actually kept recipes in one of them. He was quite an excellent cook.”

“So you know how to open them?”

Fitzpatrick returned with more bourbon. “No. Malloy never told me, and it never occurred to me to ask.”

I thought back to my conversation with Jackson Cross. It seemed like it had been a week since I been taken to the NSA office, but I realised suddenly that it had been less than two days. I checked my watch — the thirty-six hours Cross had given me were almost up. I knew that I couldn’t give up the box, but I was also concerned with my future. I decided to lay out my cards and let Fitzpatrick help me figure out my best hand.

“The NSA gave me an ultimatum to give them the box within thirty-six hours. That was about thirty-three hours ago.”

“You’re surely not thinking of turning it over?”

I shook my head. “No, but I don’t know what I should do. If I run out on the NSA, they’re not going to rest until I’m slowly, painfully dead. I’d just as soon avoid that.”

Fitzpatrick seemed lost in four for some time. “How would you feel about giving me the box?”

“I’m not sure. Can I trust you?” the biggest sucker question in the world. Asked a million times, always answered the same way.

“Yes, you can. I have as much money and other luxuries as I could ever want. My motives here centre solely on following the trail my old friend pointed me toward. I don’t know where it will lead, but I intend to reach the end. If you join me, I believe that will improve my odds of success.” With that little pep talk, he’d convinced me to trust him. I was going to give him the box. Now I just had to find it.

The phone rang five times, followed by a pause, a click, and a pleasant, girlish voice. “We’re not in at the moment. Please leave a message, and we’ll get back to you. Thanks.”

I hung up. Under normal circumstances, I’d wait until I could talk to Chelsee before breaking into her apartment. Unfortunately, I was short on time.

The door to Chelsee’s apartment was dead bolted. I pulled out my bank card, but it was no use. Without a key, the only possible way to get in was to kick down the door, and always a last resort. I searched around the doorway, hoping to get lucky and find a spare key. No dice. I lit a smoke and paced around, waiting for my muse to speak. Where would Chelsee keep a spare?

The newsstand.

I flew back to Chandler Avenue and made my way furtively to the newsstand. The street was pretty quiet, with almost no foot traffic. I ducked in behind the magazine racks and glanced up toward my office. It seemed to be empty. I didn’t feel like I was being watched, but I still tried to be a stealthy as possible, just to be on the safe side.

I began my search, flipping through magazines, opening books, moving huge piles of publications. Around my hands along the side and bottoms of all the shelves. Ultimately, I reached a point where the only thing left to do was dismantle the entire newsstand. I thought it over. If Chelsee kept a spare key here — which was appearing less and less likely — she would hide it somewhere easily accessible. Tearing down the shelves wouldn’t turn up anything. It looked like I’d have to go back and kick in the apartment door after all.

As I turned to leave, I accidentally bumped a metal frame full of newspapers. Before I could react, it tipped over, spilling papers everywhere and making a loud clatter. I peeked up over the counter. No one was around. Then I reached down and started to pick up the newspapers. There was a 99 brick facade behind where the metal frame had been standing. One of the bricks appeared to be loose. I grabbed it and pulled. It slid out neatly. I leaned down and lit a match in the opening. A house key sparkled in the firelight.

Ten minutes later, I was inside Chelsee’s apartment. It was a small place — a piece of cake to search. At least that’s what I thought for the first half hour. I looked through every drawer, every cupboard, every closet, under the furniture. The box was nowhere to be found. I sat down at the Vid-phone and tried once more the number Chelsee had left me. Still no one home.

It occurred to me that I hadn’t checked the appliances. I went to the kitchen and looked through the stove, the microwave, and the dishwasher. Finally, I opened the refrigerator. It was practically empty. I pulled up the crisper tray. Nothing. I opened the freezer compartment. Two ice-cube trays and a half gallon of chocolate ice-cream. I closed the refrigerator and fired up a cigarette. Where else would it be? I smoked and malt for five minutes. Maybe I was going to hurry up and wait after all. I crushed out the Lucky Strike. I could use a snack.

I got a bowl from one of the cupboards and a spoon from the silverware drawer. Opening the freezer, I grabbed the ice-cream, set the container on the kitchen table, and lifted the lid. There was the box.

I punched in the number for the Imperial Inn. The operator connected me and, a few moments later, Regan Madsen’s staggeringly beautiful face appeared on the screen.

“Hello, Tex.”

“Hi.”

“You ready to get together?”

I certainly was. Stay cool, Murphy. “I think I can squeeze you into my busy schedule.”

Regan smiled exquisitely. “I like the sound of that. When?”

“Whenever you’re free.”

“Oh, I’m never free, but I do have some time. Why don’t you come over here? We can meet in my room.”

It was an appealing suggestion, but I was bringing the box along and wasn’t completely sure I could trust her. “I never go to a woman’s hotel room on the first date. It’d be scandalous behaviour for a chaste young man like myself.”

Regan raised an elegantly curved eyebrows. “I promise, I’ll be gentle.”

“Well, in that case, it’s totally out of the question.”

Her smile was flawless. “You know, some men wouldn’t be so resistant.”

“Yeah, well, some men see a pretty face and turn into a pile of goo. I’m not superficial.”

Regan conceded with a feigned pout. “All right — if we have to — we can meet somewhere that won’t affect your integrity or virtue. There is a lounge here at the Imperial. When can you be here?”

“Give me half-an-hour.”

“Make it twenty minutes. I hate to wait.”

The Imperial Lounge was a class joint — real leather seats, wooden phone booths, and a sofa in the men’s room. Scores of celebrity-autographed photos were hung over shiny silver wallpaper. The bartender wore a tie and didn’t seem to hate his job.

“Guest?”

“Meeting one.”

“First time in, right?”

I nodded and blew out a stream of Lucky smoke.

“What will you have?”

“Bourbon, straight up.”

The Bartender turned and poured two fingers worth into sparkling crystal. He turned back and placed the glass in front of me with the care of a paediatrician. “I’ll comp this one. Think of it as the Imperial Welcome Wagon.”

I pulled out a ten-spot and tossed it onto the bar. “Think of this as a tip.”

The Bartender tapped his forefinger twice on the bar and picked up the bill. I took a sip and slowly scanned the lounge. The bourbon was first rate — another reason to love the Imperial Lounge. The place was pretty big. There were maybe a dozen people in various stages of intoxication, but they were so scattered, it made the place look practically empty.

I had known it would only take me 10 minutes to get here, but I wanted to get in before Regan did and survey the territory. There was no particular reason to think the NSA would be following her, but I wanted to check for myself. The place looked clean. I turned back to the bar and picked up half a Lucky from the large crystal ashtray. A minute later, as I extinguished the smoke, I caught an alluring scent, and Regan slid onto the bar stool to my left. The Bartender hurried over.

“Evening, Ms Madsen. What can I get for you?”

“A glass of Pinot Noir, Douglas. And one more of whatever my friend here is drinking.”

“Put it on you room tab?”

“If you would.”

Regan looked at me in the mirror across the bar. Her voice was low and magnetic. “We really should start meeting like this.”

I took another shot of bourbon. “I don’t know. What about your husband? And the kids… how many are there now? Six, seven?”

“Fourteen, actually.”

Douglas, the Bartender, returned with our drinks. Regan raised her glass. “To impossible standards.”

We both drank. It felt like we’d started a ritual. Still holding her wine glass, Regan reached under the bar stool and picked up a shopping bag. “Shall we adjourn to a dark corner?”

I pocketed my smokes, drained my first bourbon, and stood up, grabbing my backpack from floor. Carrying my second bourbon, I followed Regan across the room. She had a smooth stride and jaunty posture. Her presence was that of something free and untamed — probably impossible to catch, though she seemed to be indicating availability.

We sat at a small table in a corner. Regan chose the seat next to me, but not too close. She leaned down, away from me, and came up with an elegantly styled accessory item, which also happened to contain cigarettes. I lit a match and held it up to the cigarette cushioned softly between her ripe lips. Again, her cool hand wrapped around mine. Regan drew in, removed the cigarette from her mouth, and blew at the match. My stomach flip-flopped like a fish on a boat deck.

“You brought the box?”

I lit a smoke to calm myself down. “Yeah, but we need to discuss something else first.”

Regan leaned back, holding her cigarette at a very feminine angle, and crossed her legs gracefully. Her manner implied that she was expecting a completely different subject than the one I had a mind.

“Tell me about your father.” my tone was serious, but Regan ignored it.

“This isn’t your idea of foreplay, is it?” She wasn’t going to volunteer anything. She probably never had to in her entire life.

“Tell me about Malloy. Thomas Malloy. Your father.”

Regan’s smile disappeared like a Kennedy at a car accident. A look of panic crossed her face for just a second before she recovered. She was good, but now I had the upper hand. “How did you find out?”

“That’s irrelevant. The fact is, I know who you are. Now I want some straight talk.”

Regan’s hand trembled slightly as she smoked. She didn’t seem accustomed to being out of control. Her agitation just increased my resolve. I had her on the ropes and wasn’t about to let her loose.

“Back in my office, you said that Malloy was a dead man. That’s not the kind of thing you hear from loving daughters.”

“Well, it’s true. He’s brought it on himself. I tried to warn him, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s never listened to me.”

“Actually, that’s not true. He told me you made him quit smoking.”

Regan jerked forward. “You talked to him? When? Where is he?”

I let another smoke. Regan probably deserved to know what had happened to her father. She was off balance as it was. Maybe telling her now would give me a good indication of their relationship. It was a cold, calculated ploy, but I needed to know.

“I talked to your father last night.”

Regan was impatient. “Where is he? I want to see him.”

“It’s too late.”

The beautiful face went pale. “What do you mean? He’s dead?”

I nodded and took another slug of bourbon.

Regan looked off, away from me. Her legs were crossed and she was leaning forward, elbow on her knee, right hand covering her mouth.

I smoked in silence for several minutes. When Regan turned her gaze back toward me, two glistening lines ran from the corners of her eyes to each side of her mouth. She moved her wine glass and picked up the napkin from underneath. Her composure was almost unbearable. She dried her eyes and nose, then took a sip of the Pinot Noir. She started to speak, but choked slightly.

I’ve never known what to do when a woman cries. More than anything, I wanted to hold Regan and tell her that everything would be fine, that I’d take care of her. But I didn’t. I couldn’t afford to. Sometimes, being a cynic is a pain in the ass. I watched her cry, wanting to comfort her, but knowing full well that more than one sap has fallen for an act just like this one. I followed my head: when in doubt, doubt.

Regan’s voice trembled. “Will you excuse me?”

She headed for the ladies’ room. I watched her until she reached the door, then turned back to my distilled and roasted friends. Suddenly, I realised she’d left her shopping bag and purse. I peered over, into the bag. There was a box inside, very similar to the one I had. I leaned back and took a drag.

She was on the level. My PI instincts we usually pretty accurate, though they only worked sporadically, like a stereo speaker with a short. My judgment of human nature, on the other hand, was terrible, as my choice of wives and investment brokers clearly showed. But I was sure this time. Regan was so upset, she’d forgotten all about the box. If she’d been putting on an act, she never would have let it out of her sight.

I signalled the bar and ordered another drink for both of us. After several minutes, Regan returned the table. To the untrained eye, she looked as though nothing had happened. Her strength of character was enviable. I wanted to get to know her thoroughly. My voice was soft. “I’m sorry you have to find out this way.”