The Body: A Crime Thriller Story (Digital Part One) Read online

  The Body

  A Crime Thriller Story

  Digital Part One

  by Owen Carlysle

  all rights reserved copyright 2013 by Polaris Mystery In Action

  Flight ducked to avoid the wrench, and it clattered onto the concrete, just missing his foot before skidding to a stop against the red clay pot that didn’t hold anything other than potting soil as far as he could tell.

  “Fuck!” The exclamation came from above, and Damien stepped to the pot, reached down, and picked it up.

  “You want me to try to throw it up there?” The man on the scaffolding scowled. He shook his head and disappeared behind a piece of plywood, giving Flight a view of the enormous sign that read CEA, Inc with a slogan below proclaiming the company to be The Future of Entertainment. The man reappeared and began lowering a basket with a rope. When it arrived, Damien deposited the wrench and continued toward the front doors.

  He was early. He was always early when he started a contract, at least when the idea of the short term employment becoming permanent appealed to him. Of course, nobody would see him yet. Nonetheless, his time of arrival would be noted and would be the first in a long line of recorded actions designed to illustrate his competence and reliability.

  The lobby was open and vast. A stream of employees in casual clothes moved toward elevators and stairways. Looking up, Flight estimated the ceiling reached to the fourth or fifth floor. That put three additional floors above, maybe four. In the center of the lobby stood a high circular counter, and behind it on a tall stool sat a girl who looked like she’d be more comfortable opening her mouth to receive acid laced sugar cubes while Hari Krishna’s danced in circles and chanted.

  He stepped up to her. “Damien Flight. I have an appointment with Arthur Grainger.” For a flower child, she was remarkably efficient. She nodded, pressed a button on the phone in front of her, and didn’t once tangle up her peasant blouse. He looked around to see where he’d be sitting for the next hour, but he couldn’t locate any benches or chairs. There was an indoor fountain with a thick marble wall. A man with a briefcase sat there, so perhaps that was the waiting room.

  “Here’s your badge. You’ll get a permanent one later today. Mr. Granger’s office is on the eighth floor.” He took the laminated badge and slipped it around his neck. The neon strap irritated him, but he didn’t say anything about it.

  “Thanks, uh…”

  “Allison. You’re welcome. Take the second elevator to eight. You’ll have to slide your badge to get the elevator to go there. It opens into the lobby, and Margaret—that’s Arthur’s assistant—will take it from there.”

  He thanked her again and headed for the elevator. He hadn’t expected to be seen so early, certainly hadn’t expected to be shown to Grainger’s office immediately. He walked to the elevator, ran the magnetic stripe from his badge through the reader, and pressed the button for eight. The elevator ran faster than he’d expected, and he balanced himself by placing his palms on either side of the corner by the buttons as it hurtled upward. His stomach was a bit unsettled when the elevator slowed, and he took a deep breath as the doors opened.

  Another lobby greeted him, this one much smaller and more traditional, though the industrial style of the furnishings was somewhat grating. A young woman sat at a desk and chairs that probably cost more than his car lined the walls. This girl wasn’t dressed like Haite Ahsbury’s ambassador to the new century. Instead, she wore a professional business suit, and it gave him a measure of comfort. He stepped forward to introduce himself, but she spoke first.

  “Mr. Flight, welcome.” She pressed a button. “He’s here.” She began nodding, and it took him a moment to realize she wore a tiny headset in one ear. She pressed another button and looked up at him. “Mr. Grainger will be here momentarily. I’ll show you to your office after you’ve met.”

  Flight thanked her and walked toward the seats. In CEO speak, momentarily meant nothing. He sat down and adjusted his gun so it wouldn’t poke against his back. He noted the points of entry and exit and was about to begin formulating evacuation plans when Arthur Grainger walked into the lobby. Flight recognized him from the papers. He wore his trademark faded jeans and grey hoodie. The kid couldn’t have been older than twenty-five.

  “Mr. Flight?” His voice wasn’t grating, at least.

  He stood. “Call me Damien.”

  Grainger nodded, “Welcome aboard. You’ll meet the security team later today, but we need to talk. You picked a hell of day to start.”

  Flight inclined his head. “Why is that?”

  “Our head designer is lying on the floor in his office. He’s been stabbed.”

  ***

  Flight stood. He felt a stab of guilt for the excitement that rushed through him suddenly. This was his element, though. This was exactly the kind of crisis that would make him invaluable, make him permanent, and get him a package with stock options and other perks. He was careful, though, to hide the smile.

  “Okay. I’ll need to see the office and the body, preferably before the ME takes it out of here. Do you have enough pull with the detectives? It would be helpful to see it before they start bagging.”

  Grainger looked puzzled. “Detectives?”

  Flight nodded. “The police detectives, whoever caught the call.”

  He still looked puzzled. Flight stared at him for a moment before realization washed over him. “You haven’t called the police yet, have you?”

  “No.”

  He took a deep breath. “How long ago did you find the body?”

  “About ten minutes before you got here.”

  Flight looked over at the receptionist. He started to call out and realized he didn’t have her name. He walked up to the desk and smiled. “You already know I’m Damien Flight. May I have your name?”

  The girl smiled back. It was an automatic response, a trained response more than warmth, but she stood and extended her hand. “I’m Darlene. You can call me Dar.” He took her hand and shook it. Standing, Darlene’s outfit was far more visible. It was still professional, but nobody looking at her would think about career paths. She was stunning. He put her at about twenty eight or twenty nine, with coal black hair that reminded him, oddly, of the black Labrador retriever he’d had growing up. Her curves were the kinds of curves that drove men to war.

  “Dar, okay. Nice to meet you.” He smiled briefly. “I need you to call the police right now. Ask for homicide and tell them we’ve found a body. I need you to call whoever’s in charge of security, here and—”

  “You’re in charge of security, Mr. Flight.”

  He smiled. “So I am. I need you to call who it is you would have called yesterday. I need you to send them to…uh…” He turned his attention back to Grainger. “What’s the name of the dead man?”

  “Tom Grotek.”

  He turned back to Darlene. She looked at him with wide eyes. Her mouth opened as if she wanted to speak, but she didn’t. He saw tears begin to well in her eyes. She looked at Grainger and then back at Flight. Finally, she whispered, “Tommy is dead?”

  Flight sighed. “I’m sorry, Dar. I thought you already knew. Look, if you need me to have somebody else call for you…”

  “No.” He watched her take a deep breath. She turned around, and he felt a brief pang of guilt for staring at an ass that had clearly been granted unfair advantage over all other asses but disappeared from sight far too soon as she sat back at her desk. “I’ll call. Security and then the police.”

  He shook his head. “No. Police first. Then security—tell security nobody goes in or out of the office except for me and Arthur and
the police.”

  She nodded and picked up the phone. Flight walked back to Grainger, who still stood by the waiting chairs with an almost childlike look of befuddled helplessness on his face. He looked at Flight expectantly.

  “Can you take me to the body?”

  Grainger nodded. “Follow me. Do you want to see your office first?” Flight stopped and looked at him. Was the kid that oblivious? This was the kid who’d graduated from MIT at sixteen and built a multi-gafuckingzillionaire business by the time he was twenty-three?

  “My office isn’t going to be sealed off as soon as the police get here, Mr. Grainger, but—”

  “Call me Art.”

  “Okay. Art, the body is going to be off limits once the police get here. So, get me in front of it quickly. Does Darlene do coffee?”

  Grainger looked over at her. “Um. Yes. Um…she didn’t offer you any?”

  Flight looked over at the girl. “Dar, can you please bring me a great big cup of coffee? Take it to…uh…Grotek’s office, okay?”

  She stood and nodded. Flight turned back to Grainger. “Okay.” The kid stood and stared at him. “Art? The body?”

  He looked almost startled when he answered, “Oh. Yes. Okay, follow me.”

  ***

  Grainger led him through a short hallway out of the reception room and to a set of oak double doors. They opened to a wide room furnished like a studio apartment, only the furniture in a normal studio usually cost less than what Flight paid for the house his sister-in-law Martha lived in with her kids. Grainger pointed at a door on the side and said, “My office is right through there.”

  For a moment, Flight thought Grainger would lead him to the office attached to the studio, but instead he brought him around a corner so well designed that he didn’t notice it until he’d walked up to it. A staircase led downward, and he followed the young man as he moved two flights down and then opened the door to a wide room filled with ping pong tables, video games, air hockey, foosball, and a half-sized basketball court.

  “Um…this is the employee break room,” Grainger said and walked diagonally, maneuvering around equipment as he made his way to a door on a side wall. Employee break room? It wasn’t an employee break room. It was a goddam playpen at an amusement park. Flight sighed as inaudibly as he could and followed Grainger through the door and into a long hallway. Again, the strange contrast in designs struck him in a contradictory way. The lobby had been ornate and pompous, and only the Joan Baez wannabe at the desk suggested a new age kind of company. By contrast, the executive lobby had been sleek and elegant. The break room was garish, and the hallway beyond reminded Flight of the medium security jail down south that had served as his first assignment with the Sherriff’s office.

  Grainger walked silently along the hallway until he reached a heavy metal door with a keypad where the doorknob should have been and punched a code on it. 47692. Flight made a mental note to instruct the employees in surreptitious pin entry. He was gratified, though, that when the light on the pad turned from red it didn’t immediately glow green but instead displayed orange. Grainger took a card from his pocket and ran it through a nearly invisible reader on the left side of the pad. An audible click accompanied the flash of green, and the door opened a crack just as footsteps sounded from a corner twenty feet away.

  Flight’s hand immediate flew to his handgun, the weight of it still a bit foreign—not because he didn’t clean it regularly and not because he didn’t wear it daily, but because it had been four years since he’d drawn it with an intention to shoot. It was out and cocked with the safety released in one fluid motion, and he slammed Grainger to the ground with his free hand, kneeling next to him and pointing his weapon in the direction of the footsteps.

  Grainger managed to spit out a “What the hell?” before the footsteps ended with frightened stares and halted conversation. Two men stood at the end of the hallway in khaki pants and black shirts with bright yellow silk screening that read SECURITY in block letters. Flight took his hand from between Grainger’s shoulder blades and lifted his head by his hair.

  “These your men?”

  “Uh…uh, I recognize the Black guy.”

  Flight stood and lowered his weapon. “I told you to secure this office. How the fuck did it happen we got here first and you walked down the hallway playing grabass like you were headed to a goddam concert?”

  Grainger struggled to his feet, but Flight kept his eyes firmly fixed on the security guards. Neither had moved. It was easier to look at them now. The African American—and, fuck, Flight hated that term almost as much as the way the Blacks in the jail (and too many of the South Siders and the Woods, too) called each other nigger—was tall and muscular, probably played college ball and found himself in security when he discovered he should have paid attention to the classes because only a select few got drafted. No, that wasn’t entirely true. He carried himself too well. Probably did a tour after college or maybe didn’t finish college because of an injury or something. The other looked like a typical middle-income Academy drop out, if he ever got accepted to the Academy. He’d be the one to go belligerent, if either.

  There was silence for a few seconds except for Grainger’s labored breathing. Flight made a show of removing the magazine, expelling the chambered round, replacing the magazine, setting the safety, and holstering the weapon. Then, he addressed the ex-military guard. “Well? I asked you a question.”

  The guard looked to the floor and then raised his eyes to speak, but Flight had been right about the other. He stepped forward and asked, “Just who the fuck are you?” Flight smiled as he approached. Two seconds. That was how long he estimated it would take to incapacitate the kid, and outside of the gratification he’d receive wiping the stupid grin from his face, he’d also get the added benefit of the story running through the ranks like wildfire and setting the tone for performance in the future. Two more steps.

  The man didn’t take the steps though. “He’s your new boss, asshole! Answer him.” It was practically a screech, and when Flight glanced at Grainger, the young CEO stared at him with something in his eyes akin to worship.

  The guard staggered backward as though punched in the face, and Flight smiled softly at Grainger. He turned his attention back to the soldier. “Well?”

  “I screwed up, sir. Won’t happen again.” Good. He didn’t say we. Didn’t want to shirk any of the responsibility or didn’t want to be associated with the other guard. Either reason was good.

  “Where and how long?”

  “Sir?”

  “Where was your tour and how long did you serve?”

  “Three years in Iraq and one in Afganistan.” That probably made him a Marine.

  Flight nodded. “Secure this door while we’re inside. Do you have radios?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Flight pointed at Mr. Belligerent. “Give me yours.” The man stepped forward as though he were afraid of another ass chewing, but he slipped the radio in Flight’s outstretched hand. Flight directed his next question to the soldier. “What’s your name?”

  “Harden, Sir.”

  “Secure this door and try to keep fuckhead over there from screwing it up. The police will arrive in a few minutes. Do not allow them entry. Call me and I will escort them. Got that?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Flight nodded at him and turned to the door. He gestured for Grainger to proceed and followed him over the threshold.

  ***

  Five steps into the hallway, Flight felt like he’d stepped into Star Trek film. The entryway was a small foyer, and the hallway ended at a seamless door that slid open with a hiss and revealed a room bigger than the multi-purpose room at Flight’s niece Emily’s elementary school. Flight noticed first the walls, which were painted black and had some kind of texturing affixed that he assumed was soundproofing. On one wall, catty-corner and to the left was a monitor bigger than some of the postage stamp theatre screens Flight had seen bringing Emily to whatever newest animated
tale of talking animals was out. His sister-in-law was a bit uncomfortable about his visits, but Emily’s therapist insisted they did her good, and so the biweekly flood of animation, animatronics, Happy Meals, and zoos went on.

  There was nothing on the screen on the wall. As far as flight could tell, it was the only thing on any wall, though another door broke the strange raised pattern of the soundproofing directly ahead and to the right. A two or three foot raised platform about the size of three king mattresses sat on the floor ten feet or so from the screen, and posts on either end had headphones, goggles, and other electronic devices.

  Grainger stood inside the room while Flight took it in. Damien finally turned his attention to him and shrugged. “I don’t see him. Is he behind the platform?”

  Grainger shook his head and walked toward the second door. Flight followed and noticed a tiny sliver of light on the floor, emanating from what appeared to be a miniscule crack on the wall. He stepped closer and noticed a seam of some kind.

  “It’s the blinds, Mr. Flight.” Grainger’s voice wasn’t exactly proud, but it was a close enough approximation of his tone. Flight supposed when a man had enough money to build his own playroom, he liked to show it off a bit. He turned and walked to the younger man, and Grainger stepped forward. The door opened with a hiss as had the last and Flight caught sight of the body directly beyond the doorway.

  “Don’t move, Mr. Grainger.” Flight was gratified that the kid immediately stopped. One incident, and it wasn’t even really an incident, had solidified dependence on him, and dependence meant job security. He wondered what sudden and incomprehensible wealth did to a boy. One day, a kid’s at a frat party trying not to puke from the beer bong and desperate for sorority tail and the next he’s throwing back ’66 Dom Perignon like water and fucking supermodels like they were crack whores. Still, he was an insecure kid, and probably the type that would have been bullied unmercifully back before geek was good.

  He stepped forward and Grainger moved to the side to let him in. The man on the floor was prone on his stomach. He wore jeans that probably cost more than what Flight spent in a month on groceries and a t-shirt that used to be white but was just as sickly reddish brown now with blood. An enormous hilt that looked to be carved bone jutted out from between the man’s shoulder blades. The room was dim. “Where’s the light switch?”