Rune Alignment
Chapter 47.
Bobby was breathing heavily as he turned with the bag and headed for an interview room. He shut the door, set the bag on the table and pulled out a chair. He sat looking at Gleason's bag. He rubbed the fingertips of his left hand over the worn leather. He ran his right hand under the shoulder strap, feeling the ridges and wrinkles in the leather.
He wanted to look inside, try to find something that would tell him Clive's last name. He made a mental note to get her original cell phone from Jerry. Maybe Clive's information was in there. He wanted to look inside; wanted to see the side of women men are never privy to. The secret life of a woman is found in her handbag.
But he couldn't. Ever since he was a boy, a woman's purse was a mystery, a secret chamber. He remembered watching his father hand his mother her purse when he wanted something from it, money or cigarettes. Even when they were warring, or his mother was out of it, his dad would not go into her purse. Once Bobby saw his older brother, Richie, go into their mother's purse and take out her wallet. Bobby was shocked when Richie opened it and took out two twenty dollar bills. His disgust for his brother started in earnest that day. He was seven, his brother was twelve.
Here he was, with the holy grail of his love's life.
Bobby clumsily pulled open the zipper and laid the purse on its side. He carefully reached inside and, as if he were removing a chalice from the tabernacle, Bobby slid out Gleason's envelope-sized wallet. He'd never seen it. It was old, well-worn brown leather, like her bag, and zipped on three sides. He lifted it and tried to unzip it. He ended up holding it flat with his bandaged left hand and unzipping it. Two pockets were separated by a zippered coin section. Zippers, sheesh, he thought. Card slots lined the two sides in front of another pocket, most of them empty.
Reverently, he removed a card, her driver's license. Five nine, one thirty-five, red hair, blue eyes, eleven twenty-three Murdock, April second nineteen sixty-three, A positive, organ donor, her social security number. So much he didn't know, right there, on that small card.
He removed an American Express card, the only credit card. Her insurance cards, a public library card. Seventeen dollars and twenty-three cents. A receipt for a cup of tea and a brownie from the Coffee Joint on campus. No photos.
Bobby found her passport in the pocket behind the card slots. Germany, Italy, US, Taiwan, Russia, New Zealand . . . ? She had traveled far more widely than they had talked about.
He replaced everything but her insurance cards; he slipped those into his right front pocket. He set the wallet aside and reached back into her treasure chest.
Martin searched up and down the rows until he found the section holding boxes of old voice prints and their narratives. It looked like ten foot sections of four shelves held what he was looking for.
Let's see, he said to himself, I interned here in nineteen ninety-five and ninety-six. He searched for where the boxes with dates of ninety-six and earlier were assembled. Ah, he said, here we go. Martin removed the first box and carried it to the counter that ran the length of the room. He pulled out a stool, opened the box, and removed the first manila envelope.
He unclasped the envelope and slid out the voice print strips and the clipped pages of narrative. He began to read.
The nurse checked the bags of atenolol and amikacin hanging from the pole attached to the drip monitor beside Gleason's bed. Then she checked the infusion site on the back of Gleason's hand. The nurse recorded the numbers as they blinked on the monitor screen. BP one hundred-one over eighty-nine; temp one hundred-two Fahrenheit, thirty-eight Celsius; pulse forty-eight to fifty-seven bpm, erratic; oxygen level eighty-six; this is one sick lady, the nurse said to herself.
"How is she?" Dr. Patel asked as he came around Gleason's bed.
"Everything's low except her temp, it's still high."
Patel reached for her chart and read.
"Has she been awake at all?" he asked.
"Just once this morning. She said she was thirsty, so I gave her a sip and she asked what had happened to her. I told her and she fell asleep as I was talking." The nurse straightened the sheet over her.
"Has anyone been in to see her?"
"Several people called this morning; one gentleman has called twice. He said he'd be in this afternoon."
"Oh, yes, it must be that detective who was here last night. Nice young man." The doctor handed the clipboard back to the nurse.
"If her numbers don't improve by six, Dr. Creighton wants to take her back to surgery." He looked at Gleason then left.
The nurse swabbed petroleum jelly on Gleason's cracked lips and wiped her face and neck with a cool cloth. Rest easy, pretty lady, she thought.
"Well, this system is not worth crap," Bishop said with exasperation.
Sledge looked up at his partner and said, "Like your lovers, huh? Can't satisfy you?"
Bishop ignored the remark and said, "This system is so old; it won't run any kind of sophisticated search. You put in more than three variables and it chokes. I'm going to go to the university and ask around if anyone knows where he lives."
"Wait, wait, that's a waste of time. Why don't you search using his national insurance number? He's had to register that somewhere." He watched as Bishop found the number in the folder and then type it in.
"Bingo! Sledge you are such a surprise. Why don't you work like this all the time?"
"Where's he live?"
"Eleven sixteen Murdock."
Eames read and re-read what she had written. Her heart pounded. I don't want to do this, I don't want to leave, she said to herself. She sat with her finger shaking over the button on her mouse, cursor pointing to the print icon.
I have to do this; I have no partner here. Bobby is never going to forgive me. Goddamn! I should never have slept with Sledge. I slept with him because I was jealous of Gleason. God, how stupid! I never should have hesitated; Bobby is always right on these things. No one has his instincts. I have to do this.
She hit the button.
Bobby reached into Gleason's purse again and removed a hair clip. He looked at it in his hand, large pointed teeth lined the sides of two, eight-inch curved combs held together with a spring; this is a vicious looking thing, he thought. He set it aside and reached in again.
He hand felt papers and he took them from the bag. A list written on the back of an empty envelope; fruit, muesli, yogurt, tissues, orange juice, dish soap. He'd never seen her handwriting. It was a mix of printing and cursive, tiny, neat. He slid his fingers over the writing.
A paper folded in half was a computer printout displaying a chart showing the names of airports and airlines, and departure times. The title at the top of the chart read, Standard Flight Departures. The date range ran from three months ago to two months from now. She's ready to run, he thought. She's so afraid of that monster.
He ran his hand around inside the bag and pulled out a small change purse. He unsnapped it and saw that it held bills – pound notes and euros. It was a lot of money.
He felt inside and removed a small hairbrush, frizzy with red hair. He put it to his nose and smelled cinnamon. His eyes welled.
Bishop located and phoned the owner of eleven sixteen Murdock to inquire about the specific apartment number of Elliott's apartment.
"From what I understand, he's not there much," the owner said. "What's he done? You looking for drugs? I'll tell you all them college kids are drugged out bums, never going to class, always high, not taking care of the place."
Bishop sat with her head resting on her left fist. "I can certainly understand how you feel, Mr. –," she checked her notes, "Bartowski. These kids today have no respect for anything. So, what is Baughman's apartment number?"
"Jeeze," he hesitated, "I got to tell ya, I'm not real sure. Most of the numbers been swiped at some point. Like you said, kids today got no respect for nothing."
"Mr. Bartowski, we need some kind of description to identify Baughman's apartment in order to issue the warrant. How are the apartments numbered?"
"Ok, you got me. There ain't never been no apartment numbers on none of them doors in that place. See, I figure the kids are gonna steal 'em anyways, so why bother, right?"
A small throb started right behind Bishop's left eye. "Mr. Bartowski," she said with a patience this man did not deserve, "is his apartment on the first floor or second floor? It's a two-story house, right?"
"Yep, that it is, a nice house, I gotta say. One of the better ones I own over that way. I got a nice settlement from workman's comp a few years ago, and –,"
"Mr. Bartowski, is Elliott Baughman's apartment on the first or second floor of the house at eleven sixteen Murdock? Tell me, please," Bishop was about to go off on this guy.
"Well, here's the thing, I'm not sure. When this Elliott fella rented it, the whole place was empty and I told him to take whichever one he liked and to pick up the right key from under the mat. I know that's not a very business-like thing to do, but I got me eighteen properties, that there's one hell of a lot of work. You wouldn't think so, but, let me tell you . . . what some people will do to stuff that's not their own." Eames could see him shaking his head on the other end of the line. He continued, "Like you said, ma'am, them kids today. . ."
Bishop knew she had to hang up before she banged the receiver on the edge of her desk with Bartowski still on the line, "Ok, Mr. Bartowski, you've been a tremendous help. Tell you what, I'm going to call the DA's office and see what they tell me about not having the exact address for this warrant. Chances are excellent that I'll need to speak with you again before too long. So, I'll reach you at this number if I need you, ok?"
"Yes, ma'am, you can call this number anytime, it's my cell phone number. I got rid of my regular phone, you know, the one at the house. Hell, I was never there and folks was always leavin' messages and then they get all pissy when I'd return their call and it was a little bit late in the evening. You know how some peop—," he heard a click and then nothing.
Bishop sat with her head in her hands, and mumbled to herself, "Jesus Christ Almighty." She picked up the phone again and dialed Carver's office.