Chapter Twelve: Voicemail
Lisbon made a face. She had to force her throat muscles to swallow, when every instinct said "SPIT." The latest offering from Durenko's ancient coffee-maker tasted like a combination of Vick's cough syrup and charcoal. Lisbon dropped her still-full cup into the nearest trash can and leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
Van Pelt was still upstairs, hard at work analyzing Buck Hoskins' computer. The CEO had remained in his office for a while, pacing restlessly and trying to steal glances over the young agent's shoulder. Eventually, he had wandered off, and Lisbon had followed.
Right now Hoskins was standing alone in the middle of Durenko's overcrowded lounge area. He had started to make a phone call about twenty minutes ago, but stopped when he noticed Lisbon watching. Chattering employees filled the rest of the room, gathered in cliquish clusters that reminded Lisbon of her high school days.
The jocks were loudly reliving a recent Kings game. The gossip crowd was whispering about Paul's murder investigation. The geeks (by far the largest group) were exalting in an episode of Clone Wars. All of them had been asked to step away from their computers.
Van Pelt had put in a call to CBI Headquarters, requesting a team of tech specialists to help her wade through Durenko's data. Lisbon didn't want any files to "accidentally" get deleted before the team arrived.
Hoskins wandered over to a window and gazed out at the sunset.
Lisbon sighed. She'd better call Rigsby and Cho, let them know what was going on. Have them pull up anything they could on Hoskins…
But her phone's screen remained blank and dark, even after she started dialing. Lisbon remembered she had turned it off for the Hoskins interview. She poked the power button.
There were two voicemail messages waiting for her. The first was from Cho, succinctly detailing the findings of his interview. The second was from Jane's number, but…
Lisbon frowned, pressing the earpiece closer.
All she could hear was dead air, an indistinct voice, a few thumps, and more dead air. Then the recording stopped.
Lisbon turned up the volume and replayed the message. This time she could tell the voice was male, and definitely not Jane. There was a weird, sing-song quality to it, but she couldn't make out any words. The whole thing was very muffled.
Lisbon stared at the phone in her palm. Had Jane even meant to call her, or had the phone's buttons been inadvertently pressed inside his pocket? It sounded like a misdial.
Once, a few years ago, Lisbon's cell had dropped under her car seat on the way to work. Unbeknownst to her, the phone had dialed her home number. Lisbon had returned to her apartment that evening to find a lengthy message on the machine of her own voice, singing along with the Spice Girls.
She'd decided then and there that technology didn't get much creepier than that.
If this was another case of "cell phones with minds of their own," it should be easy enough to find out. All she had to do was call Jane, and ask him about the mystery message.
Only, she couldn't.
Because Jane's phone went straight to voicemail.