The door was open--just a crack, but still enough to immediately cause concern. Tommy pushed open carefully while Charlie gripped the revolver in her coat pocket. To her, it felt like something out of one of Johnny Lightly's novels, and she knew what she would see as soon as the door opened. Francis Heap's lifeless body lay on the floor in a pool of blood.
"Jesus Christ," uttered Charlie. She tried to prepare herself, and though she had expected it, nothing could truly protect her from the shock.
The apartment itself was a mess, but a cursory glance from the door gave her the impression that this was the normal state of the place. A few sealed envelopes were scattered on the floor around him. Tommy scanned them, deducing that they were nothing more than overdue bills, though the postmarks on them were from two days before.
"These are from local addresses," he said. "By my estimate, they shouldn't have taken more than one day to be delivered. This is yesterday's mail."
"He's been lying here for a whole day now?"
"It appears that way. I would guess he was killed after returning home from the robot fight."
Charlie backed away. If ever there was a time for a near-emotionless robot to take control of a situation, this was it.
"What happened to him?" she asked.
"He was shot."
"Someone who followed him, maybe? Heap was a sketchy guy. He could've won somebody's money last night--somebody who wanted it back."
"Heap lost last night," said Tommy as he examined the bullet wound more closely. "Or so it appeared. I saw him in the crowd."
"Fine, then maybe he couldn't pay off his gambling debts."
"No."
Tommy analyzed the position of Heap's body, relative to the entry point of the bullet. His eyes traced an invisible line to the window, the glass of which was cracked like a spiderweb, stemming from a small hole near the top. He followed the invisible line even further, his target now drifting toward the roof of the tenement across the street.
"There was a sniper," he said. "This is the work of a professional."
A lump formed in Charlie's throat, and no matter how hard she swallowed, it didn't seem to go away.
"Professional as in federal agent?" she asked.
"Possibly."
"But what's the point? All signs point toward Heap being nothing more than a two-bit thug. We didn't even get a chance to question him about Fifty-two, assuming that's what they're really after."
"It would appear that, at this point, someone is far more interested in hiding something. It is very likely that Francis Heap never knew a woman named Helena Beame. They're covering their tracks."
"So where does that leave us? Are we a step ahead of the feds? Or right where they want us to be?" Charlie asked.
Tommy wished he had the answer.
"Jesus Christ," uttered Charlie. She tried to prepare herself, and though she had expected it, nothing could truly protect her from the shock.
The apartment itself was a mess, but a cursory glance from the door gave her the impression that this was the normal state of the place. A few sealed envelopes were scattered on the floor around him. Tommy scanned them, deducing that they were nothing more than overdue bills, though the postmarks on them were from two days before.
"These are from local addresses," he said. "By my estimate, they shouldn't have taken more than one day to be delivered. This is yesterday's mail."
"He's been lying here for a whole day now?"
"It appears that way. I would guess he was killed after returning home from the robot fight."
Charlie backed away. If ever there was a time for a near-emotionless robot to take control of a situation, this was it.
"What happened to him?" she asked.
"He was shot."
"Someone who followed him, maybe? Heap was a sketchy guy. He could've won somebody's money last night--somebody who wanted it back."
"Heap lost last night," said Tommy as he examined the bullet wound more closely. "Or so it appeared. I saw him in the crowd."
"Fine, then maybe he couldn't pay off his gambling debts."
"No."
Tommy analyzed the position of Heap's body, relative to the entry point of the bullet. His eyes traced an invisible line to the window, the glass of which was cracked like a spiderweb, stemming from a small hole near the top. He followed the invisible line even further, his target now drifting toward the roof of the tenement across the street.
"There was a sniper," he said. "This is the work of a professional."
A lump formed in Charlie's throat, and no matter how hard she swallowed, it didn't seem to go away.
"Professional as in federal agent?" she asked.
"Possibly."
"But what's the point? All signs point toward Heap being nothing more than a two-bit thug. We didn't even get a chance to question him about Fifty-two, assuming that's what they're really after."
"It would appear that, at this point, someone is far more interested in hiding something. It is very likely that Francis Heap never knew a woman named Helena Beame. They're covering their tracks."
"So where does that leave us? Are we a step ahead of the feds? Or right where they want us to be?" Charlie asked.
Tommy wished he had the answer.
No comments:
Post a Comment