Dead Man's Thoughts by Carolyn Wheat Read Free Book Online Page B

stories. Everyone knows everyone else’s business without really being close. I couldn’t stand Deke, but I knew all about his rocky marriage. I wasn’t a friend of Mario’s, but I’d heard stories about his flaky girlfriend. The one exception was Bill. I shared an office with the man, but I knew less about him than anyone. No personal phone calls. No gossip, except for the persistent rumor, never confirmed, that he was gay.
    Flaherty was a different story. Not just an office friend, but a real friend. He finished a story about a robbery at McDonald’s. His guy had said to the girl behind the counter, “I deserve a break today, honey. Give me all your cash.”
    As we all laughed, Mario intoned in a deep announcer’s voice, “There are eight million stories in the Naked City.”
    I disagreed. “There are eight million clients,” I corrected him. “There are three stories.”
    â€œYeah,” Flaherty agreed. “Story Number One: ‘I found it in the street.’”
    â€œStory Number Two,” Mario chimed in, “‘He lyin’.’”
    Before anyone came up with Story Number Three, one of the secretaries called out, “Is Nathan in there with you all?”
    â€œNo, Lily,” I called back. “He’s at the Special Prosecutor’s office.”
    â€œNo, he ain’t,” she shouted. “This is the Special Prosecutor’s office on the phone, and they wantin’ to know where he at.”
    I got up and went to the phone. I told the woman at the other end that Nathan had expected to be there at twelve thirty and as far as I knew he was on his way. It was quarter to two. I hung up the phone with a strong sense of foreboding.
    On impulse, I picked up the phone and dialed Nathan’s number. I didn’t expect an answer, so the busy signal surprised the hell out of me. Nathan was home! What was going on?
    I put the receiver back on the hook and looked at the clock again. Twelve to two. My prisoners wouldn’t be produced in AP4 till two thirty. I could get to Nathan’s in five minutes.
    It had seemed like a good idea in the office, but as I approached Nathan’s building, I began to feel silly. Nathan was a grown man. If he was sick, he could take care of himself. On the other hand, if he was sick, he’d call the office or call Parma’s office, neither of which he’d done.
    I didn’t have a key, so I waited until someone else opened the door and followed him into Nathan’s apartment complex. I walked quickly past the desk where visitors were supposed to sign in, trying to look as though I belonged there.
    The ambivalence I’d been feeling grew stronger. I felt like a fool as I walked down the dim, impersonal corridor toward Nathan’s door. What the hell was I doing here? There had to be a rational explanation for Nathan’s absence from work. Hung up on the trains. Forgot the appointment. Was sitting in Parma’s office right now, better late than never. The busy signal was only because I’d dialed the wrong number. Yet, as I stood before Nathan’s door, I knew deep inside that none of those things were true. Something was wrong.
    I knocked and waited. No answer. I knocked again. I was about to leave, when I decided to try the door. To my surprise, it opened. That fact alone primed my paranoia. I pushed the door open and gingerly stepped in.
    The place looked as though a huge, powerful child had thrown the tantrum of his life. Books had been ripped open, the pages torn and scattered, and the bindings flung across the room to land in dejected heaps. The photograph of Nathan on the horse had been thrown at the wall near my feet, the glass cracked and the antique frame twisted with the force of the throw. Records had been smashed, the shiny black shards littering the floor. Playing cards had been ripped and tossed like confetti; the pottery chalice had been crashed