Steele Investments
Part 6
by Melinda
 
 
The barrel of a snub-nosed .38 was pointed at the side of Laura Holt's head and the hand of the man that held it shook. Her assailant had the long face of a basset hound, complete with sagging jowls and heavy eyelids that hung like half drawn shades.
 
"Have you got all that?" Murphy Michaels asked.
 
"Got it." Laura punctuated her words, stabbing the tip of the pen hard against the pad, creating a dark blue ink blob at the end of what she had just written. The danger brought with it the intermingled excitement and adrenaline rush that really brought her to life--in the truest sense of the word.
 
Laura was not unaware of the part of her that lusted after the illicit thrill of adventure. It was what had driven her to not only achieve but excel in a world that men dominated. It was her joie de vivre; her true exultation of spirit was an insidious attraction to danger. That part of her scared her to death, and she guarded against it more carefully than against any external threat.
 
"Hang up," her assailant ordered. His voice also shook, vibrating with a long thin quaver that told Laura more about the man than the nondescript white dress shirt he wore with brown tweed slacks and worn loafers.
 
"Thanks, Murphy, you're a lifesaver."
 
"Not a problem--"
 
Click.
 
She set the payphone down in its cradle. Laura hated hanging up on Murphy, but her current predicament mandated her undivided attention. Later, she would call Murphy back and apologize; she was sure that he would understand once the situation had been explained.
 
"If you want my purse, then take it," Laura said. She hurriedly shoved the notepad into her purse; everything Murphy had told her was already committed to memory anyway. She was understandably eager to extract herself from the clutches of the gunman.
 
"I don't want your purse! Shut up and do as I say! This way, walk!" The man moved the barrel of the gun from the side of Laura's head to her waist where it was concealed behind her body. He kept a tight grip on her left arm and maneuvered them together out of the phone bank and toward the building's entrance.
 
Unfortunately, Saturday morning at the Los Angeles county morgue was not a crowded one. There were only a handful of people in the lobby, and they had made it to the revolving glass door before Laura spotted her opportunity in the guise of one Lieutenant Larry Harris.
 
The police detective emerged from the revolving door just as Laura and her kidnapper were about to enter. "Lieutenant Harris! My, what a pleasure it is to see you here!" Laura's voice sang with a thrill, managing to sound truly happy to see the officer. She did not have to pretend too hard--given the circumstances.
 
Reaching out, Laura snagged the detective's arm, latching onto him with the determination of a bull terrier. Her kidnapper's sagging face blanched and turned red, and she tore her arm from his failing grasp. Her assailant's expression was one of pure panic--eyes wide, mouth opening and closing like that of a goldfish, chest heaving--before he turned tail and ran. Laura caught one final glimpse of his burly back in flight before Larry Harris whisked her away.
 
"Mizz Holt." Lieutenant Harris mustered far less enthusiasm to greet her. "What gives?" He stared meaningfully at her hand on his arm. His shrewd brown eyes narrowed. "In fact, what're you doing here? Seems like a mighty big coincidence--"
 
"Nonsense, Lieutenant Harris," Laura replied. She hastily retrieved her arm from his grip. A quick check revealed her would-be kidnapper to be gone. It was clear--for the moment. "I was merely happy to see a familiar face on such a lovely summer morning."
 
She thought fast and settled on a plausible half-truth. "Mr. Steele has me retrieving some autopsy reports from the morgue," she explained crisply.
 
Larry gave a hard guffaw. "Man makes you work Saturdays at the morgue?" He seemed to find the idea immensely amusing. "That's a great one! Can't wait to tell the guys!
Thanks for the laugh!"
 
Laura's smile was razor thin. "Glad to be of service," she said and hastily took her leave, heading for the elevators.
 
~~~
 
The Los Angeles county morgue was located in the building's basement. Laura supposed it was natural enough--perhaps society's way of performing a symbolic interment of the dead before the actual burial.
 
A chubby twenty-something man-child manned the morgue's reception desk. His name tag read "John Grubbs." He wore a white lab coat and Clark Kent eyeglasses. He did not greet Laura or so much as acknowledge her arrival with even a glance.
 
"Traci Simmons," Laura announced, flashing her fake press identification which she kept on hand for such occasions. "I'm here on a story about a man who was murdered last night."
 
The clerk looked up from his magazine--very slowly--and his gaze was zombie-like. "This is LA, sweetie. You need to be more specific than that."
 
"He was shot around 10 p.m. in East LA--down off Thrush and 8th," Laura explained, concealing her irritation because she needed his help. And truthfully, she found John Grubbs to be rather creepy in a nerdy way.
 
"The press isn't allowed to view any stiff that's the subject of a current police investigation," Grubbs said. He held up his right hand, rubbing his thumb across his middle and index fingers: grease me.
 
Laura rolled her eyes heavenward and produced a roll of twenties from her purse. She'd been prepared for just such an eventuality. She tossed the money onto the desk, and the clerk picked it up, stashing it in the front pocket of his white coat. He stood.
 
"This way."
 
~~~
 
The storage rooms where they kept the bodies were chilly. Laura shivered and drew her blazer closed while Grubbs drew open a drawer from the middle row.
 
The attendant unzipped the body bag to reveal the victim--a Caucasian male in his mid-fifties, portly, with prominent features and a half-moon of gray hair crowning his skull.
Laura's brow knit in deep thought. To her the man seemed vaguely familiar somehow--
 
"He was shot?" She surmised the obvious, inspecting the single bullet hole in the corpse's chest.
 
"Once, large caliber weapon," Grubbs explained. The clerk grew more animated and engaged within the presence of the deceased. He grabbed the corpse and rolled the body so she could see its back. "Look at that exit wound!"
 
Laura blanched. She was not fainthearted, but it was a grisly sight. "Has he been identified yet?" she asked, realizing belatedly that her hand covered her mouth.
 
"Yeah," he said, checking his clipboard, "Arthur Bellenworth."
 
"Does it say what he did for a living?" Laura asked, staring thoughtfully at the body. So familiar--
 
"Yeah," Grubbs said, turning a page on the clipboard, "he was a janitor. "
 
To Part 7
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