Midnight Rambler_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [87]
Her eyes touched briefly on Linderman and Theis, who flanked me.
“Are these gentlemen with you?”
“Yes, they're my business partners.”
“Let me see if Mr. Coffen is available. Can I have your name?”
I nearly said my real name, then caught myself.
“Ken Linderman,” I said.
Linderman laughed under his breath. The receptionist pressed a button on the intercom sitting beside the phone. It came alive with a man's voice.
“I'm busy, Heidi.”
“I have three gentlemen who are interested in hiring our company to service their restaurants.”
“Then I'm not busy,” the voice said with good humor. “Would you mind asking them to wait? I'm on a conference call.”
The receptionist looked up into our faces expectantly. “Would you gentlemen mind waiting until Mr. Coffen is free?”
“How long do you expect him to be?” I asked.
She asked Coffen how long he was going to be.
“I don't know,” Coffen said. “Just ask them to have a seat. I'll be out when I'm done with this call.”
No smart businessman made potential customers wait, and I sensed that Coffen was stalling. I looked around the reception area again, then at the desk. The receptionist acted embarrassed and crossed her legs. A tiny button on the intercom caught my eye. It was a miniature camera. Coffen was looking right at us.
“He's onto us,” I said.
Behind the desk was a black door marked Private. I started to walk around the desk, and the receptionist rose from her chair.
“You can't go in there,” she said.
Linderman pulled out his wallet and showed his badge.
“FBI. Sit down and don't move,” he said.
She dropped into her chair.
“Jesus,” she said.
The black door was locked. Lifting my leg, I kicked three inches above the knob. Both hinges broke at the same time, and the door came crashing down.
I pulled the door out of the way and entered a windowless hallway that ran the length of the building. Through its walls I could hear female phone operators processing fast-food orders from around the state. Their voices seemed to be coming out of nowhere.
Theis and Linderman were right behind me. Theis went left and started checking doors. I headed in the opposite direction with Linderman breathing down my neck.
“Are you armed?” Linderman asked.
“Yes,” I said. “How about you?”
“You're a funny guy, Jack.”
The hallway's carpet muted our footsteps. I assumed that like most CEOs, Coffen occupied the corner office. At the hallway's end I found his name printed on a plaque nailed to a door. The door was locked and I took it down with my foot. We rushed in.
“FBI,” Linderman announced.
The office was light and airy. One wall was nothing but windows; the other three were decorated with paintings of naked girls in provocative poses. Coffen sat at a cherry-and-walnut desk wearing a black designer T-shirt and an array of gold necklaces, his chubby fingers banging the keyboard to his computer. His face was crimson and reminded me of someone having a heart attack. As I came around the desk, I saw why.
His computer had frozen. Imprisoned on the screen was a photograph of Julie and Carmella Lopez sitting inside a car at a McDonald's drive-through. Coffen was trying to erase the image, only the computer wouldn't let him.
“Stop what you're doing,” Linderman said.
“Whatever you say,” Coffen said.
Coffen pulled open the desk's middle drawer and reached for the automatic pistol resting inside. I threw my hip against the drawer, closing it on his hand. The automatic went off, and a bullet ripped through the desk. Linderman collapsed on the floor.
I punched Coffen in the face. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he passed out.
I retrieved the smoking automatic and placed the barrel under Coffen's nose. The fumes instantly revived him.
“Touch the computer again and I'll kill you,” I said.
He gripped the arms of his chair and shook away the cobwebs.
“Whatever you say,” he mumbled.
I went around the desk and knelt down beside Linderman. The bullet had clipped him, and he lay on the floor clutching his side.
“I think