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Housebreaker

False advertising, Drayver thought. Where the sign above the counter read HOT CHOCOLATE, it should have read SCALDING BROWN WATER. He lowered the cup, alarmed, as he did so, to find it wobbling so badly it threatened to spill.

Easy, you fool. You've made enough of a spectacle as it is. Dumping this shit all over yourself won't help matters.

He got it down cleanly and held on, waiting for his arm to relax. The oily surface of the drink shimmered and tossed. His fingertips dented the styrofoam. Any tighter, he thought, and it would burst...

He let go. A minor self-defeat, but that was nothing new. He locked his fingers together, raised his hands, pressed the whitened knuckles to his lips.

It was sometime between break and lunch. The Municipal Cafeteria was all but deserted. Only those who had earned the right to drink coffee for a living were here with him. Cooks and servers tripped over one another prepping for the noon rush. Seen from here, through the strip of glass which ran along the wall to Drayver's right, City Plaza was an immense latticework of concrete and steel. It's not like gazing outside, he thought, but inside, into the polished workings of a great machine, the engine of the Earth...

He'd come here to recuperate from his "accident" in the Lab. Lt. Parks had advised him to take the rest of the day off. Drayver accused him, everyone present, of overreacting. It was his usual, immediate defense to any accusation. So he'd screwed up with the tape. Jacked-in wrong. ("Jacked-off," Pilsner had said.) He'd done it before and lived to tell. It was a common enough occurence with people who shared Drayver's intrinsic mistrust of cyberspace, his refusal to adapt to its everchanging technology.

"This was different," Parks said.

"Why?"

"You kicked your goddamn chair over backwards, that's why. You had a fit. I know you don't believe it, but I'm telling you, I was there, I saw it myself. Carla was afraid you'd swallowed your tongue."

"She wouldn't have minded so much if it had been hers instead..."

Back and forth like this for ten minutes, from the squadroom to the hall to Parks' office. The lieutenant finally gave in, but, of course, it was a conditional surrender. Drayver could stay only if he agreed to let the staff at the Clinic have a poke at him. Mostly out of spite, Drayver agreed.

The medic, who'd clearly been up for too long, passed him with crawling colors. A slight fever, she said. Eyes tracking a little slow. But the lump on his head was nothing to call Mommy about.

The shrink was less of a pleasure to deal with. His name was Morrow and he was young enough to be Drayver's grandson. Drayver explained what had happened, said he couldn't remember viewing the tape, or, come to think of it, the last time, approximately one week earlier, that he had done so.

"Off-hand," Morrow told him, "you appear to be suffering from what is called sporadic, retrograde amnesia."

A Vocabulary major, Drayver thought. The young doctor managed to label everything and resolve nothing. His pride wore off quickly under Drayver's stare. They fell into a prolongued silence: squirmy and embarassing for Morrow, delicious for the Inspector.

"Done?" Drayver asked.

"Yes, for now."

"Thanks a lot."

Then he'd come directly to the Caf, not knowing what else to do. Parks would verify his fruitless sessions with the doctors and let it go at that. Maybe he should take the lieutenant's advice and pack it in. Why not? He could sit here through lunch, all afternoon if he felt like it, but what was the point? His head ached. He couldn't think straight. He wouldn't get anything accomplished...

It took a moment for him to realize the beeping sound came from his own shirt pocket. He unclipped the radio and flipped it open. An outside line. Jesus, what now?

He selected it and said, with all the warmth of a February hailstorm, "Drayver, tenth."

"Hey, buddy." Kennedy. "What's shaking?"

"I am," Drayver muttered.

"I only have a minute, so I'll make this quick."

"Small mercies."

"I was looking over yesterday's sheet and I saw a couple things you might be interested in."

"I thought you were going to make it quick?"

"Give me a chance," Kennedy said, laughing. Away from the mike, to a co-worker, he added something which Drayver gratefully could not hear. "Listen up, sweetheart. This is good stuff. Last night, one of our beat cops took a pistol off a bum, a Downer. Real high-tech. Very expensive. The guy said he found it Underground, not too far from where your victim's body was discovered."

"Where is it?"

"Turned it in to the Evidenciary Clerk at 1:03 this morning."

"1:03 ?"

"He's a rookie."

"Thanks. I'll check it out."

"That's not all," Kennedy said. "The best is yet to come. Someone may have gotten a look at your killer."

"What's that?" Drayver asked.

"There was a burglary. Attempted, I should say. Nothing was stolen. Above-ground, but also not far from your crime scene. It was reported by a neighbor who had water running through her ceiling. The place was trashed. About the same time it was called in, a twelve-year-old girl coming home from the store passed a man on the sidewalk. She said he had a stretchy face and dried blood all over his clothes. He was talking to himself, saying, 'Just him betrayed us. Just him betrayed us.' The girl claims she stood there, terrified, and he walked right by her, didn't even see her."

Drayver had put himself in her place. Too easy, too real. The vision broke, left him cold and trembling again. He could almost see the killer here, now, lurching toward him through the sunlit cafeteria...

"Still there?"

"Yeah," Drayver said."Could I get the statements from you?"

"They're waiting in your mailbox. I knew you probably wouldn't check it till next year, that's why I called."

"I owe you one."

"Three," said Kennedy. "But who's counting?"

To be continued...