“Absolutely. In the meantime, you and I are going to do our damnedest to figure out who’s behind this.”
After returning my car keys, he picked up our empty coffee mugs and went over to the counter where he refilled them. By then I was too stunned to play host. Besides, I was still copying files. Working with floppy disks isn’t exactly an instantaneous process.
“Okay,” he said, handing me the cup I assumed was mine. “What’s in the file cabinets? Are your personal papers there by any chance?”
I nodded. “That’s where I keep paper copies of job applications, tax returns, court decrees—bankruptcy and divorce included. That’s also where you’ll find my birth certificate, Grandma Hudson’s death certificate, and a copy of my last will and testament.”
“How often do you open those files?”
“Not often, why?”
“With any kind of luck, I think there’s a slight chance that those file folders may hold some fingerprints that will work in our favor, unless of course whoever is behind this was smart enough to use gloves. And if the prints are there, the only way they’ll work for us is if we can point the cops in the right direction.”
“Fat chance of that,” I said. “If they come in with a search warrant, I’m toast.”
“Not necessarily,” Charles said. “While I was downstairs, I called Pop. You’ve got a guest room here, right?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Good. Now your guest room is about to have a guest. He’s another one of Pop’s Sun City chums. His name’s Harold Meeks. Thirty years ago he was the top defense attorney in Phoenix, and now he’s yours—pro bono, by the way. Pop says Harold’s too old to drive or even play golf anymore, but he’s still got all his marbles. When it comes to legal maneuvers, he can’t be beat. He’ll be here as soon as the cab Pop called for him can drop him off. Pop says Harold may need some help getting up and down the stairs, but he’ll be here to set the cops straight when they show up with their search warrant.
“Oh,” Charles added, “when he gets here, I want you to give him a list of all your employees, both current and former. He’ll need to know everything you know about them—approximate hiring dates, where they live, what you know about their personal lives, where they worked before, etcetera.”
“Whatever information I have on my employees is on their job applications in the personnel drawer in the filing cabinet.”
“Are you listening to me?” Charles demanded. “You are not to go near those filing cabinets under any circumstances! Now, are you done copying your files?”
Properly chastised, I held up a fistful of floppies.
“I’ll take those for right now,” he said, removing the disks from my fingers and slipping them into his jacket pocket. “Do you know how to reformat that computer?”
“Yes.”
“Do it then,” he ordered.
I was still reformatting the hard drive—another not-so-instantaneous process—when Charles’s cell phone rang. “Okey-dokey,” he said. “We’ll be right down.”
I glanced at my watch as we headed downstairs. It was after two o’clock in the morning. The Roundhouse was closed up tight. The lights were off, the cleaning crew gone. After disarming the alarm, I unlocked the door and opened it. Standing outside, leaning on a walker, was a tiny, hunched over old man with a shock of white hair that stood on end, as though he’d been awakened from a sound sleep and hadn’t bothered combing his wild hairdo. If the guy was a day under ninety, I’m a monkey’s uncle. Behind him, carrying two old-fashioned suitcases, stood a turban-wearing cab driver.
“I’m Harold Meeks,” the old guy announced in a squeaky little voice that reminded me of someone hopped up on laughing gas. “You Butch Dixon?”
I nodded. Harold turned back to the driver. “Okay,” he directed. “This is the guy. Give him the bags.”
The driver handed them over to me in complete silence, then he retreated to his cab and drove off into the night.
“It’s cold as crap out here,” Harold griped impatiently. “Are we going inside sometime soon or are we just going to stand here until our tushes freeze off?”
We went inside. As I carried the two suitcases upstairs it occurred to me that my unexpected company obviously intended to settle in for the duration. Behind me, Harold abandoned his walker in favor of letting Charles help him up the stairs. Once Harold was safely deposited on the nearest dining room chair, Charles went back down and retrieved the walker. In the darkened bar downstairs, Harold hadn’t looked that bad. Now that I saw him in full light, however, I was shocked. How could this tiny, frail old guy, sitting there in a threadbare sweater and a pair of worn moccasins, possibly be my best hope for beating a murder rap? He looked like he was far more ready to show up for a summons to the pearly gates than for duking it out in an earthly court of law.