Cold City

The rain hit the pavement like bullets in a movie nobody asked to see. Jack Corrigan sat in his office on the fourth floor of a building on Flower Street that smelled of stale cigarettes and someone else's regret. The office was exactly what you'd expect from a private detective who charged five dollars an hour plus expenses: a desk, a chair that didn't quite fit together, a telephone that only rang when you didn't want it to, and a window that looked out over a parking lot where the only thing growing was oil.

He was waiting for a client who wasn't coming. The appointment had been set for 3 PM. It was 4:15. The client wasn't coming. Jack knew the type — people who called with urgent problems and then decided the urgency had passed, or died, or moved to another state. The phone rang at 4:47.

It was a woman's voice. Cold. Desperate. Out of breath.

"My father left something," she said. "They want it. I don't know what it is but it could kill everybody."

"Who is this?"

"Eleanor Lockwood. My father was Dr. Warren Lockwood. He worked on the Manhattan Project. He died in '45."

"When?"

"Three years ago. But he left a briefcase. A steel one. He told my mother it was the most important thing he ever made. She said he was senile. I'm not so sure."

"What's in the briefcase?"

"I don't know. He never told us. But the people who called him after he died... they didn't sound like they were asking questions. They sounded like they were making demands."

"Who are they?"

"That's what I need you to find out. Five dollars an hour plus expenses. I can pay."

Jack lit a cigarette. The smoke drifted up through the open window and mixed with the smell of rain and exhaust. "How much is 'expenses'?"

Author Note & Copyright: