Read Online Freeze Frame by B. David Warner - Free Book Online

Probably not. At this point, I was too
valuable to the agency. But there would be a severe reprimand, not
to mention the sheer embarrassment.
    I saw people in very few of the offices I
passed, and fortunately they were too intent on their work to
notice me. As I walked, I read the names of office occupants
printed on cards inside metal frames at the right of each door. I
had no idea where Roland's office was, but prayed I’d find it soon
-- and empty.
    Passing the fifth door, I saw Roland's name
just ahead. I strolled past the open door, sneaking a glance
inside.
    Empty.
    I walked back and peered in. The far wall was
a floor-to-ceiling window looking out over Jefferson Avenue winding
its way east. A simple metal desk sat to the right of the door,
nothing on it. Bare walls added to the Spartan appearance.
    I darted inside. The search took seconds:
three drawers on the right of Roland's desk, a large flat one in
the front. I found a half empty fifth of whiskey in the bottom
drawer, aside from that, nothing. Not a pencil, a pen, not even a
paper clip. Roland traveled light.
    If the DVD wasn't here, where was it? Maybe
Roland passed it on to Robert Bacalla, the man Chapman said was in
charge of the VanBuhler group. Back in the hallway, I decided to
delve further into VanBuhler country. As I approached the office
two doors down, I noticed the card outside the door read, "R. M.
Bacalla." Was he in? My heart beat faster, the butterflies in my
stomach now doing somersaults. The door stood wide open; I decided
to reprise my tactic of walking by and glancing in without
stopping.
    The office proved empty. I turned back and
went in. The room seemed twice the size of Roland's, and from the
leather chairs and sofa to the colorful prints on the walls, it had
been luxuriously furnished. The view of Jefferson Avenue from the
floor-to-ceiling window behind the large oak desk mirrored the
scene from Roland's office.
    I noticed a closet to my left, door ajar.
Approaching it, I heard voices in the hallway. Two men. What if
they came in? I opened the closet door and slipped inside, pulling
it shut behind me. In the darkness I heard the voices growing
louder, then trailing off.
    I opened the door a crack and looked
around.
    No one.
    My pulse racing, I pushed the door open. As
the inside of the closet lightened, I noticed a leather holster on
a belt hanging from a hook to my left. I removed the belt and
holster from the hook, unsnapped the flap on top of the holster,
and looked inside.
    Empty.
    "Looking for this?"
    Startled by the deep masculine voice, I spun
around. Facing me stood a tall, dark-complected man with a thin
mustache. Holding a pistol. The shock was only momentary. Then,
surprise turned to anger. This, obviously, was Robert Bacalla, and
while I didn’t have an explanation for being in his office, he
certainly had no business carrying a gun inside the building.
    "No, I’m looking for answers,” I said, trying
to project more confidence than I felt. "What right do you have
bringing a gun into this building?"
    The man had been pointing the pistol toward
me. Now he lowered the barrel, and transferred the weapon to his
left hand where it appeared less threatening.
    "I have a permit. I occasionally carry
campaign funds for the election committee. Sometimes a hundred
thousand or more dollars. This pistol is the committee's idea."
    He spoke in the precise fashion of someone to
whom English is a second language.
    "Now, it is my turn to ask a question. What
is your business on this side of the sixth floor?"
    "I...I guess I was curious." The words
sounded weak, even to me. "I work here on six...on the AVC
account."
    "But you realize, do you not, this part of
the floor is off-limits to anyone not working for me?"
    "Yes. Yes, I do." I felt humiliated standing
there, having to take this like a child caught smoking. Turning to
leave, I saw a DVD in a clear plastic case on the coffee table in
front of the sofa. As I read the words Avion submaster