Martinez held the single authentic business card, a rather plain taupe cardstock with an unembellished San serif nameplate so old that it still had a fax number listed. “A furniture salesman?”
The man calling himself Mr. Paulson chuckled and shrugged. “It pays the bills.” He spit blood to the side, cracking his neck to loosen up for the next round of O'Connor's insipid inquest. “The steady corporate accounts keep me afloat. They give me a lot of freedom to travel.” The auditor smacked his lips like he just bit into something he disliked. “Can you get me a drink or something?”
The chief wanted to untie him and let him clean himself up a little. With a split lip and a split brow, he was bleeding, and wet as he was, the hotel bathroom looked like there had been a bloodier interrogation. That this furniture salesman who infiltrated their organization was alarming, but it wasn't necessarily his fault. O'Connor let him right in and asked him if he was there for another audit.
“Originally, I was just going to talk you into remodeling your offices, hoping that might get me in for a better look.”
Martinez unwrapped one of the little plastic cups and filled it with tap water.
Paulson laughed. “But this is great!”
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The chief couldn't help but feel disappointed as he held the disposable cup steady and tilted it slightly so Mr. Paulson could drink his fill before O'Connor returned with his jumper cables, et al. For a brief moment, Martinez wanted them both dead but had to remind himself that O'Connor must suffer first.
“So why do you think the kid is a time traveler?”
Paulson nodded his appreciation for the cup of water. “Not the kid. The old guy, Jack.”
“What old guy?”
“You didn't read any of the briefings.” Paulson hung his head.
“What briefings?”
Paulson rolled his eyes at the chief. “I found them in the TIG general inbox.”
Martinez glanced down at his phone, realizing that just about everything electronic in the room was good and fried already.
“The Arroyo Grande overview,” Paulson chuckled. “A helluva lot longer than your standard tourist pamphlet, that's for sure.”
Martinez glanced around at the wreckage of the room, realizing that the earlier scuffle, the first slap fight question and answer lightning round had left the place uninhabitable and smelling of toasted circuitry. He only hoped to find a single working outlet to plug in his spare console, still in the back of the Tahoe. Confident that at least Paulson wasn't going anywhere, Martinez peered out the door to be sure that he wouldn't have to explain the mess quite yet. He hung the “do not disturb” sign on the handle and ducked out, leaving Paulson alone in the bathroom, still lashed to the chair.
“Hey!” He called after the chief. “Grab me a Danish or a muffin or something!” But the chief was already down the hallway and too far away to take his order. “Missed my continental breakfast,” the man who called himself Paulson muttered.