Chapter Eleven

“Hey George, come help me carry this stuff to the car,” Sauer bellowed from the study.

Together they carried the computer and notebooks to the car and bundled everything into the trunk Sauer shoved his bulk behind the steering wheel and turned the ignition.

“First stop is Shrien Patel, the computer whiz,” he said more to himself than to Hobbs. Sauer drove to the center of town, weaving through the heavy lunch hour traffic. Why can’t these people just get off the road and go and sit and drink in a bar somewhere? Parking was always a nightmare. About half a block from P&Q Computers Sauer found a gap open on a loading zone. He drove the Corolla into the yellow marked loading zone and stuck the blue light on the roof. Now, they will know we are from the police. He heaved his body out of the car and walked to the trunk. Hobbs opened it and took the computer out. He handed it to Sauer. “Your call,” he said. “You are blackmailing the man, not me.”

“I am not blackmailing him. I am just temporarily forgetting about things he had done. It is like being in a witness protection program. Only, I am protecting information that would lock him away in exchange for his knowledge.”

“How sure are you that he won’t fuck you over?”

“He will only try once. I suspect he knows the rules. There are no second chances in our game.” Sauer walked into the computer shop. The reception area was very small. There was hardly enough space for four people to stand. Sauer walked up to the counter: “Shrien,” he screamed at the top of his lungs, “got some work for you.”

A round, little Indian man waddled from the depths of the back of the shop to the counter. His black hair hung in greasy streaks down to his shoulders. His gold-rimmed glasses had several dirty fingerprints on them. How the hell does he see through those, Sauer thought.

“Inspectoooor!” Patel shouted joyfully when he saw Sauer. “My man, whaa’s up?” Sauer could never understand or get into the new text message or Internet jargon. Not only do the youngsters write in this jargon, but they have taken to speak in it, too. No wonder the senior high pass rate is so poor.

“Two things,” Sauer barked, not wanting to be too friendly. “First I want you to check this computer. Especially the Internet and all personal files…”

“Is this from the woman that got done in the other day? Read in the papers that you were on the case,” Patel interrupted the policeman. He stopped dead when he saw Sauer glaring at him. “Sorry, sorry…you were saying?”

“And secondly,” Sauer stressed, “take a bloody bath. You stink.”

“Sure. I let you know when I’m done with the computer.”

“You don’t understand Shrien. I want the information before you go to sleep again—even if it takes you three days.”

“Right, Inspector.” Sauer turned and walked out of the shop. Hobbs stood outside on the pavement smoking. “You know that it is illegal to smoke in public,” he said to Hobbs. “So arrest me. I can do with a holiday behind bars. I will claim some terrible disease and then be hospitalized at the government’s cost in a grand, private hospital.” Sauer laughed out loud, for in South Africa, only people without money are ever found guilty and sent to jail.

Their next stop was at the bar. The traffic had quieted down a little. What a day. And it is still early afternoon, Sauer thought as he threw the first beer down his throat. The usual crowd hung onto the counters, mainly giving their expert opinions about the rugby matches of the last weekend.