The Sounds of Death

The room was warm and stuffy. Cody Thomas was standing by the window smoking his last cigarette. A crumpled, empty cigarette package lay on the windowsill. The only sound that could be heard was a low hum originating from the tape machine, which was meant to record any activity picked up by a small “bug” that Cody had placed behind a picture in the room next door. He was attempting to gather information on a sleazy lawyer, who may have some ties to the mob and was cheating on his wife. Cody could see no activity in the street three stories below. The city was not like itself this early in the morning, particularly in this neighborhood, where there are only old hotels, run-down apartment houses, and a few dilapidated warehouses. There were no people, no cars nor trucks, and the streets were cluttered with old newspapers and debris. He had been holed up in this desolate flophouse for three days, waiting for the right moment. While investigating the wife of a client, Samuel T. Hollowell, Esq., Cody had discovered that Hollowell was secretly bringing women to the Apollo Hotel which was certainly not the kind of place where he was likely to run into friends or business associates. As Cody stared out the window, the reflection revealed a rugged, good-looking face with a five o’clock shadow and a three-inch scar running from the lower corner of the right eye back toward the earlobe. Plastic surgery was unable to completely hide the scar, which was the result of a street fight while on duty as a policeman. The dark skin and black hair betrayed Cody’s one-eighth Native-American heritage. The cigarette dangled from his mouth. He stood six-foot tall with a well-developed body, which was pressed against the window frame.