Part 17 (1/2)

”It's got to be done,” Malone said in a noncommittal voice. ”How's it going so far?”

Boyd closed his eyes for a second. ”Twenty-three red 1972 Cadillacs to date--which isn't bad, I suppose,” he said. ”And six calls like the one you just heard. All from agents with problems. What _am_ I supposed to do when a guy catches a couple necking in a 1972 red Cadillac?”

”At this time of day?” Malone said.

”New York,” Boyd said, and shrugged. ”Things are funny here.”

Malone nodded. ”What did you do about them?” he said.

”Told the agent to take the car and give 'em a pa.s.s to a movie,” Boyd said.

”Good,” Malone said. ”Keep that sort of thing in the dark where it belongs.” For some reason, this reminded him of Dorothy. He still had to get tickets for a show. But that could wait. ”How about the a.s.sembly line?” he said.

”Disa.s.sembly,” Boyd said. ”Leibowitz has started it going. He borrowed the use of a big auto repair shop out in Jersey City, and they'll be doing a faster job than we thought.” He paused. ”But it's been a wonderful day,” he said. ”One to remember as long as I live. Possibly even until tomorrow. And how have you been doing?”

”Well,” Malone said, ”I'm not absolutely sure yet.”

”That's a nice helpful answer,” Boyd said. ”In the best traditions of the FBI.”

”I can't help it,” Malone said. ”It's true.”

”Well, what the h.e.l.l have you been doing?” Boyd said. ”Drinking?

h.e.l.ling around? Living it up while I sit here and talk to people about Cadillacs?”

”Not exactly,” Malone said. ”I've been--well, doing more or less what Burris told me to do. Nosing around. Keeping my eyes open. I think--”

The phone chimed. Boyd flipped up the mike and eyed the screen balefully. ”Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he said crisply. ”Who the h.e.l.l are you?”

A voice on the other end said, ”What?” before the image on the screen cleared.

”Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Boyd said in a perfectly innocent voice. ”Boyd speaking.”

”Oh,” a voice said. It was a very calm, quiet voice. ”h.e.l.lo, Boyd.”

The image cleared. Boyd was facing the picture of a man in his middle thirties, a brown-haired man with large, gentle brown eyes and an expression that somehow managed to look both sad and confident.

”h.e.l.lo, Dr. Leibowitz,” Boyd said.

”Is Mr. Malone in?” Leibowitz said. ”I really wanted to talk to him.”

”Sure,” Boyd said. ”Just a second.”

He motioned to Malone, who came around and sat at Boyd's desk as Boyd got up. He nodded to Leibowitz, and the electronics engineer nodded back.

”How's everything coming, Dr. Leibowitz?” Malone said.

Leibowitz shrugged meaningfully. ”All right,” he said. ”I called you to tell you about that, by the way. We've managed to cut the per-car time down somewhat.”

”That's wonderful,” Malone said.

”It's now down to about four hours per car, and that means we may be able to do even better than running one off the line every fifteen minutes. At the moment, fifteen minutes is about standard, though, with sixteen cars in the line.”