Part 4 (2/2)

”Melodrama.”

”I know. I know. But fit the facts together in any other way and you get more nonsense instead of less.”

”So the Morgen Group was going to build some kind of top-secret installation at Bonnie Brae. Or a heroin refinery. Or maybe Brother t.i.tus was the fellow behind the gra.s.sy knoll in Dallas. Come on, Meyer. How many coincidences can we string together?”

I stood up and headed back across the field to the new asphalt road. I saw something glint in the gra.s.s, and bent down and pushed the gra.s.s aside and picked it up. I had seen her wear that pin several times when we had gone ash.o.r.e from the Busted Flush during our long slow trip back around the peninsula. It was of Mexican silver, framing a three-dimensional Aztec face carved out of a mottled hard green stone. It was crudely made, and the clasp was not very secure.

How many coincidences can we string together? Sure. If, retracing her jogging route, she had found the pin before Ladwigg drove t.i.tus back to his airplane-if she and her ex-husband had not traced her sister-in-law to that California encampment-if she had found a different job in Lauderdale...

Looking down at the primitive green face in the palm of my hand, I felt dizzy. The world was all tied together in some mysterious tangle of invisible web, single strands that reached impossible distances, glimpsed but rarely when the light caught them just right.

The biggest if of all. If she had never met me. Because I had brought her here.

If her mother had never met her father. If her aunt had wheels.

If.

An empty path to walk. It leads toward superst.i.tion and paranoia, two whistle stops on the road to incurable depression. Once upon a time I took a random walk across a field. I went hither and yon, ambling along, looking at the sky and the trees, nibbling gra.s.s, kicking rocks. The first Jeep to start across that field blew up. So did the people who went to get the people who'd been in the Jeep. And I stood right there, sweaty and safe, trembling inside, while the experts dug over ninety mines out of that field, defused them, stacked them, and took them away. That's the way it goes sometimes. Philosophy 401, with Professor McGee. Life is a minefield. Think that over and write a paper on it, cla.s.s.

I put the pin in my pocket. Talisman of some kind. Rub the tiny green face with the ball of the thumb. Like a worry stone, to relieve executive tensions. The times I remembered seeing it, she had worn it on the left side, where the slope of the breast began. She had bought it, she said, at a craft shop in San. Francisco at Girardelli Square. I hadn't been there with her. All the places I hadn't been with her, I would never be with her. And at those unknown places, at unknown times, there would be less of me present. There can be few things worse than unconsciously saving things up to tell someone you will never see again.

”Coincidence,” I told Meyer. ”Maybe there was somebody thinking about hustling her on her way, but they didn't have to. She got sick. And antibiotics wouldn't touch it. And she died.”

”Maybe,” he said. ”Maybe it was that way.”

My phone aboard the Flush rang at eight fifteen the next morning, and when I answered it I heard the click of someone hanging up. Fifteen minutes later it rang again, and when I answered it, a voice said, ”Remember this number, McGee. Seven-nine-two, oh-seven-oh-one. Go to a pay phone as soon as you can and call this number. Seven-nine-two, oh-seven-oh-one.”

He hung up. The voice was soft. There was no regional accent. I wrote the number down and finished my coffee while I thought about it. Then I locked up and walked to a pay phone.

The same voice answered. ”This is McGee,” I said.

”What was your mother's maiden name?”

”Devlin. Mary Catherine Devlin.”

”Drive to Pier Sixty-six and park in the marina lot. Walk to the hotel and go in one of the lowerlevel entrances that face toward the marina, the one nearest the water. Turn right and walk slowly down the corridor toward the main part of the hotel.”

”Why?”

After a pause he said, ”Because you want to know why somebody died.”

”Who the h.e.l.l are you?”

”Can you remember what I told you to do?”

”Of course.”

He hung up. I went to Meyer's stubby little cabin cruiser, The John Maynard Keynes, and roused him. He came out, blinking into the sunlight, carrying his coffee onto the fantail, looking grainy and whiskery. I repeated the two conversations as accurately as I could.

”Mother's maiden name. Standard security procedure. Not generally available.”

”I know that. Somebody wants to tell me why Gretel died.”

”You're going, of course.”

”That's why I came over to tell you. So you'll be able to give somebody a lead if I don't show up back here. If somebody wants to take me out, forget the hotel. It will be the marina parking lot. Drop me there at long range, and untie the lines and take off.”

”I'll come along.”

”If you wouldn't mind. He didn't say to come alone. You could wait in the truck. Armed.”

”But not very dangerous.”

”What we will have are those stupid walkietalkies, the little ones you bought as a gag. With fresh batteries. The mysterious strangers are probably in one of those rooms. I am a.s.suming more than one. I can keep my unit in my pocket. Without my aerial up you should be able to read a signal from me based on Off-On. We can test them here.”

With fresh batteries we found out that he would receive a definite alteration in the buzzing sound when my unit was turned on, even at a hundred yards. I could give him numbers. Short bursts for numbers from 1 to 9. A steady blast for a zero. Room 302 would be dit-dit-dit-daaaaah dit-dit.

”In a building with a steel frame?” he asked.

”Listen harder. They'll take it away from me pretty quick, I imagine. I'll give you the room number soon as I can.”

There are a lot of trees in that parking lot, and it has a considerable depth. I circled around the back of it, walking swiftly through the open areas. Then I circled back to an arched entrance, went in, turned right, walked slowly. The rooms were on my right. So they could have watched me through a window.

I kept my hand in my pocket, finger on the switch, A door opened behind me and I spun around. Room 121. Very easy. A sallow young man, tall, with a lot of nose and a lot of neck, motioned to me to come in. He wore pale-blue trunks, and he had a bath towel around his neck. His hair was still wet from his morning swim.

The familiar voice was right behind me, and I had neither heard him nor sensed him. ”Hand out of the pocket. That's nice. Move right on in. Fine. You're doing fine.”

With the voice still behind me and the room door closed, the swimmer patted me down and took the little gadget out of my pocket. He read the label on it aloud. ”Junior s.p.a.ce Cadet.” He grinned and tossed it onto one of the double beds. ”Clean,” he said.

”Sit right down over there, in the straight chair by that countertop, Mr. McGee,” the voice said. Large room. Two double beds. Pile carpeting.

Small refrigerator. Recently redecorated. Between the half-open draperies I could see beach chairs and a table on the tiny ground-level terrace outside sliding doors, and I could look out toward the marina parking lot.

When I sat down I got my first look at the voice. Like Swimmer, he seemed to be in his late twenties. Mid-height, with the shoulder meat of one who works out with weights. Glossy dark hair, square jaw, neck as broad as the jaw. Metalrimmed gla.s.ses with a slight amber tint. A pleasant smile.

”My name is McGee,” I said.

”I think we'll try to get along without names.” He took the toy off the bed, inspected it, pulled the sectional aerial to full length, and went over and opened the sliding door. ”Dr. Meyer? Everything is in order here. Why don't you come on in?”

When there was no answer, he tossed the unit to me. I pushed the little piano key and said, ”No reason why you shouldn't, Meyer.”

”Okay.” The voice was tinny and remote. ”Shall I bring your hat?”

”No. Leave it in the car and lock up. Room One-two-one.”

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