“Good. If I can’t get you to talk to me, at least I can ruin your day. If I tell you enough about yourself, maybe you’ll understand something.”
“And what is that?”
“If you don’t talk to me, somebody else will.”
“I can’t help what other people tell you.”
“They tell me you’ve got this code you live by and you’ve got it down pat. You see a lot of things in black and white: if you give your word, people can take it to the bank. The problem is, you expect the same thing out of others. You tend to be hard and unforgiving when someone breaks the code. When you come up against a brick wall, your tendency is to go right on through it. You had little finesse when it came to official policy and no patience with politics.”
“I can’t think of anything offhand that’s as evil as politics. It turns good men into bad all the time.”
“You spend a lot of your time alone. You trust no one in a pinch as much as you do your own self. You’ve got such self-confidence that sometimes it strikes others as arrogance. Your reputation as a smart-ass is as high as the Rockies. Richly deserved would be my guess.“
“I work on it every day. I hire four people to sit on a panel, test me once a week, and tell me how I’m doing. Lately I’ve been unable to afford the sex therapist, but you could probably tell that. I don’t feel that my day’s properly under way unless I’ve run three miles and verbally abused someone of far less mental dexterity than myself—preferably in public, where the scars of their humiliation will be shattering and damn near impossible to shake off.”
She gave a little smile. “Actually, you’re a champion of the underdog. The strong never abuse the weak in your presence.”
“Now I’m a regular Robin Hood. You’ll have to make up your mind.”
“You’ve got quite a name as a fighter. People don’t mess with you much.”
“Some have.”
“But they didn’t come back for seconds.”
“Not since I killed that blind crippled boy last summer.”
She laughed. “You’re an American original, aren’t you? Listen to me, Janeway. I mean you no harm. I come in friendship and peace.”
“That’s what Custer said to the Indians.”
“You and I are probably a lot alike.”
“That’s what Sitting Bull said back to Custer.”
“And like the Indians and the cavalry, we’d probably end up killing each other. But I’ll tell you this, it’ll all be up front. I never break my word.” She leaned forward and looked me straight in the eyes. Our faces were closer than strangers ought to be. “Who is Slater?”
I looked at her hard and gave her nothing.
“Maybe it would make a difference if I told you what else I know.”
“What’s that?”
“That Darryl and Richard Grayson were murdered.”
Her sense of timing couldn’t have been better: I felt the tingle of her words all the way to my toes. Without taking her eyes from mine, she reached into her bag and took out a card. “Both my numbers are here if you decide you’d like to talk. Anytime, all off the record. If not, have a nice flight to Taos.”
She got up and walked out.
12
Who was Slater? The question lingered through the night.
Why was I here?
In my mind I saw him working his scam, dancing his way into my life with that cock-and-bull story about him and me and our brilliant future together. I watched again as he spread open that paper, where someone had written the particulars of Grayson’s Raven so long ago that it was beginning to fall apart. It wasn’t about me, it wasn’t about a bounty fee on a skip, it might not even be about Eleanor except in an incidental way. The real stuff had happened long ago, probably before she was born.
But it didn’t matter now, did it? I was under a court order, and I had to play according to Hoyle.
I sat up late reading a bad novel. I watched some bad TV. At three o’clock in the morning I sat at my window and looked down into the rainy Seattle street.
But I couldn’t forget Trish Aandahl, or that parting shot she had given me.
I called the first travel agency that opened at seven-thirty and told them to get me to Taos with a fellow traveler ASAP. It was a heavy travel day. United had two flights that would put us in Albuquerque early and late that afternoon. From there I could rent a car or hook up with a local airline that would jump us into Taos. But both flights were packed. The agent could squeeze us in, but our seats would be separated by the length of the plane. The next viable flight was a red-eye special, leaving Sea-Tac at 11:18 p.m., arriving in Albuquerque at 2:51 a.m., mountain time. I took the red-eye, told the agent to deliver the tickets to the Hilton, and put the tariff on my charge card. The tickets were $800 each, typical airline piracy for last-minute bookings. I sucked it up and hoped to God I could get some of it back from the good people of New Mexico.
Then I called Slater and got my first surprise of a long and surprising day.
“Mr. Slater’s not available,” said his woman in Denver.
“When will he be available?”
“I’m not sure. He will be calling in. Who is this, please?”
“My name’s Janeway. I’ve been working a case for him. Something’s come up and I need to talk to him.”
I heard her shuffling through some papers. “I’m afraid I don’t know you.”
“Then I must not exist. I’ll bet if you tell him I’m here, though, he’ll talk to me anyway.”
I heard a spinning sound, like a roulette wheel in Vegas. “Everyone who works for us is in this Rolodex. Your name’s not here.”
“Then it’s Slater’s loss. Give him a message, tell him I tried.”
“Wait a minute.”
I heard her talking to someone, but her hand had covered the phone and I couldn’t make out the words.
“I could maybe have him call you back.”
“Won’t work. I’m heading out in about five minutes.”
“Hold, please.” She punched the hold button: elevator music filled my ear.
There was a click. Another woman said, “Mr. Janeway?…I’m sorry for the hassle. It’s just that we don’t know you and Mr. Slater’s out of town.”
“How could he be out of town? He hired me because he didn’t have time to go out of town. Where’s he gone?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that. I guess I’ll have to take a message.”
“Tell him Janeway called, I’ve got the girl and I’m taking her on to Taos myself.”
“Is that what he wanted you to do?”
“It doesn’t matter what he wanted me to do. Tell him I’m not working for him anymore.”
I sat on my bed feeling the first faint gnawing of a mighty hunch.
I placed another call to Denver.
“U.S. West.”
“Howard Farrell, please.”
I listened to the click of a connection, then a woman’s voice said, “Mr. Farrell’s office.”
“Mr. Farrell, please.”
“May I say who’s calling?”
“Cliff Janeway.”
Another click, followed by the familiar resonance of an old and confidential source.
“Hey, Cliff! Where the hell’ve you been?”
“Cruising down the river, you old son of a bitch.”
“Jesus, I haven’t heard your voice for what?…seems like a year now.”
“More like two. So how’re things at the good old phone company?”
“Same old shit.”
“Howard, you need to start breaking in a new act. But then what would guys like me do when they need a favor out of old Ma Bell?”
“Uh-oh. You’re not official anymore, are you?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Damn right it is. Just for old-time’s sake, what do you want?”
“Clydell Slater.”
“My favorite cop. He still playing smashmouth with Denver’s finest?”