The cigarette was still between Snow’s lips and he was still massaging the struck knee when he said, “One thousand a week.”
Anna Maude Singe whistled softly. “How did he pay you, Harold?” she asked.
“What d’you mean how’d he pay me?” Snow said and took the cigarette from his mouth. “With money.”
“Cash?”
“That’s right, cash.”
“You think it was his money, Harold?” Dill said.
Once again, the shrewdness crept back into the eyes. “You know, that’s kind of an interesting question. I think it was his money all right when I did the first stuff. But later I think he started using other people’s money. I think there was other people who wanted to find out what your sister was up to.”
“He found himself a client, huh?” Dill said.
“Yeah. A client.”
“Who?”
“How should I know? Somebody hands over a grand a week in tens and twenties to you, you ain’t gonna ask too many questions.”
“Or listen to the tapes?” Anna Maude Singe said.
“I didn’t listen to ’em, lady. What little I did hear was mostly fuck talk and that doesn’t do a thing for me.” He paused. “But I will tell you this.”
“What?” Dill said.
“He wanted me to tap in on somebody else.”
“Corcoran did?”
“Yeah. He said name your price. So I went out and took a look at it and came back and said no way. I mean, this guy was set up just like he was expecting somebody to make a move on him.”
“What’d Corcoran say when you said you wouldn’t do it?” Dill asked.
“What could he say? I didn’t tell him I wouldn’t do it; I told him I couldn’t. If you can’t, you can’t.”
“Who was it, Harold?” Dill said.
“Some guy in a big house out in Cherry Hills is all I know.”
“Was his name Jake Spivey?”
Harold Snow no longer bothered to look surprised at anything Dill said. “Yeah,” Snow said. “Jake Spivey. How the hell did you know?”
Chapter 23
With his own pistol aimed at him, Harold Snow used the kitchen stool to go up into the crawl space above the bedroom closet and bring down the recording and sending equipment. It was smaller than Dill had expected — not much larger than a cigar box — and enclosed in a green metal case.
“That’s it?” he asked Snow.
“That’s it.”
“What about the microphones?”
Snow pointed to something in the ceiling above the bed. “See that?”
“What?”
“Looks like a nail hole.”
“I see it.”
“That’s the spike mike. I’m gonna leave it. It’s not worth the trouble to take it out. I patched in the phone up there, too.”
“You don’t think the cops found it when they went over this place?”
Snow shook his head. “Not unless they went up into the crawl space, and they didn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Talcum powder. I blew some talcum powder around after I installed it. It was still there.”
Anna Maude Singe moved over and looked down at the small green metal box Harold Snow still held. “You said there’s a final tape on there.”
“That’s right.”
“Can you play it?” she said. “I mean, can you play it so we can hear it?”
Snow looked at Dill, who had let the pistol drop to his side. “Can I keep my stuff if I do? Can I keep this?” He moved the green box around a little. Dill brought the gun up. Snow hurried with his explanation. “Look, I put it together myself and it’s worth a couple of thousand. I know where I could get at least a couple of thousand for it.”
“You can keep it, Harold,” Dill said.
They had to go back into the living room, where Snow had left his toolkit. It took him less than two minutes to splice a wall plug onto the cord that led from the green metal box. He plugged it into the wall socket and said, “This thing’s only got an inch-and-a-half speaker on it, so you’re not gonna get any quality.”
“Just play it, Harold,” Dill said.
“There’s not much on it,” Snow warned.
“Just play it, Harold,” Dill said again.
The first thing they heard was a muted click. “That’s the phone being picked up,” Snow explained.
“Why doesn’t it ring?”
“It don’t pick up on rings.”
“Hello,” the woman’s voice said. It was the voice of Dill’s dead sister. Dill felt a small cold shudder. A frisson, he thought, surprised that the word had come to him.
A man’s voice said: “Well?”
“I think the same time and place,” Felicity Dill said.
“Right,” the man said. There was a slight click. A brief silence. Another click. And Felicity Dill again said, “Hello.”
“Another phone call,” Snow said.
MAN’S VOICE: It’s me.
FELICITY: Hi.
MAN’S VOICE: I can’t make it tonight, damn it.
Dill recognized the voice. It belonged to Captain Gene Colder.
FELICITY: I am sorry. What happened?
COLDER: Something came up that the Troll says he needs me on.
FELICITY: You’d better not let him hear you call him that.
COLDER: (laughter) I caught it from you, didn’t I?
FELICITY: Just don’t let Strucker hear you.
COLDER: Will you miss me?
FELICITY: Of course I’ll miss you.
COLDER: What’re you going to do?
FELICITY: Well, since you won’t be coming over here, I think I’ll go over to the duplex and wash my hair.
COLDER: I’d like to help.
FELICITY: Wash my hair?
COLDER: Wash you all over.
FELICITY: (laughter) Next time.
COLDER: I’ve gotta go. Love you.
FELICITY: Me, too.
COLDER: ’Bye.
FELICITY: Goodbye, darling.
There was a click and after that, nothing, until a man’s voice said: “Looks like she read a lot.”
Snow switched off the machine. “That’s the cops. You wanta hear it?”
Dill said he did and Snow played it, but there was nothing much on it other than an occasional “Whaddya think of this, Joe?” And finally, there was only silence.
“Can you play it once more for us, Harold?” Dill said.
“All of it?”
“Just the first phone call.”
FELICITY: Hello.
MAN’S VOICE: Well?
FELICITY: I think the same time and place.
MAN’S VOICE: Right.
Then a slight click and Dill said, “One more time, Harold.” Snow again rewound and replayed the four lines of conversation.
“Again,” Dill said.
Snow played them again. Dill looked at Anna Maude Singe.
“Two words are all,” she said. “‘Well’ and ‘Right.’”
“Not enough?”
She frowned. “Not for me.”
“Me either,” Dill said and turned to Harold Snow. “Harold, you can keep your wonderful machine, but I want the tape.”
“You mean I can go?”
“After I get the tape.”
Snow quickly rewound the tape, removed it, and handed it over. He unplugged the recorder-sender, wound the cord around it, and tucked everything under his left arm. “You didn’t have to hit me,” he said as he bent down for his toolbox.
“Sorry,” Dill said.
“Can I have my gun back?”
“No.”
“You can take out the shells and give it to me.”
“Goodbye, Harold.”
Harold Snow started toward the door. “That tape oughta be worth something to you. A hundred bucks anyhow.”