Crescatelli stood, stretched, and yawned. “All this brain work is tiring. I’m going to get a Coke. Maybe a doughnut, too.” He pushed his chair back and sauntered toward the kitchen.
“A prince among men,” Cavanaugh whispered as she slid into his chair.
“No kidding,” Travis said. “You must’ve saved that guy’s life.”
She began punching keys on the terminal keyboard. “As a matter of fact, I did.”
“How?”
“Oh … it’s a long story.”
“So shorten it.”
“Before John went legit, which was before John was John, he was a phone phreak. That’s with a ph.”
“What’s a phone phreak?”
“A telephone hacker. Used blue boxes and other devices to help friends make freebie long-distance phone calls. Not exactly admirable, but hardly a crime against humanity. Despite the fact that he was married, had one baby and another on the way, the phone company decided to make an example of him. John went underground. I was assigned to find him. I didn’t.”
“You mean, you did, but you didn’t turn him in.”
“Whatever. John is basically a good man, and I didn’t think an entire family should be destroyed just because Daddy made a dumb mistake he’ll never repeat. I’ve always had a soft spot for underdogs.” She looked at Travis awkwardly, then returned her attention to the terminal. “Did you follow all that rigmarole about switching tandems?”
“Not by a long shot.”
“Then watch.” She keyed up the modem and punched in the number on the computer screen. After a few moments they heard a typically shrill recorded operator voice say: “You have reached the central accounting records for area code 214. If you wish to make an inquiry, press one. If you wish—”
Cavanaugh pressed one.
“Please dial the number you wish records displayed for at the sound of the tone.” After a short pause they heard a beeping noise. “What’s your phone number, Byrne?”
He told her. “Why?”
“Just wait and see.”
Almost immediately, the screen filled with a long list of dates and times, each numbered sequentially. Beside the time and date stamp was a numeric indication of the length of the call.
“Good Lord!” Travis exclaimed. “That’s every phone call I’ve received in the past week!”
“Right you are.”
“What an enormous invasion of privacy.”
“You’re wrong, if only because your privacy was an illusion. Big Brother has been watching all along. You just didn’t realize it. Anyway, did you answer any calls after Moroconi phoned you?”
“No. I haven’t been there.”
“Good. Then we just need to take down the number of the last completed call to your phone.” She punched the number up. Travis noted that the date and time corresponded to Moroconi’s call. Cavanaugh highlighted the entry, then pressed the return key.
“Please hold,” the computer said.
Cavanaugh withdrew the tape recorder from her purse and pushed the record button. A few seconds later they heard the seven beeps of a phone number, as if dialed on a Touch-Tone phone.
“Thank you,” the recorded voice said.
“Bingo!” Cavanaugh exclaimed. She disconnected the phone line. “We got it.”
“We got what?” Travis asked, mystified. “A bunch of beeps?”
“Boy, you’re not following this at all, are you? How did anyone so slow-witted ever beat me so many times in court?” She rewound the tape, lifted the receiver on the desktop phone console, and played the beeps back into the receiver. After a few clicking noises, they heard the line ring.
Cavanaugh grinned proudly. “Can I cook, or can I cook?”
Someone lifted the phone on the other end of the line. “Million Dollar Motel.” The voice had a foreign accent. “Can I help you?”
Cavanaugh’s eyebrows bounced up and down. “What room is Al Moroconi in?”
“Moroconi.” They heard some shuffling of papers on the other end of the line. “There is no Moroconi here.”
Travis took the phone. “He’s a medium-sized, dark-haired guy, with greasy skin and an unpleasant expression.”
“Oh, yes. I know the gentleman. He did not register under that name.”
“Big surprise.”
“If you can hold on, I will connect you to his room.”
“No, no, no,” Travis said quickly. “I want to surprise him. Just give me his room number.”
“Oh, no, sir. So sorry, but I am not permitted to disclose that information.”
Travis’s voice deepened. “Look, this is Sergeant Abel T. Stoneheart of the Dallas Police Force, badge number 714, and if you don’t give me that room number in five seconds flat, I’ll send a platoon of squad cars out to search every room in your place. Including your office.”
There was an audible drawing of breath on the other end of the line.
“They’ll be there in less than five minutes,” Travis added. “Think you can clean up that quickly?”
The desk clerk cleared his throat. “I believe the man you are looking for is in Room 14.”
“Fine. We’re on our way. And you’d damn well better not tip him off before we arrive, or I might bring you in for questioning in his place. That could take days. And I’ve heard the strip search is particularly unpleasant this time of year.”
The man’s voice became a dry, raspy whisper. “I understand, Sergeant, sir. My lips are sealed.”
“Keep it that way.” Travis slammed down the receiver. “See? I learned something in my former life, too.”
“Right. Deception and intimidation.”
As if on cue, Crescatelli wandered back into the room. Travis and Cavanaugh skittered away from his terminal.
“Oh, my goodness,” Crescatelli said. “I left my terminal up. With all those tandems connected. I’d better clear those out right away.” He punched a few keys. The screen went blank.
“Well, that takes care of that,” Crescatelli said. “Whatever I was connected to, there’s no trace of it now.”
Cavanaugh put her hands on his shoulders, leaned forward, and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks a million, John. We’re even now.”
He shook his head. “Not by a long shot. But we’re closer.”
She smiled and kissed him again.
“What was that?” Crescatelli asked. “I felt a sudden breeze against my cheek. I’m going to have to talk to the guys in Climate Control. It’s always too hot or too cold, and the thermostats are no help. Nothing around here ever works.”
43
2:45 P.M.
CAVANAUGH EXITED BELT LINE Road and eased her Omni into the parking lot of the Million Dollar Motel, careful not to attract undue attention. After all, they probably weren’t the only people in town looking for Alberto Moroconi.
The Million Dollar Motel appeared to have been financed with approximately one one-millionth of the funds specified in its name. A wire fence restricted access to the rooms in theory, but the fence was broken by so many vandal-cut holes as to make it ridiculously ineffective. The swimming pool was coated with green fungi; it looked as if it hadn’t held more than puddles of rainwater in years. The ugly pink paint was peeling; leaden flecks curled away from the walls. Travis wondered if the place didn’t fulfill the legal description of a toxic-waste dump. He was not surprised to find that, as its flickering neon sign announced, there were VAC NCI S.
“So,” Cavanaugh said, after she parked her car near Room 14, “you think your client would hole up at this ersatz Bates Motel?”