A miss. "Come on, Christopher. If you're gonna convince me to convict that rat bastard, you're gonna need some hair on your chest."
Megan laughed. "No way, Ralph. Christopher's trying to get rid of unwanted hair. Right, Christopher?"
"There you go," Christopher said with a smile. He liked the way Megan was looking at him. She was a pretty girl except for the blue-painted fingernails, but he supposed they were considered sophisticated in Philly.
"Christopher," Ralph said gruffly. He glanced from Christopher to Megan and didn't like what he saw. No time for tomfoolery like this. "Have some coffee. I'll pour one for you and Megan, too."
"Okay, I'm addicted to coffee," Megan said. "I get the latte at Starbucks. Do you like Starbucks coffee, Christopher?"
"I never tried it," he answered. He had to get out more. "But I'll take a cup, too, Ralph."
KABOOM! A direct hit on the second shot. Cheered, Ralph picked up the plastic pitcher and began to pour. "How do you take it, soldier?"
"Cream and sugar."
Ralph filled Christopher's cup with hot coffee and slipped the packet of powder from under his cuff. He palmed the packet, grabbed two packs of sugar, and tore the end off all three together. Then he poured the sugar and the powder into the hot coffee, stirred with a plastic stick, and tucked the leftover plastic back under his cuff. His heart thudded as watched the powder dissolve, but he was no coward. His resolve didn't waver.
"Don't forget mine, extra sugar and cream," called Mrs. Wahlbaum.
"Got you covered, young lady," Ralph said. He set Christopher's coffee aside so he wouldn't get it confused with the others, and poured the other coffees.
"How about me, Ralph?" Wanthida asked. "I take mine black."
"Hold your horses, darlin'. Christopher asked first and he's the foreman. He's the one doin' all the work." Ralph picked up Christopher's coffee, walked over to the table, and handed it to him. "See if I put enough sugar in, Chris."
Christopher took a quick sip. "It tastes great. Thanks, Ralph. Appreciate it."
"Sure thing," Ralph said, and had to remind himself that Christopher wouldn't die. He'd just get a tummy ache and spend some time in sick bay. He'd be out in two days, after the verdict was in and Steere had walked. Ralph would hold up his end of the bargain. The payoff would be deposited in a special account. Ralph couldn't wait to call his literary agent. They damn well better put his picture on the cover. "Let me get those other coffees," he said, and hustled away.
56
Marta only reluctantly skimmed the list of handwritten numbers in Darning's notebook and half wondered if they represented money or account numbers. There were no patterns she could discern. The police would do better. "Three minutes left, kiddo," she said, testy at the associate sitting next to her on the futon.
"Four minutes." Judy hunched over the computer file spread on the coffee table. "You're right about this file. These are records used to make driver's licenses. It's a database, a computer file of driver's licenses."
"It doesn't tell us anything, and I have no idea what the notebook means. It's a bunch of eight-digit numbers. That's it. Two minutes and we roll."
"These numbers are eight digits, too."
"What numbers?"
"The numbers at the top of each field," Judy answered, pointing. "The operator's numbers, from the driver's licenses."
Marta looked over. The way the numbers were spaced, she hadn't noticed. Hmm. "Probably just a coincidence. There are about four thousand records in the computer file. How many numbers are in the notebook?"
Judy looked at Marta in astonishment. "About four thousand. Holy shit," she said, but Marta tried not to jump to conclusions.
"So there are four thousand numbers in the notebook and four thousand driver's licenses in the file. We don't know if there's a connection."
"Connection? What connection could there be?"
Marta paused, thinking. "It's possible that the notebook is related to the file. If the notebook is a list of numbers and each computer record has an operator's number, then maybe the notebook is a list of the operator's numbers from the computer file."
Judy's eyes widened. "You think they match? Like a copy?"
"Possibly." Despite her better judgment, Marta felt a jolt of excitement. "If so, we should be able to find each of the operator's numbers in the notebook. Read me a number from one of the driver's licenses."
Judy picked up the top computer page. "22 746 209."
Marta scanned the list of numbers on the first page of the notebook with Judy looking over her shoulder. Two sets of keen eyes raced down the page. "Too bad they're not listed in any order." Marta asked, "Do you see it on the first page?"
"Nope."
"On to the next." Marta turned the page and they both skimmed the list on the second page. Judy was obviously excited, though Marta was trying not to get carried away with her. It felt strange to work so closely with an associate, and not entirely unpleasant. "See it on page two?"
"Nope."
"Onward and upward." They read page three and continued, page after page, until they reached page ten. There, in the middle of the page, sandwiched in the middle of the list on the left, it said:
22746209
"Yes!" Judy shouted in delight. "We figured it out! We're geniuses."
Marta laughed. "Oh, yeah? Then what's it mean, whiz kid?"
"I have no idea. What do you think?"
Marta paused. She considered going to the cops. They were so close. "Give me that sheet. I want to see who number 22746209 is."
Judy showed her the computer sheet. There was a field of information and a photo of an older white man with a faint smile. "It's William Swenson. 708 Greentree Court, Philadelphia."
"Set Mr. Swenson aside and read me another number. Let's not go off half cocked. We only matched one of them."
"Okay. 92294593,"Judy read, then hung on Marta's shoulder as she thumbed back to page one of the notebook. "Beginning at the beginning, huh?"
"I'm nothing if not methodical."
"That's one word for it."
Marta glanced over her shoulder. "Read, kiddo." They went down the lists on the first page and the second, and stopped at the list on the fifth page. There it was:
92294593
"Awesome!" Judy almost cheered.
"Totally."
Judy laughed. "I didn't know you had a sense of humor."
"I don't. Tell me who Mr. 92 is."
Judy looked at the second driver's license on the sheet. The face of a middle-aged woman squinted behind bifocals. "She's Helen Minton of Rhawn Street, in Philly."
"Set her aside. Check five more, then I'll believe the theory."
"I'm sure we're right."
"You're young and impetuous. Now read."
Judy read Marta another number, which the lawyers found in Darning's notebook, then four more after that. They found each number in the notebook and set aside each license when they matched it. "Now what?" Judy bubbled when they were finished.
"We call them up."
"What? Why?"
"To see what we can learn." Marta checked her watch. Almost one. No time to lose. She picked up the portable phone. "Hand me the first sheet, then get me a phone book. Hurry up."
"You like to give orders, don't you?"
"Love it. Get the book."
Judy reached under the end table for the phone book. "It makes you feel powerful."
"I am powerful."
"But people don't like to be bossed around."
"Your point is?" Marta asked slyly, and Judy threw the phone book at her.
* * *
"Is this the Swenson residence?" Marta asked, with the associate sitting close enough to hear the voice on the telephone receiver. She felt strangely silly, like they were schoolgirls making phony phone calls. In a way, they were.
"This is the Swensons'," said the woman on the other end of the line.
"May I speak to William Swenson, please?"