"How many of those are there?"
"Sixteen. You won't find any rain forest soil in any of them, I assure you. As I said, you can begin January second."
"Why not right now?"
Patton again glanced at his watch. "I'll be happy to give you a tour of our facilities right now, if you'd like, but it won't do you much good. So much of our work is highly technical that you'd really need the appropriate personnel here to explain to you what they're doing and give you access to their computer files."
"Why can't you do that?"
"I'm a manager, Frederickson, not a scientist. Besides, I'm not sure you'd believe anything I told you, anyway. Just about everyone has gone home now, and the offices will be closed through New Year's. In fact, I'm scheduled to leave tomorrow morning for a European ski vacation. If you like, I'll postpone it."
"I don't need your personnel to search your computer files. I'll bring in my own experts."
Patton shook his head. "I'm afraid I couldn't authorize that; and, if I could, I doubt your people would be successful in interpreting all the data that's stored here. Please, Dr. Frederickson; I'm trying to be cooperative, and responsible."
And he was certainly putting on a good show. On the other hand, I could search computer files for a year and still miss what I was looking for. Rummaging through the offices of Nuvironment-now or after New Year's-wasn't the answer to the problem of finding Vicky Brown. Somebody had to tell me what I needed to know. In effect, Patton was offering me nothing except a show.
"I'd still like to talk to Blaisdel."
Patton rested his hands in his lap, sighed deeply. "I will submit a memo to that effect, Dr. Frederickson; that's all I can do. The memo will be ignored."
"Why don't you just pick up the telephone and call him?"
"Because-"
As if in response to my suggestion, the phone on his desk rang, startling both of us. Patton frowned and stared at the phone as it continued to ring-five, six times. He obviously hadn't been expecting any phone calls.
On the seventh ring Patton grunted with annoyance, reached out and punched a button on a speaker-intercom console connected to the phone. "What is it?" he snapped. "I thought I left instructions that there were to be no-''
"I'm sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Patton," a strong, authoritative male voice said. It was a distinctive voice, vaguely familiar; I was certain I knew the voice, but couldn't recall where I had heard it. "If you're on the intercom, please pick up the telephone receiver."
Patton punched another button, snatched the telephone receiver out of its cradle, and held it to his ear. "What's the problem?" he said curtly. He listened for a few moments, and his pale face darkened. "Just bring him in here," he said at last, and slammed down the phone.
I had a pretty good idea who "him" was even before the office door opened and Garth, blood streaming from a gash on one cheek and the other cheek rapidly swelling, and with both arms twisted up behind his back, was roughly ushered into the room by two burly men whose suit jackets weren't sufficiently well tailored to hide the bulge of guns in shoulder holsters. It looked, not surprisingly, as if Garth had given as well as he'd got; the shirts of both men were ripped and spattered with blood, their hair was tousled, and the left eye of the man on Garth's right was almost swollen shut.
Now I realized where I had heard the voice on the intercom before-on national television, broadcasting various baseball "games of the week" for a year or two. The name of the man twisting Garth's right arm was Hector Velazian, and he had once been a twenty-five-game winner in the majors before drugs and booze had melted the muscle in his mind and arm. He'd been rehabilitated, but had never gotten back his form. He'd retired, landed a job as a broadcaster, then lost that when his old demons had caught up with him. That had been at least five years before. The last I'd heard of him, he'd been identified by some stringer for UPI after languishing for a week in a Mexican drunk tank. He'd looked positively ghastly in the news photo that had appeared at the time, but now-except for the black eye Garth had given him-he appeared fit and trim. And mean, with his dark, Latin features twisted in frustration and anger.
The man attending to Garth's left arm was Billy Dale Rokan, another retired major league baseball player who'd fallen afoul of various illegal substances, along with a well-publicized statutory rape charge. It appeared that Peter Patton was a baseball buff; but instead of collecting cards, he collected former players. However, the men's jobs certainly seemed to agree with them; Billy Dale Rokan, like Hector Velazian, looked fit enough to trot out on the field again.
"Hello, brother," Garth said easily, with just the faintest trace of a smile. "How's your meeting going?"
"I thought I told you to wait in the car."
"We didn't bring the car."
"I thought you were going to wait there anyway."
"I figured we'd better check with you before we called the police, Mr. Patton," Hector Velazian intoned in his deep, resonant, announcer's voice. "We checked his identification, and it turns out he's a private investigator with this outfit called Frederickson and Frederickson. I've heard of him; he's a heavy." The Latin paused, nodded in my direction. "Him, too. That's his brother."
The lighter of the Fredericksons said, "Why don't you guys let go of my brother before I start throwing around office furniture?"
"Mr. Patton?" Billy Dale Rokan said.
"Let him go," Patton said tersely.
"But Mr. Patton-!"
"I told you to let him go!"
The two ex-ballplayers released Garth's arms, but then moved in to flank him tightly, their shoulders between him and the slight man sitting behind the desk. Garth rubbed his shoulders, then shoved his hands into his pockets, looked up at the ceiling, and yawned.
"We caught him down in the third-level basement, Mr. Patton," Rokan said as he wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. "He tripped off a couple of alarms. When we found him, he was trying to pick the lock on the freight elevator. He had no business being down there."
"Indeed," Patton replied mildly as he looked at my brother. "Just what is it you were doing down there, Mr. Frederickson?"
"I was trying to find a way to get up to Blaisdel's penthouse," Garth replied matter-of-factly as he looked at me. "What the fuck do you think I was doing down there?"
"Why would you want to do that?"
"I just thought Henry might like some company. I hear he's a virtual shut-in."
Patton pressed his fingers against his tic and rocked back and forth in his chair for a few moments. Finally he stopped rocking and nodded curtly to Velazian and Rokan. "Leave us."
"But-"
"It's all right, Hector. Both of you can leave. And close the door."
The two guards looked at each other, shot hostile glances at Garth and me, then backed out of the office, with Rokan closing the door behind them.
Garth, who looked-to me-dangerously calm and unperturbed by his tussle with the guards, didn't even glance at Patton. He asked me, "Did he tell you where we can find the girl?"
"Uh, not exactly."
"I told you nobody here would cooperate, Mongo. There's something very funny going on here, and it has to do with a lot more than a lousy load of dirt. I told you I could smell the evil here. You're trying to cut a deal with some very freaky people, and you're wasting your time."
Peter Patton cleared his throat loudly. "Please sit down, Mr. Frederickson," he said evenly. "You seem overwrought. I'm sorry my people had to be so rough with you, but Nuvironment provides security for the entire building, and you were in an area that's closed to the public."
Now Garth slowly turned to face the man behind the desk. "I'm not overwrought, pal," he said very quietly. "I just get more than a trifle impatient with anybody who'd protect a maniac who gets his rocks off by tearing up the vagina and rectum-and mind-of a child. You know what I mean?"