I followed him back to the same cubbyhole and sat. He slid behind his desk, quickly for a big man, and leaned back in his chair. “What can I do for you, Mr. Paget?” he asked. The turtle stare was perpetual, I decided. I wondered how his kids liked it.
“Quite a bit.”
His gaze was neither friendly nor unfriendly. “What have you got?”
I ticked it off. “One, we’ve got testimony implicating Lasko in the stock manipulation. Second, I’ve got evidence indicating that Lasko used a guy named Martinson to help set up a dummy corporation. Martinson was forced to leave a Caribbean island when I flew down to investigate.” Di Pietro played with a penknife while I told him what I hadn’t told the agency. “Martinson could be very dangerous to Lasko. Indications are that he’s being kept in Boston, maybe at a place called the Loring Sanitarium.”
He blinked at that last bit of information, as if it were unexpected. But his question doubled back. “Do you know what Lehman was going to tell you?”
“No.”
Di Pietro looked sleepy. “Well, some of this is interesting, but you haven’t told me anything about Lehman.”
“Maybe Martinson can.”
“You don’t know that. Just why do you think he’s at Loring?”
I reviewed it: Martinson’s “mental strain,” the call to Tracy, and Lasko’s connection with Loring. Di Pietro pondered it a while.
“It’s pretty weak,” he said. “Just what do you want us to do?”
“Go out to the Loring Sanitarium. See if Martinson is there. He may be in real trouble.”
He scowled. “I can’t do that.”
The frustration sharpened my words. “I wish I had your driving curiosity.”
He cut me off in a voice managers reserve for rookies. “Look, I’m a cop, doing a job you don’t know squat about. This may be your first murder, if it is one, but it isn’t mine. Now one real possibility is that Lehman was killed, not just hit and run. But it’s only that-a possibility. You can’t tell me what Lehman knew, and I can’t even begin to find out. His widow is a dead end. So all I’ve got are your theories, and I can’t book Lasko on that. Hell, I can’t even ask him anything smarter than ‘who killed Cock Robin.’ And like I said, we’re not geared to investigate big companies.”
“I’m sorry I let you down.”
He ignored that. “Another thing. The Loring Sanitarium is out of Boston. I’ve got no jurisdiction there. We’d have to go through the locals and I’d need a reason, which you haven’t given me. You know,” the quiet voice turned quieter, “it’s only on TV that cops have national jurisdiction. You’d be surprised how many times the Beverly Hills police don’t even ask me for advice.”
“That’s funny.”
“Not very.”
He had a point. It wasn’t funny. It especially wasn’t because I figured he was right. I felt reckless, at the end of my rope. “I’m just trying to keep Martinson alive while I put your case together.”
I knew as soon as I’d said it that it was stupid. Di Pietro spoke in a cold, even tone. “You know, Mr. Paget, I don’t much like you.”
“You know,” I snapped, “I don’t much care.”
He surprised me by almost smiling. “Then I guess we’ll both have to get over it.”
That was that. I stood. “Thanks.”
He looked up at me impassively. “Sure.”
I let myself out.
I walked out of the station and back toward the car, only half-aware, thinking of how well I’d done for Tracy.
I stopped when I saw a phone booth, remembering Stansbury. I stepped in and called.
“Mr. Stansbury, this is Chris.”
“Chris? You sound fuzzy. Where are you?”
“Boston.” There was silence. “I’m calling about the chips,” I prodded.
“Oh, surely,” he apologized. “They match.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I’m familiar with them and I did some tests. Those chips you gave me were manufactured by Yokama Electric. No question. I hope that helps.”
“It does, and thank you. I’ll call when I get back to town.”
“Do that, Chris.” I said good-bye and hung up.
I found the car. I got in and sat there, very still. I could be safe, or not. My choice.
There was a street map in the glove compartment. I took it and mulled it over. After a while I folded the map and turned the ignition. Then I pulled from the curb and headed for the Loring Sanitarium.
Twenty-Seven
The Loring Sanitarium was in Brookline, near the country club. I picked up Boylston Street until it turned into Route 9 by way of Brookline Avenue, figuring to get there about 6:30. I felt queasy. I had crossed the line. This was my own trip, against orders, and maybe into trouble. Martinson might not be there. And I’d no fixed plan if he were.
I had the pervasive sense that I hadn’t listened hard enough. That in the past four days someone had handed me the key, if I could only think. But I’d heard too much too fast, and was too unsettled to stitch it together. I got to Brookline disgusted and unnerved.
The Loring Sanitarium wasn’t tough to spot. It was the kind of building that could only be a sanitarium or a high school-a stark, tan-brick rectangle with a charmless Eisenhower-years design, two stories, in a bare field set away from houses. I knew it wasn’t a high school because there weren’t any signs. That and the isolation gave it a guilty, furtive air: the kind of place people didn’t look at when they passed.
I pulled up in the front parking lot and got out. At closer range it looked off center, like a patient too distracted to keep himself up. The lawn was long and ratty and a couple of windows were askew, like an idiot’s glasses. Lasko’s money hadn’t gone for renovation.
An iron plate was screwed into the brick next to the front door. It read “The Loring Sanitarium” in capital letters and in small print under that was “Dr. Ralph Loring, Director.” The front doors were broad plate glass. I opened one. A uniformed guard sat at a metal desk in front of a second row of doors. He gave me a pleased, suspicious look, as if being suspicious beat boredom.
“Yes, sir,” he asked, but not the polite “yes, sir” of a maitre d’ or a saleslady.
“I’m here for Dr. Loring,” I said, trying to suggest that Loring should be pleased.
The guard wasn’t impressed. “Does he know you’re here?”
“Not unless you tell him.”
He didn’t like that. “Does he know you were coming?” he asked roughly.
“No.”
His face closed. “What’s your business?”
That forced me to do what I didn’t want: pose as a federal officer whose boss knew his whereabouts. I pulled out my ID card. “I’m with the ECC, headquarters office. I’ll take my business up with Dr. Loring.”
That bought me another stare. But his thick hand grudgingly reached for the phone. He dialed two digits and asked whoever answered for Dr. Loring, without moving his eyes from me. I stared past him through the second doors. There was a hallway with light green linoleum fading into chartreuse beneath darker green tile walls. There appeared to be offices on the right side.
“Yes, sir,” the guard was saying. “I have a Mr. Paget here. His identification says he’s with”-he looked again-“the United States Economic Crimes Commission.” Whatever that is, his eyes said, but his voice didn’t admit that. Security people were supposed to know these things. He listened for a moment, then hung up.
“Dr. Loring will see you,” he said in a disappointed voice. I hadn’t turned out to be any fun. I started for the doors. “Wait here,” he growled, pointing in front of his desk.
I complied. The guard leaned back, eyes moving uneasily between me and the outer door. Dr. Loring was taking his time. I jammed my hands into my pockets and shifted from foot to foot, feeling nervous and a little silly.
My feet were wearing out when a tall, grey-haired man appeared beyond the second doors, walking with a slight stoop. He wore a tweed suit and through the glass he looked like an English gentleman hunting for grouse. The apparition came toward the doors and opened them.