Michael gave one of his sudden unexpected grins. “You bet your ass they do. But listen. Surely you can pass on this information to Marvin Whatever?”
“When I told my boss about Los Alamos, he ordered me not to interfere again.”
“This is incredible!” Michael said, becoming angry. “You can’t just
“Don’t worry, I won’t do that,” Judy said curtly. “Let’s keep cool and think for a moment. What’s the first thing we need to do with this information? If we can find out where the seismic vibrator came from, we may have a lead on the Hammer of Eden.”
“Right,” Bo said. “Either they bought it, or more likely they stole it.”
Judy asked Michael: “How many of these machines are there in the continental United States? A hundred? A thousand?”
“In there somewhere,” he said.
“Anyhow, not many. So the people who manufacture them probably have a record of every sale. I could track them down tonight, get them to make a list. And if the truck was stolen, it may be listed on the National Crime Information Center.” The NCIC, run by FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C., could be accessed by any law enforcement agency.
Bo said: “The NCIC is only as good as the information that’s put in. We don’t have a license plate for this, and there’s no telling how it might be categorized on the computer. I could have the San Francisco PD put out a multistate query on the CLETS Computer.” CLETS was the California Law Enforcement Telecommunications System. “And I could get the newspapers to print a picture of one of these trucks, get members of the public looking out for it.”
“Wait a minute,” Judy said. “If you do that, Kincaid will know I’m behind it.”
Michael rolled his eyes in an expression of despair.
Bo said: “Not necessarily. I won’t tell the papers that this is connected with the Hammer of Eden. I’ll just say we’re looking for a stolen seismic vibrator. It’s kind of an unusual auto theft, they’ll like the story.”
“Great,” Judy said. “Michael, can I have a printout of the three graphs?”
“Sure.” He touched a key and the printer whirred.
Judy put a hand on his shoulder. His skin was warm through the cotton of his shirt. “I sure hope Dusty feels better,” she said.
He covered her hand with his own. “Thanks.” His touch was light, his palm dry. She felt a frisson of pleasure. Then he took his hand away and said: “Uh, maybe you should give me your pager number, so I can reach you a little faster, if necessary.”
She took out a business card. After a moment’s thought, she wrote her home number on it before giving it to him.
Michael said: “After you two have made these phone calls …” He hesitated. “Would you like to meet for a drink, or maybe dinner? I’d really like to hear how you get on.”
“Not me,” Bo said. “I have a bowling match.”
“Judy, how about you?”
“I was planning to visit someone in hospital,” she said.
Michael looked crestfallen.
Judy realized that there was not a thing she would rather do this evening than have dinner with Michael Quercus.
“But I guess that won’t take me all night,” she said. “Okay, sure.”
It was only a week since Milton Lestrange’s cancer had been diagnosed, but already he looked thinner and older. Perhaps it was the effect of the hospital setting: the instruments, the bed, the white sheets. Or maybe it was the baby blue pajamas that revealed a triangle of pale chest below the neck. He had lost all his power symbols: his big desk, his Mont Blanc fountain pen, his striped silk tie.
Judy was shocked to see him like this. “Gee, Milt, you don’t look so great,” she blurted.
He smiled. “I knew you wouldn’t lie to me, Judy.”
She felt embarrassed. “I’m sorry, it just came out.”
“Don’t blush. You’re right. I’m in bad shape.”
“What are they doing?”
“They’ll operate this week, they haven’t said what day. But that’s just to bypass the obstruction in the bowel. The outlook is poor.”
“What do you mean, poor?”
“Ninety percent of cases are fatal.”
Judy swallowed. “Jesus, Milt.”
“I may have a year.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
He did not dwell on the grim prognosis. “Sandy, my first wife, came to see me yesterday. She told me you had called her.”
“Yeah. I had no idea whether she’d want to see you, but I figured at least she’d like to know you were in the hospital.”
He took Judy’s hand and squeezed it. “Thank you. Not many people would have thought of that. I don’t know how you got to be so wise, so young.”
“I’m glad she came.”
Milt changed the subject. “Take my mind off my troubles, tell me about the office.”
“You shouldn’t be concerning yourself—”
“Hell, I won’t. Work doesn’t worry you much when you’re dying. I’m just curious.”
“Well, I won my case. The Foong brothers are probably going to spend most of the next decade in jail.”
“Well done!”
“You always had faith in me.”
“I knew you could do it.”
“But Brian Kincaid recommended Marvin Hayes as the new supervisor.”
“Marvin? Shit! Brian knows you were supposed to get that job.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Marvin’s a tough guy, but slipshod. He cuts corners.”
“I’m baffled,” Judy said. “Why does Brian rate him so high? What is it with those two — are they
Milt laughed. “No, not lovers. But one time, years ago, Marvin saved Brian’s life.”
“No kidding?”
“It was a shoot-out. I was there. We ambushed a boat unloading heroin on Sonoma Beach up in Marin County. It was early one morning in February, and the sea was so cold it hurt. There was no jetty, so the bad guys were stacking kilos of horse on a rubber dinghy to bring them ashore. We let them land the entire cargo, then we moved in.” Milt sighed, and a faraway look came into his blue eyes. It occurred to Judy that he would never see another dawn ambush.
After a moment he went on. “Brian made a mistake — he let one of them get too close to him. This little Italian grabbed him and pointed a gun at his head. We all had our weapons out, but if we shot the Italian, he would probably have pulled the trigger before he died. Brian was really scared.” Milt lowered his voice. “He pissed himself, we could see the stain on his suit pants. But Marvin was as cool as the devil himself. He starts walking toward Brian and the Italian. ‘Shoot me instead,’ he says. ‘It won’t make any difference.’ I’ve never seen anything like it. The Italian fell for it. He swung his gun arm round to aim at Marvin. In that split second, five of our people shot the guy.”
Judy nodded. It was typical of the stories that agents told after a few beers in Everton’s. But she did not dismiss it as macho bravado. FBI agents did not often get involved in shoot-outs. They never forgot the experience. She could imagine that Kincaid felt intensely close to Marvin Hayes after that. “Well, that explains the trouble I’ve been having,” she said. “Brian gave me a bullshit assignment, and then, when it turned out to be important, he took
