become easier as time went on, and he didn’t want his children to grow up thinking that everything would be handed to them on a plate. “If my son wants to take up a sport, I’d rather be the one who sets him up. .” Howard began, but he stopped himself when he realised how petty he sounded. “Does this mean he’s gone off baseball?”
Lisa smiled and shook her head, her long blonde hair spilling around her shoulders. “Of course not. He just wants to be able to play golf with me, that’s all. And he’d love it if you played with us.”
Howard picked up his marker again. “Yeah, right,” he said. “Me on a golf course.” He could feel an argument building, so it was with a sense of relief that he heard the telephone ring. “I’ll get it,” he said. It was Kelly Armstrong. Howard frowned and looked at his watch. She must be phoning from home, he realised.
Kelly told him about the call Lou Schoelen had made to his mother, and that the telephone company had identified a pay phone in Long Beach as the source. “Cole, I think I should go out there and co-ordinate the search,” she said. “I don’t think the Justin Davies credit card was a diversion, I think they really are on the West Coast. The President is due in Los Angeles in ten days, I think that’s what they’re planning for.”
“Well. .” said Howard.
“There’s a plane leaving in forty-five minutes, I’ve already booked a ticket. I’ll call you from our LA office.”
“I’m not sure if it’s. .”
“Cole, I’ve already conferred with Jake Sheldon, and he says I should go.”
Howard took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “In that case, Kelly, of course. Have a safe trip.” He banged the receiver down and went back to the sitting room where Lisa was looking up, clearly concerned. “That bitch Kelly Armstrong,” he said. “She’s trying to run rings around me again.”
“Well, I’m sure she won’t be any match for you, honey,” said Lisa.
Howard grinned. “Yeah, you might be right.”
The Amtrak Metroliner rolled into Washington and the platform was soon filled with bleary-eyed commuters. Joker was one of the last to leave the train. He’d managed to grab some sleep during the four and a half hour journey, though the pain in his side was still bothering him. By the time he got out of the station, there was a line waiting for taxis and he joined it. It was a pleasant, warm day and he took off his pea jacket, wincing as he did. The woman in front of him turned, looked him up and down, and moved away, a look of disgust on her face. Joker figured he must look and smell fairly nauseating. He hadn’t had a chance to wash or shave since leaving his hotel and he’d finished off the bottle of Famous Grouse on the train. The woman was elegant and wearing full make-up. Her clothes were obviously expensive and new. He could see that she was carrying her leather shoes in a Gucci bag and even the Reeboks she was wearing were pristine white. Joker wasn’t surprised at her reaction.
A black man in a threadbare overcoat was moving down the line, asking for change. The woman in Reeboks turned her back on the beggar, making a clicking sound of annoyance with her tongue. “Change? Got any change?” he repeated to her back. The beggar looked at Joker, saw the condition he was in, smiled, and moved on down the line, repeating his litany to uncaring ears.
Joker wondered if the two heavyweights in his hotel room had managed to untie themselves yet, and what they would do for clothes. He smiled to himself. The Frowner’s automatic was in Joker’s suitcase, wrapped up in the man’s trousers. It gave him a comforting feeling knowing that it was there. He doubted that they would come after him — they had no way of knowing where he’d gone. If Beaky Maguire had told them that he’d mentioned Patrick Farrell’s name, he reckoned that at most they’d telephone Farrell and tell him that someone had been asking questions about him and Bailey in New York.
Joker reached the front of the line and clambered into the back of his taxi. He told the driver to take him to the nearest cheap motel and slumped back in his seat. His first priority was to get a room, a few hours sleep in a bed, and a fresh bottle of whisky. Then he’d start looking for Farrell’s aircraft company.
Mary rolled over in the bed, luxuriating in the warmth of the blankets, and stretched. The clock radio on the bedside table was set to go off at nine, so she reached over lazily and switched it off. She didn’t have to check out of the room until midday so she was in no rush. A shower, a leisurely breakfast, and then she’d curl up with a good book. The only agenda she had was to wait for Matthew Bailey’s telephone call. She picked up the phone and ordered scrambled eggs, toast, coffee, orange juice and a copy of the
She was just finishing off her eggs when Bailey called. “M-M-Mary,” he stammered, “is everything okay?”
He sounded tense, but then he always did when talking to her. “Everything is exactly as it should be, Matthew,” she said. She gave him the address and telephone number of the house on Chesapeake Bay.
“We’re still going ahead?” he asked.
“Of course,” she replied. “The weather’s terrific here, and everybody else is already at the house. Why don’t you drop by Pat Farrell and check that he doesn’t have any problems before you come round to the house?”
“I will. I’ll check out the plane at the same time.”
“Good, that’s good.”
There was a pause on the line and then Bailey stammered: “M-M-Mary?”
“Yes?” she answered, tensing because she feared she was going to hear something uncomfortable.
There was another, shorter, pause. “Nothing,” he said. “I’ll see you.” The line went dead and Mary replaced the receiver. She was beginning to get a bad feeling about Bailey. She hoped he wasn’t getting cold feet.
Howard was in his office at 8 a.m. but Jake Sheldon had obviously beaten him to it. There was a message on Howard’s desk asking him to call Sheldon. He picked up the phone to call Sheldon’s office, but then had second thoughts and replaced the receiver. He walked down the corridor and pressed the bell at the side of the door to The Tomb. He waved at the surveillance camera above the door and the lock mechanism buzzed. He pushed open the door and stepped inside. The agent on duty was an old friend of Howard’s, a twenty-year man called Gene Eldridge. Eldridge had been sentenced to The Tomb for being unable to get his weight below 300 pounds, ostensibly for medical reasons but everybody knew it was because the Bureau top brass was trying to weed out all those agents who didn’t fit into its desired profile of young, healthy go-getters. He was a good-natured man, grey-haired with a florid expression, who had to have his suits tailor-made. He always wore a large handkerchief in his top pocket which he would produce with a flourish to mop his forehead at frequent intervals.
“Cole, how’s it going?” asked Eldridge. He was standing at the far end of the room wearing headphones. He waved Howard over. “Come and listen to this.” He slipped off the headphones and passed them to Howard. A man and a woman were talking on the line, though the man’s input consisted mainly of heavy-breathing and grunts. The woman, whose voice was husky and deep, was describing what she wanted to do with the man in graphic terms. “He’s a drug dealer the DEA are on to,” said Eldridge. “He makes one of these calls every morning.” The man on the line was building to a climax and Howard handed the headphones back to Eldridge, who unplugged them from the tape machine. “So what brings you back to The Tomb?” he asked.
“Tap on a house in Coronado, name of Schoelen. A call was made last night. Who was on then?”
“Eric Tiefenbacher,” replied Eldridge, wiping his forehead with his red cotton handkerchief. He sat down at the desk, his massive thighs squashing together like plump cushions. “Is there a problem?”
“No, it’s not a problem. He called Kelly Armstrong last night about a call made to the Schoelen home.”
“Yeah, the ice maiden. Eric’s had the hots for her for some time. Watch that one, Cole, she’s on the fast track. Her husband’s a big wheel in the Justice Department, isn’t he?”
“No idea. Can I hear the call?”
“Sure.” Eldridge pointed. “That’s the machine over there. Take the tape off and play it on the machine next to it. Just in case a call comes in while you’re playing it. You haven’t forgotten how to do it?”
Howard gave the overweight agent a withering look. “No, Gene, I haven’t forgotten.” Howard had spent seven months in The Tomb after the Bureau had first discovered his drinking problem. It wasn’t a time he liked to think about. He replaced the tape, and put the original on the machine Eldridge had indicated. He switched it on and the two agents listened to the conversation.
“Nice guy to be so worried about his dog,” said Eldridge. He handed the clipboard to Howard. “You wanna fill this in for me, too?”
Howard took the clipboard and wrote down the time the tape had been changed, followed by the tape counter number. “Like riding a bicycle,” he said, passing it back to Eldridge. “How long have you been here now,
