'No, not now.'
'What happens when you arrest her?'
'We don't. We learned. We call Sanderson and he comes and gets her and reams us out for holding his angel in a nasty place like this. Never mind she's been batting her blue eyes and practically climbing into the uniforms' laps.'
'So how come you didn't tell me about her when I described the girl I was looking for?'
'Ginny? That's who that girl was—Ginny Sanderson?'
'Sounds like her.'
'Smith—'
'Mac,' I interrupted, 'did Brinkman tell you he found a nine-millimeter pistol in a Chevy truck that rolled into the gorge last night?'
'Yeah. Yeah, he told me. How the hell do you know?'
'He told me, too. Have you tested it yet?'
'No, I haven't tested it yet. And when I test it, you'll be the last to know.'
'Whose was the truck?'
A hesitation; then, in a tired voice, 'Jimmy Antonelli's.'
I drew a last drag on my cigarette, dropped it, ground it out. 'I guess I knew that.'
'I guess you did. What else do you know?'
'Not a goddamn thing. Where do I find Frank Grice?'
'Christ, Smith! What the hell's the matter with you? I see you anywhere near Frank Grice, I'll pull you in and stuff you in a hole. Is that clear enough, or you want me to say it some other way?'
'No,' I said. 'No, I get it.'
'Smith,' MacGregor said, 'this Ginny Sanderson thing isn't the case you came up here to work, is it? You said you came up Sunday night. That kid's only been gone since Monday.'
'It's part of it.'
'Smith, you'd better—'
I stopped him before he painted us both into a corner. 'I told you, Mac, it's not a police matter. I'll call you later, see about that gun. 'Bye.'
I hung up, leaned against the scratched glass wall of the phone booth. I spun another quarter in the air, thought about what MacGregor had said.
I'd given him Ginny Sanderson at the Creekside Tavern for free. Underage drinking could close the Creekside down, and the threat of closing down might buy MacGregor something that might help break the Gould case. That, in turn, should have bought me something, but it hadn't.
Cops had a lot of ways of telling you things they wanted you to know.
MacGregor wanted me to know something was going on. Maybe he was getting pressure from above on the Gould murder; maybe it was something else. But what he wanted me to know was that I couldn't count on his help. If I got myself into trouble, even with him, I'd have to get myself out.
I stuck the quarter in the phone and called Mark Sanderson.
'Where the hell have you been?' he demanded, after I'd gotten past the receptionists and the secretary with the beautiful voice.
'Mr. Sanderson, has your daughter ever mentioned a man named Frank Grice?'
He stopped cold, as though he'd lost his place in the script. 'No,' he finally said. 'She doesn't know him. How would she know him?'
'But you do?'
'I've heard of him. Some of the people I do business with have had trouble with him.'
'Bullshit,' I said. 'Grice first came here because you brought him here. What happened, Sanderson, he get out of hand?'
His voice exploded out of the phone. 'Goddammit, who the hell do you think you are? The sheriff tells me he found Jimmy Antonelli's truck this morning, in the ravine. If anything happened to Ginny—'
'There was no one in the truck when it went off the road, Mr. Sanderson.'
'So where the hell are they?'
'Wherever Jimmy is, your daughter's not with him.'
The phone hissed his words the way a pot lid hisses steam. 'Damn it, Smith, you're trying to protect that kid, and it's obvious and stupid. I'm getting impatient.'
'I can't help that.'
'Yes, you can. You can tell me where he is, and where my daughter is, or I promise you you'll be one sorry bastard.'
I hung up without telling him I'd been a sorry bastard most of my life.
