Chandler. “I’ve learned that a little drink takes the edge off.”
He handed a glass to Chandler, which the latter tossed back gratefully, then poured himself another.
“You sure you want to do that?” BC said, sipping at his drink. “You’ve been out for twenty-four hours.”
“Twenty-five actually. And eleven minutes. How’d you get me away from Melchior? No, wait. How’d you find me in the first place?”
“The Company has a tap on Song’s phone. A friend in Langley pulled the tapes for me. Turns out she put in a call to Jack Ruby two days ago, right after Melchior was sent here, asking if he was looking for any new dancers.”
Chandler nodded. “And? After you got there?”
“One of the dancers called Dallas’s finest. I flashed my badge, told them you were wanted in connection with a major drug trafficking ring.”
“Melchior—”
“He got away. I’m sorry.”
BC would have expected Chandler to be bothered by this news, but all he said was, “What about Naz?”
“I spoke to Ruby. He said Song never sent him a girl.”
“He’s lying. I saw it in Ivelitsch’s mind.”
“What did you see?”
Chandler wracked his brain, trying to sort through the thousands of fragments of various consciousnesses that now took up space in his own head.
“Melchior. He called them. He told them to send Naz here.”
“But did you ever see them actually send Naz here?” When Chandler shook his head, BC said, “I think the whole thing was a trap. Melchior’s order, Song’s call to Ruby. It was all designed to get you here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Melchior knows it’s impossible to lie to you, so he did the next best thing. He fed Ivelitsch and Song false information, figuring you’d probably end up at Song’s establishment sooner or later. The call to Ruby was just insurance. In case—oh, Jesus.”
BC jumped for the phone.
“What’s wrong?”
BC ignored Chandler. He screwed ten digits into the phone, tapping his foot impatiently as the dial scrolled back between every number.
BC swilled his drink. “Come on, Jarrell, pick up.”
“What is it?” Chandler insisted.
“Melchior must’ve suspected someone was watching him at CIA. If he finds out it was Jarrell—” He slammed the phone down, dialed another number. “May I speak with Charles—I’m sorry, with Virgil Parker?” There was a pause, and then BC’s face fell. “When did this happen?” he said, and then, “No, I don’t need to speak to anyone else. Thank you.”
“BC?” Chandler said. “What’s going on?”
“Charles Jarrell’s house burned down this afternoon.”
“He was killed?” Chandler said, and when BC nodded: “You think it was Melchior? But what’s this Jarrell fellow got to do with me or Naz?”
“Nothing.”
“Then—”
“Don’t you get it? Melchior
“You think he’s going to kill us?”
“Me? Yes. You, I don’t know. Depends on whether he still thinks he can use you.” BC’s hand trembled as he reached for his glass. “It’s my fault. Jarrell told me I compromised him by going to his house, and then I kept going.” He looked up at Chandler. “But he was my only lead to you.”
“You can’t blame yourself, BC. Melchior dragged you into this. Melchior had him killed.” When BC didn’t say anything, Chandler said, “Why’s he here anyway, if he wasn’t bringing Naz to Ruby’s club?”
“He was sent here to bring in an operative called Caspar.”
“Do you have an address for him?”
“Four, plus his work. The addresses are all in rooming houses, though, which means there are going to be other people around.”
“So?”
“Chandler, please. I know how anxious you are, but you have to be reasonable. In the first place, if we cause a disturbance, someone’s likely to call the police. And since you’re supposed to be in federal custody, that’s not going to look good—especially when they find out I’m carrying forged FBI credentials. And if Caspar’s armed, someone could get hurt.”
“I’m not worried—”
