Her sense of timing couldn’t have been better: I felt the tingle of her words all the way to my toes. Without taking her eyes from mine, she reached into her bag and took out a card. “Both my numbers are here if you decide you’d like to talk. Anytime, all off the record. If not, have a nice flight to Taos.”
She got up and walked out.
12
Who was Slater? The question lingered through the night.
Why was I here?
In my mind I saw him working his scam, dancing his way into my life with that cock-and-bull story about him and me and our brilliant future together. I watched again as he spread open that paper, where someone had written the particulars of Grayson’s
But it didn’t matter now, did it? I was under a court order, and I had to play according to Hoyle.
I sat up late reading a bad novel. I watched some bad TV. At three o’clock in the morning I sat at my window and looked down into the rainy Seattle street.
But I couldn’t forget Trish Aandahl, or that parting shot she had given me.
I called the first travel agency that opened at seven-thirty and told them to get me to Taos with a fellow traveler ASAP. It was a heavy travel day. United had two flights that would put us in Albuquerque early and late that afternoon. From there I could rent a car or hook up with a local airline that would jump us into Taos. But both flights were packed. The agent could squeeze us in, but our seats would be separated by the length of the plane. The next viable flight was a red-eye special, leaving Sea-Tac at 11:18 p.m., arriving in Albuquerque at 2:51 a.m., mountain time. I took the red-eye, told the agent to deliver the tickets to the Hilton, and put the tariff on my charge card. The tickets were $800 each, typical airline piracy for last-minute bookings. I sucked it up and hoped to God I could get some of it back from the good people of New Mexico.
Then I called Slater and got my first surprise of a long and surprising day.
“Mr. Slater’s not available,” said his woman in Denver.
“When will he be available?”
“I’m not sure. He will be calling in. Who is this, please?”
“My name’s Janeway. I’ve been working a case for him. Something’s come up and I need to talk to him.”
I heard her shuffling through some papers. “I’m afraid I don’t know you.”
“Then I must not exist. I’ll bet if you tell him I’m here, though, he’ll talk to me anyway.”
I heard a spinning sound, like a roulette wheel in Vegas. “Everyone who works for us is in this Rolodex. Your name’s not here.”
“Then it’s Slater’s loss. Give him a message, tell him I tried.”
“Wait a minute.”
I heard her talking to someone, but her hand had covered the phone and I couldn’t make out the words.
“I could maybe have him call you back.”
“Won’t work. I’m heading out in about five minutes.”
“Hold, please.” She punched the hold button: elevator music filled my ear.
There was a click. Another woman said, “Mr. Janeway?…I’m sorry for the hassle. It’s just that we don’t know you and Mr. Slater’s out of town.”
“How could he be out of town? He hired me because he didn’t have time to go out of town. Where’s he gone?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that. I guess I’ll have to take a message.”
“Tell him Janeway called, I’ve got the girl and I’m taking her on to Taos myself.”
“Is that what he wanted you to do?”
“It doesn’t matter what he wanted me to do. Tell him I’m not working for him anymore.”
I sat on my bed feeling the first faint gnawing of a mighty hunch.
I placed another call to Denver.
“U.S. West.”
“Howard Farrell, please.”
