Comeback

'I suppose he must be,' Parker said.

They went to the end of the white-and-gold corridor, where the suites were, and Thorsen knocked on the door that instead of a number had the word Macleod on it. After a minute, this door was opened by another muscular youngster in a suit, a clone of the one at the elevator, though Parker didn't think this one had been in the money room.

Thorsen stepped in, murmuring a word to this guy, and Parker followed. They went through a small mirrored vestibule with two doors that probably led to closets, and then entered a large six-sided room with big windows in two walls showing cityscape. Paintings hung on the rest of the walls, cream-and-green broadloom was underfoot, and the furniture was large and dark, mostly imitation antique, and placed in separate groupings, the largest cluster being the two sofas and two chairs with several tables and lamps positioned in front of the now-idle fireplace. That detail surprised Parker; he'd thought Archibald would want a fire. Maybe too distracted by the loss of his money.

The remembered plummy voice from the night of the robbery oiled the room, coming from the man himself, seated at a small desk in front of the view, talking on the telephone. He gestured at Thorsen that he wouldn't be long, and went on with his conversation. Parker listened, and Archibald seemed to be on the line with his head office back in Memphis, arranging alterations in the television schedule created by the disruption that had happened here.

'Better coffee in this place,' Thorsen said, and went over to the bar—from the doorway, it was fireplace to the left, bar to the right, Archibald on the phone straight ahead—where he filled two hotel china mugs with coffee from a glass pot on a warmer there. Parker joined him, hiking one hip onto a stool in front of the bar while Thorsen stood behind it, leaning against the back counter. The coffee was in fact much better than the stuff at the hospital.

Parker looked around. 'Nice duty,' he said.

Thorsen offered a thin smile. 'Depends what you like.'

When Archibald got off the phone, everybody moved, Archibald rising and turning his smile toward the room as though it contained multitudes, Parker getting to his feet and standing there with the coffee mug in his left hand, Thorsen coming around the end of the bar to make the introductions. 'Reverend William Archibald,' he said, as the three moved toward one another, 'may I present Mr. John Orr, an undercover insurance investigator from Midwest Insurance.'

Archibald's handshake was firm but not aggressive. 'Mr. Orr,' he said, in greeting. 'Here concerning our unfortunate loss?'

'Not exactly,' Parker said.

Thorsen said, 'Mr. Orr was on another case. He was already in pursuit of one of the fellas robbed us, for something else he did.'

Archibald smiled, with ruefulness in it. 'In that case, Mr. Orr,' he said, 'I can only regret that you didn't catch up with him last week.'

'I feel the same way,' Parker told him.

'But now you're here,' Archibald said, 'I presume you've taken our misfortune under your wing as well.'

'That would be a different insurance company,' Parker said.

Thorsen said, 'Mr. Orr's got a full plate, Will. This fella he's after is a very bad man. Just caused a ruckus down at Memorial Hospital.' His voice lowered, becoming as funereal as his boss, as he said, 'I'm afraid Tom Carmody's dead.'

That startled Archibald. 'Why, that's terrible!' Looking at Parker, he said, 'Tom was one of my failures, Mr. Orr. I'm not going to get over this.'

'Uh huh,' Parker said.

'But at least,' Archibald said, brightening, 'he expressed sorrow for his wayward ways. Toward the end, Dwayne, didn't he? You were there.'

'He was sorry, all right,' Thorsen said.

'We'll remember him in our prayers,' Archibald decided.

A blonde woman came into the room, then, from somewhere deeper in the suite, and attracted everybody's attention; which is what she would do in any room she entered. Ripe to overflowing, she was almost a parody of the sexpot, but kept under strict control, her yellow hair in a tight bun, lush body completely covered in a sexless gray suit and high-necked white blouse, and dark horn-rim glasses worn to distract from the bee-stung mouth.

Archibald's smile when he turned to greet her contained the avarice of ownership; not much question who this woman was. 'Ah, Tina,' the Reverend said. 'Come meet Mr. Orr. He leads a very exciting life.'

When she came forward, Parker could see her rein herself in, deliberately hold herself within tight bounds. Her smile was small, almost prissy, and she didn't quite meet his eye as she murmured, 'Does he? How nice.'

'Mr. John Orr,' Archibald said, presenting his proudest possession, 'Ms. Christine Mackenzie, conductor of our Angel Choir.'

'How do you do?'

Her hand was soft, with toughness within. Holding Parker's a second too long, she said, 'What about your life makes it so exciting, Mr. Orr?'

'Not much,' Parker told her.

Archibald said, 'Mr. Orr's an undercover detective, working for an insurance company.'

'Are you?' The smile opened a bit more, showed a gleam of teeth. 'You must have some stories to tell.'

'Mostly, I keep them to myself,' Parker said.

He'd been aware of the transformation of Thorsen since Christine Mackenzie had come into the room. The man