Dillon Savich had big hands and large, blunt fingers. Quinlan watched those unlikely fingers race over the computer keys. Dillon hit a final key and nodded in satisfaction. 'There's just something about computers,' he said over his shoulder to Quinlan. “They never give you shit, they never contradict you.
You tell 'em what to do in simple language and they do it.'
'They don't love you, either.'
'In their way they do. They're so clean, Quinlan. Now, if she uses one of your credit cards and there's no check, then I've got her within eighteen hours. It's not the best, but it'll have to do.'
'She might have to use a credit card, but she'll keep it below fifty dollars. She's not stupid. Did you know she won a statewide contest for a paper she wrote about how much credit card crooks cost the American public? You'd better believe she knows she's bought eighteen hours, and she might figure that's just enough, thank you.'
“How do you know that? Surely you had other things to talk about with her? Jesus, you had two murders in that damned little picturesque town, and the two of you found both bodies. Surely that's enough fodder for conversation for at least three hours.'
'When I was in her bedroom I saw that the walls are loaded with awards for papers, short stories, essays, all sorts of stuff that she wrote. That credit card essay was one of them. She must have been all of sixteen when she wrote it.'
'So she's a good writer, even a talented writer. She's still a rank amateur. She's scared. She doesn't know what to do. Everyone is after her, and we're probably the best-meaning of the lot, but it didn't matter to her. She still poked your own gun in your belly.'
'Don't whine. She has around three hundred dollars in cash. That's not going to take her far. On the other hand, she got all the way across the country on next to no money at all riding a Greyhound bus.'
'You don't keep your PIN number in your wallet, do you?'
'No.'
'Good. Then she can't get out any more cash in your name.'
Quinlan sat down in a swivel chair beside Dillon's. He steepled his fingers and tapped the fingertips together rhythmically. 'There's something she said, Dillon, something that nearly tore my guts apart, something about no one she'd been around cared about anybody but himself. I think she trusted me so quickly because something inside her desperately needs to be reaffirmed.'
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'You're sounding like a shrink.'
'No, listen. She's scared just like you said, but she needs someone to believe her and care about what happens to her, someone to accept that she isn't crazy, someone simply to believe her, without reservation, without hesitation.
'She thought I did, and she was right, only, you know the answer to that. She was locked up in that place for six months. Everyone told her she was nuts. She needs trust, complete unquestioning trust.'
'So who the hell would give her unconditional trust? Her mother? I can't believe that, even though Sally went
to see her first. There's something weird going on with Mrs. St. John. Sure as hell not her husband, Scott Brai- nerd, although I'd like to meet the guy, maybe rearrange his face a bit.'
Quinlan got out her file. 'Let's see about friends.'
He read quietly for a very long time while Dillon put all systems in place to kick in whenever Sally used one of the credit cards.
'Interesting,' Quinlan said, leaning back and rubbing his eyes. 'She had several very good women friends, most of them associated with Congress. Then after she married Scott Brainerd, the friends seemed to fade away over the period before Daddy committed her to Beader-meyer's charming resort.'
'That cuts things down, but it doesn't help us. You don't think she'd go to her husband, do you? I can't imagine it, but-'
'No way in hell.'
There was a flash and a beep on the computer screen. 'Well, I'll be swiggered,' Dillon said, rubbing his hands together. He punched in several numbers and added two more commands.
'She used a credit card for gas. The amount is just $22.50, but it's their policy to check all credit cards, regardless of the amount. She's in Delaware, Quinlan, just outside of Wilmington. Hot damn.'
'Wilmington isn't that far from Philadelphia.'
'It isn't that far from anywhere, except maybe Cleveland.'
'No, that's not what I meant. Her grandparents live on the Main Line just outside of Philadelphia. Real ritzy section. Street name's Fisher's Road.'
'Fisher's Road? Doesn't sound ritzy.'
'Don't let the name fool you. I have a feeling Fisher's Road will wind up being one of those streets with big stone mansions set back a good hundred feet from the road. Gates too, I'll bet.'
'We'll see soon enough. It's her mother's parents who live there. Their name is Harrison. Mr. and Mrs.
Franklin Oglivee Harrison.'
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'I don't suppose Mrs. Harrison has a name?' 'Nah, if the guy is rich and old, that's the way they do it.
I've wondered if sometimes they just make up that highbrow middle name for effect.'
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