“How about the items in question?” says Harry. He means Katia’s camera and the pictures from Colombia.
“Give us time. We just got here.”
“You said less than a week and you’d be back,” says Harry.
“I said I would try.”
“Did you call her mother’s cell phone?” I ask him.
“I did. I called twice this afternoon. I couldn’t understand the Spanish message, but it was the same as all the other times when I called. The message came on after one ring, which I am guessing means the phone is turned off. I’d say she’s not there. Where are you? It sounds like a party,” says Harry.
“I’m in the bar downstairs at the hotel.”
“I thought so. You owe me a vacation when you get back,” he says. “By the way, I’ve run into a snag with the nurse you wanted to hire. The hospital says the doctor’s fine, but they’re not sure about the nurse. They’re worried about liability. They say if she screws up and the patient suffers, they’re afraid the hospital may be on the hook.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them the nurse is just gonna hold Katia’s hand, talk to her in Spanish, and maybe slap the marshal once in a while. I promised them that she wouldn’t be dishing up any meds or doing any surgery, at least not right away.”
“And what did they say?”
“What does any hospital say? They have to check with the administrator who in turn will call the local legal brain trust, which means that by noon tomorrow we’ll be told that the nurse is out.”
“Stop with the negative brain waves,” I tell him. “We could always dress her up in civilian clothes and call her a relative. If the nurse won’t do it, we can find a Spanish-speaking female PI. We just want a warm body in the room, somebody to keep an eye on Katia.”
“Three shifts a day?” says Harry. “That’s a lot of relatives for somebody who’s in the country on a visa.”
“Yeah, well, it is Southern California, and we are only ten minutes from the border.”
“If I listen to you, Rhytag’s gonna have half the local nurses’ registry on ice with immigration within a week. Let me think about it,” says Harry.
“Where are you right now?” I ask.
“If you really want to know, I’m in my backyard standing under a tree in my underwear.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was. I tried to call you twice. Your phone was turned off. I was on the john when you called. I thought it best that I step outside since half the federal workforce is listening in every time I pass gas or flush the toilet.”
I tell him about the rooms being wired and the attempt by the feds to grab the phone at the airport.
“Don’t change the subject,” says Harry. “You’re still the one down there in a bar with all the squealing voices in the background, while I’m standing around my yard in boxer shorts.”
“I’m just telling you to keep an eye on your cell phone. They’ll snatch it if they can.”
“At the moment it’s tied to a string around my naked neck,” he says. “You know, the thought has crossed my mind that for the moment at least, I don’t need your help to send Rhytag up the flagpole. All I have to do is sit in the conference room and let them listen to one half of an encrypted telephone conversation. And I don’t need a phone to do it.”
“I understand. You’re not happy. I owe you big-time when I get back.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” he says. “I’m not trying to put any pressure on you. It’s just that if you’re not back here by next Tuesday, the FBI’s gonna be digging up your backyard with a backhoe looking for Nitikin’s bones in the barrel right next to the one holding Jimmy Hoffa. So if you treasure your tulips, you’ll be here.”
“What you’re saying is, don’t waste my time talking on the phone.”
“Right.”
“It’s been fun. Let’s do it again tomorrow night, same time, same place. Wear clothes,” I tell him.
“Leave your phone on,” says Harry.
I punch the button and the line goes dead. The last thing we need is a ringing telephone in the air-conditioning duct over Herman’s bed.
We finish dinner and trek back toward our rooms.
“Be sure and bring your set of picks.”
“Already got ’em,” says Herman. “In my pocket.”
“Ten o’clock sharp. Let’s put the phone back behind the register just in case we run into problems. It’ll be safer there.”
We split up just outside the door to my room. I kill twenty minutes running an empty shower, then leave the noise from the television on until nine thirty, when I turn off the lights and sit in the dark in the chair against the window, the curtains drawn. Every few minutes I check to see if there are any new vehicles parked on the small lane at the back of the hotel. I can see only part of the road, but there is almost no traffic on the narrow stretch of pavement that flanks the zoo. I hear a faint scratch like fingernails brushing the other side of the door to my room. I check my watch. It’s ten o’clock on the dot.
With my running shoes in one hand, I cross the hardwood floor in stocking feet and quietly turn the dead bolt, opening the door. Herman is outside in the hall, his back against the wall, leaning over tying the laces on his shoes.
I silently close the door behind me and join him against the wall, slipping the shoes on my feet.
Neither of us utters a word until we pass through the bar, go down the stairs toward the service area, and are out the door onto the street that borders the zoo.
Herman uses a small piece of duct tape to hold back the spring-loaded bolt on the lock, and then tapes a few thicker pieces onto the edge of the door to wedge it closed. He will have to use a knife to pry it open on the way back. The thick green wooden door has no handle on the outside.
We start to hoof it down the street.
“I hope you know where you’re going,” said Herman.
“I think I can find it.”
The written description given to me by Katia used the name of a local hospital three blocks away, Hospital Calderon Guardia, as the principal point of reference for finding houses or businesses in the area. The directions would lead you to the street where the house was located. Then it would describe the residence with particularity, such as “
Half a block down, along the fence bordering the zoo, the thick overhead canopy of trees turned the lane into a dark tomb. By now the last streetlight is well behind us, above the green wooden door to the lodge. Ahead is nothing but blackness and the exotic sounds of the bush beyond the fence off to our left. Suddenly there is a guttural, low growl that is unmistakable, and not far off.
“When the woman at the counter said it wasn’t safe to walk at night, I thought she was talkin’ about the locals.” Herman is laughing. “Not some lion who’s gonna be pickin’ his teeth with my tibia because we took a wrong turn at the zoo.”
“Let’s hope he’s on the other side of the fence.”
Herman pulls a Mini Maglite from his pocket, twists the lens, and gives us a narrow beam of light on the pavement so we don’t break our necks.
“You think the light’s gonna scare him?”
“I hear they’re afraid of fire,” he says.
“Fire is a match. He’d swallow that like a Twinkie.”
“I’m not scared,” says Herman. “All I have to do is outrun you.”
“You can’t fool me. I saw your dinner-two steaks and four eggs. If that poor thing is out on the road, we both know who’s gonna get eaten and it won’t be me. All I want is the fur for the floor in front of my fireplace,” I tell him.
“Here we are arguing and it’s the FBI who’s in trouble,” he says. “How are they gonna explain how the two
