right or wrong about Gladden, Thorson would have played it the same way. If I was right, he would have wanted to deflect me. If I was wrong, he would not have missed the opportunity to let me know.
The next thought I focused on was the possibility that I was right about Gladden and that the bureau had somehow made a mistake in dismissing him as a suspect. If this was the case, the detective in Los Angeles could be in danger and not even know it.
It took me two calls to the Los Angeles Police Department to get a number for Detective Thomas at the Hollywood Division. But when I called the number it went unanswered and kicked over to the station's front desk. The officer who answered told me Thomas was unavailable. He would not tell me why or when the detective would be available. I decided not to leave a message.
I paced the room for a few minutes after hanging up and wrestled with thoughts about what to do. I came to the same conclusion from every angle I tried. There was only one way of learning the answers to the questions I had about Gladden and I knew that was to go to Los Angeles. To go to Detective Thomas. I had nothing to lose. My stories were filed and I was off the case. I made some calls and booked the next Southwest flight from Phoenix to Burbank. The airline agent told me Burbank was just as close to Hollywood as L.A. International.
The front-desk clerk was the same man who had checked all of us in on Saturday.
'You're leaving on the fly, too, I see.'
I nodded, realizing he was talking about the FBI agents.
'Yes,' I said. 'They got a head start, though.'
He smiled.
'I saw you on TV the other night.'
At first perplexed, I then realized what he meant. The scene out at the funeral home. Me in the FBI shirt. I knew then that the clerk thought I was an FBI agent. I didn't bother to correct him.
'The boss man wasn't too happy about that,' I said.
'Well, you people must get that a lot when you swoop into town like that. Anyway, I hope you catch him.'
'Yeah, we do, too.'
He went about processing my bill. He asked if I had any room charges and I told him about the room service and the items I had taken from the bar.
'Listen,' I said. 'I guess you also have to charge me for a pillowcase. I had to buy clothes here and didn't have any luggage and…'
I held up the pillowcase in which I had packed my few belongings and he chuckled at my predicament. But figuring what to charge me caused confusion and finally he just told me it was on the house.
'I understand you people have to move quickly,' he said. 'The others didn't even have time to check out. Just blew out of town like a Texas tornado, I guess.'
'Well,' I said smiling. 'I hope they at least paid.'
'Oh, yes. Agent Backus called from the airport and said just to keep it on the credit card and send him the receipts. But that's no problem. We aim to please.'
I just looked at him, thinking. Deciding.
'I'm going to be catching up with them tonight,' I finally said. 'You want me to take the receipts?'
He looked up at me from the paperwork in front of him. I could see his hesitation. I held my hand up in a not- to-worry fashion.
'It's all right. It was just a thought. I'll see them tonight and thought it might speed things along. You know, save the postage.'
I didn't know what I was saying but I was already lacking confidence in my decision and wanted to back away.
'Well,' the clerk said, 'I don't really see the harm in it. I've got their paperwork in an envelope ready to go. I guess I can trust you as much as the mailman.'
He smiled and now I smiled back.
'The same guy signs our checks, right?'
'Uncle Sam,' he said brightly. 'Be right back.'
He disappeared into a back office and I looked around the front desk and lobby, halfway expecting Thorson and Backus and Walling to jump out from behind the columns and scream. 'See? We can't trust your kind!'
But nobody jumped out from anywhere and soon the clerk was back with a manila envelope he handed across the counter to me with my own hotel bill.
'Thanks,' I said. 'They'll appreciate it.'
'No problem,' the clerk said. 'Thank you for choosing to stay with us, Agent McEvoy.'
I nodded and shoved the envelope into my computer bag like a thief, then headed to the door.
34
The plane was climbing toward thirty thousand feet before I had a chance to open the envelope. There were several pages of bills. One itemized breakdown for each agent's room. This was what I counted on and I immediately was pulled to the bill with Thorson's name on it and began to study the phone charges.
The bill showed no calls to the Maryland area code, 301, where Warren lived. However, there was a call to the 213 area code. Los Angeles. I knew it was not inconceivable that Warren had gone to L.A. to pitch his story to his former editors. He then could have written it from there. The call had been made at 12:41 A.M. Sunday, just an hour or so after Thorson had apparently checked into the hotel in Phoenix.
After using my Visa card to pop the air phone from the seatback in front of me, I slid the credit card through and punched in the number listed on the hotel bill. The call was answered immediately by a woman who said, 'New Otani Hotel, may I help you?'
Momentarily confused, I recovered before she hung up and asked for the room of Michael Warren. I was connected but there was no answer. I realized it was too early for him to be in his room. I depressed the receiver button and called information to get the number of the Los Angeles Times. When I called that number I asked for the newsroom and then asked for Warren. I was connected.
'Warren,' I said.
It was a statement, a fact. A verdict. For Thorson as well as Warren.
'Yes, can I help you?'
He didn't know who it was.
'I just wanted to say fuck you, Warren. And to let you know, someday I'm going to write about all this and what you did is going in the book.'
I didn't know exactly what I was saying. I only knew that I felt the need to threaten him and had nothing to do it with. Only words.
'McEvoy? Is this McEvoy?' He paused to inject a sarcastic laugh. 'What book? I've already got my agent on the street with a proposal. What've you got? Huh? What've you got? Hey, Jack, do you even have an agent?'
He waited for an answer and I only had rage. I was silent.
'Yeah, I thought so,' Warren said. 'Look, Jack, you're a nice guy and all, and I'm sorry how this worked out. I really am. But I was in a jam and I just couldn't take that job anymore. This was my ticket out. I took it.'
'You fucking asshole! It was my story.'
I said it too loud. Though I was by myself in a row of three seats, a man across the aisle looked at me angrily. He was seated with an elderly woman who I guessed was his mother and who had never heard such language. I turned away toward the window. There was only blackness out there. I put my hand over my other ear so I could hear Warren 's reply above the steady thrum of the plane. His voice was low and steady.
'The story belongs to whoever writes it, Jack. Remember that. Whoever writes it, it's their story. You want to go up against me, that's fine. Then write the fuckin' story instead of calling me up and whining about it. Go ahead, kick my ass. Try it. I'm right here and I'll see you on the front page.'
Everything he had just said was dead right and I knew it the moment he said it. I felt embarrassed that I had even called, and as angry with myself as I was with Warren and Thorson. But I couldn't let it go.
'Well, don't count on getting anything from your source anymore,' I said. 'I'm going to put Thorson in the
