were used; they could have been done for practical jokes days before the murder. Just tell the police about them.“
“I already told you the police aren't listening.“
We squabbled about it for a few minutes. We would probably have escalated to a full-scale argument, except his signal started fading slightly, and I decided it would be better for all concerned if I pretended we'd been cut off completely. When Michael tried to call back, I turned my cell phone off and left it off for an hour.
I fumed. And then something struck me. I pulled out the tote bag and extracted my copy of Ted's blackmail list.
“Of course,“ I muttered. Jack said he'd told Ted to go to hell. Which was exactly what Ted had written beside the name Professor Higgins on his sheet.
“And if Jack's Professor Higgins, he's not the Ninja.“
But it would take more than a copy of the soundtrack of
While I had the bag out, I fished out the legal documents that had been in the cache. As I now suspected, they were copies of the agreement the disgruntled Eugene Mason had signed on joining Mutant Wizards, and the yet-unsigned exit agreement. Had Ted stolen Mason's copy? Suspicious, but slim grounds for murder.
I was still fuming when Doc showed up again around lunch-time, bearing his black vet's bag and a bag of soy burger bribes.
“Come to see Katy?“ I asked.
“Yes, please,“ he said.
Rico didn't answer when I called his office, so I flipped the phone into night mode and went looking for him.
“That's odd,“ Rico said when I finally tracked him down in Frankie's cube. “He didn't mention needing to see her again.“
“You know Doc, always worrying about his patients,“ Frankie said, looking up from the computer he and Rico had been assembling. Or disassembling – it was hard to tell which. For all I knew, perhaps they were creating an abstract sculpture.
“Katy's down in the conference room,“ Rico said. “I'll bring her out.“
When I got back to the reception room, I found that Doc had grabbed George's perch and had dragged it out into the middle of the room.
“Doc,“ I said. “What on Earth are you doing?“
“I am liberating this poor downtrodden symbol of our country's national bird!“ Doc shouted.
“You must have flunked your ornithology classes at veterinary school,“ I said. “Or maybe you're having a flashback to a previous animal liberation adventure. He's a buzzard, not an eagle.“
Doc glanced at George, who hunched his neck and looked unmistakably buzzardish.
“This poor, downtrodden symbol of… of our society's callous insensitivity to the environment,“ Doc corrected. He took a deep breath, ready to continue orating, but he made the mistake of taking it too near George and began gagging.
“Just leave George alone,“ I said over the coughing. “I don't think he wants to be liberated.“
“You'd be surprised how quickly wild animals learn to fend for themselves again,“ Doc wheezed. “His hunting skills will return to him when he returns to his native habitat.“
“Buzzards don't hunt; they eat carrion,“ I pointed out. “Besides. George only has one – “
“He'll learn to find his own carrion, then,“ Doc said, beginning to sound a little irritated. He grabbed George's perch and began dragging it again. Now I realized that he was heading toward the window at the other side of the room.
“You're crazy.“ I said as I headed for the switchboard to call the police. Giving Doc and George a wide berth, of course.
“Here you go, George!“ Doc shouted, flinging open the window and setting the perch upright again beside it. “Independence Day!“
George, who had been scrambling to keep his grip on the moving perch, greeted the outdoor air with as much enthusiasm as if Doc had tried to stick him in an oven. Which, considering that the temperature outside was again in the high nineties, wasn't too far from the truth. George gave an angry squawk and began sidling away from the window.
“You see, he doesn't want to return to nature,“ I said.
“He's been corrupted by civilization,“ Doc said. “We must push him out of the nest.“
With that, he tipped the perch so it slanted rather steeply toward the window. George shrieked in terror.
“Stop that, this instant!“ I ordered as I rushed over and tried to set the perch level again.
“Fly free, little bird!“ Doc shouted, shaking the perch.
“He can't fly free, for heaven's sake,“ I exclaimed. “He's got only one wing.“
Doc gaped at George, whose lopsided condition was now obvious – he was flapping his single wing wildly, trying to regain his balance, but unsuccessfully – he was sliding inexorably toward the open window.
“Oh, my God!“ Doc exclaimed. After gaping for a few moments, he lunged out and grabbed George just as the buzzard's first foot slipped off the end of the perch. George, not surprisingly, interpreted Doc's lunge as an attack. He lashed out with beak and claws and then vomited on Doc. When the squawking died down and the blood, feathers, and other things stopped flying, George and Doc were sulking in separate corners, nursing their wounds and glowering at each other.
“Doc,“ I said. “If you really want to find George a better home, I'm all for it. He doesn't belong in a reception room. I'm sure there are places that take wounded birds of prey and try to help them lead the most normal lives possible. Come back and tell me you've gotten George a berth at one of those places, and I'll help you carry him out. But until then, leave him alone.“
“Should I dress his wounds?“ Doc asked.
We both looked at George, who fluffed his feathers out, bobbed his head, and shrieked.
“You can try, if you like,“ I said.
Doc limped out. I considered and discarded the idea of moving George back to his original corner. He was a little in the way, but I figured he wouldn't appreciate moving again right now. I cleaned up the reception room as well as I could, removed the old newspapers, and spread out a new set beneath George's stand.
By this time I calmed down and felt bad about hanging up on Michael. But now, of course, he wasn't answering his cell phone. Chill, I told myself. He's probably on the set, with it turned off. I'd catch up with him sooner or later, and make peace. And maybe it was better if I didn't until, say, tomorrow – when I would already have made my final late-night visit to the office and wouldn't be lying when I promised never to do it again.
About two o'clock, a call came through the switchboard that made me do a double take. A rather officious secretary asked to talk to Dr. Lorelei Gruber and, when I told her the doctor was out, left not only her boss's name and number but also their firm name. A law firm whose name sounded familiar, probably from when I was looking up numbers for the attorneys Rob recommended. I pulled out the yellow pages to check.
Yes, there it was. Savage and Associates, divorce attorneys. The wonderful aptness of the name for a lawyer specializing in divorces had made it stick in my mind.
Was Dr. Lorelei, the self-proclaimed expert on relationships, looking for a divorce?
Of course, there could be some perfectly innocent reason for a divorce attorney to call her. Perhaps he referred clients to her, clients who had some hope of reconciliation. Perhaps he was her client – even divorce
