“I think that’s what Rex wishes. Probably it’s just that they’re wondering why they don’t already have fingerprints for two guys like that. You can’t blame Rex for wishful thinking, though. He’s aware that he has some responsibility to protect the people who work for him, but he’s not sure how to go about it.” Stillman fell into silence and sipped his coffee.
Walker drove to Keene past New England towns like the ones Serena had described: Wilton, West Wilton, Peterborough, West Peterborough, Dublin, Marlborough. Keene was the same sort of place, but bigger and livelier. Main Street was wide and pleasant, and led up to a circle with a town hall and an eighteenth-century church with a tall steeple. Here and there along the street were buildings that had probably been here since the Revolution, but as the numbers grew higher, the buildings seemed more modern and functional. There were restaurants, stores, a movie theater.
They drove around for ten minutes, looking. Finally, Stillman said, “Well? What do you think of it?”
“It’s not all that different from little towns in Ohio,” said Walker. “A lot older, I guess. But the people don’t seem any different. It doesn’t look like the sort of place where either of those guys in Florida would choose to live.”
“True,” said Stillman. “But does it look like a place you’d drive to from New York or Boston to get your optical work done?”
25
At one o’clock they registered at a Days Inn, and Walker began to unload the bags of purchases Stillman had made in Nashua and carry them into Stillman’s room. Stillman was busy. Walker saw him open a box and take out a new video camera, remove the battery, put it into the charging unit and plug it in, then move to the next shopping bag.
Walker carried his suitcase into his own room, then returned to the Explorer. He carried Stillman’s suitcase in and lifted it to Stillman’s bed. “What’s in here, anyway?” he asked. “Did you buy a set of weights?”
“Just some electronic gear I bring along sometimes on this kind of case.”
“What kind of electronic gear?”
Stillman answered out of his distraction. “Tape recorder, voiceactuated. Listening equipment. Nightscope, an old scanner, that kind of thing.”
“Old?”
“Yeah, pre-1994.”
“Is that when everything went to hell in the electronics industry?”
“No. That’s when it got to be illegal to manufacture them to tune to eight hundred megahertz. That’s the frequency of cellular phones.”
“You bought a video camera too?”
Stillman stopped perusing the instruction booklet and held up the little camera. “Nice, isn’t it?” It was barely larger than the clenched hands that held it, and had a small screen on the back.
“What’s it for?”
Stillman set it aside. “When you’re my age, your memory goes.”
“What now?”
“Go through those bags and take out the clothes that are your size. Pick out something to wear that looks like what the people we saw on the street are wearing.” He reached into his suitcase and took out the dead man’s sunglasses. “While you’re at it, spend some time looking closely at these glasses. Memorize everything about them.”
It was just after three when Stillman knocked on Walker’s door. He was wearing a pair of jeans, a short- sleeved summer shirt, and a pair of Mephisto walking shoes. He was carrying a leather bag that was just a bit too small and thick to be a briefcase. Walker appraised him. “You look like a bank president on a trout-fishing trip.”
Stillman raised his eyebrow and moved in past him. “Then we’ll be very convincing.”
“Who are we convincing?”
“Whoever is at Foley Optical. You ready?”
“I guess so.” They stepped outside, and Walker began to move toward the parking lot.
“Leave the car,” said Stillman, and began to walk toward Main Street. “When you want to be easy to find later, the best thing you can bring is a car. We don’t.”
“Since you always lose the damned things, it’s probably just as well. What else do I need to know?”
Stillman said, “We’re going into the store. You are the customer. Your name is David Holler. You live in Los Angeles, but you’re on vacation. You forgot your sunglasses. Now, think back on what you saw when you were looking at the dead guy’s sunglasses.”
“Okay, I’m thinking.”
“Order a pair just like them.”
“I thought people don’t order them on vacations. Besides, I don’t need a prescription. My eyes are perfect.”
“That’s why you’re the customer,” he said as he reached into his pocket. “Pay for them with this.” He held out a shiny plastic card.
Walker took it, glanced at it, and saw the name and the Visa logo. “A fake credit card? I know this is your field, not mine, but why do something illegal when you don’t have to—for practice?”
“It’s not a fake credit card,” Stillman said patiently. “It’s a real credit card. The bills go to a real address, and my accountant pays them on time. David Holler has been a treasured employee of Stillman Associates for upwards of ten years. He just doesn’t happen to have a literal, biological existence. I use him now and then.” He reached into his pocket again and held out another piece of plastic.
Walker accepted it with dread. When he looked at it, he put it away even more quickly. “A driver’s license?”
“That’s not legal either, in case you were wondering. All I can say for it is that it’s not evil. Nobody’s screwing Mr. Foley’s optical store.”
“How did you even get my picture?”
“From your personnel file. I figured we might need it.”
Walker said wearily, “Who signed for our hotel room and rented the car?”
Stillman smiled. “Me: Bill Taylor.” Then he turned serious. “It’s important that you pay with the credit card. I want to see what he does with it when you do.”
“Okay,” said Walker.
They approached Foley Optical, and Stillman said, “Don’t worry about this, and don’t pay any attention to what I’m doing. Just buy yourself the right kind of sunglasses, and we’ll get what we want.”
They went inside, and Walker looked around. It seemed to be like every optician’s that he had ever seen. There were frames of all shapes and sizes on special racks attached to the walls, and every inch that wasn’t occupied by frames was a mirror. There was a low counter along the right side of the shop with seats in front of it, and the wall behind it was another big mirror. At the rear was a higher counter with a cash register and a computer, and beside that was a doorway into what seemed to be a small workshop. A tall man in late middle age with a bald head and hands that looked abnormally soft and clean came through the workshop door and smiled. “Hello. Can I help you?”
Walker said, “Yes, please. I’d like to pick out some sunglasses.”
“Do you have a prescription?”
“No,” said Walker. “I have twenty-twenty vision.”
“You’re lucky,” the man said. “Even at your age, that’s not as common as you’d think.”
“I know,” said Walker. “What I’d like is a good, sturdy set of frames. Metal with a gold tone.”
“And the lenses?”
“Dark green, but really dark, so when you look at them from the front they look almost black.”
“Let me get some frames and sample lenses to start narrowing things down.” Mr. Foley sat at his seat behind the counter where he fitted glasses and reached up under the surface, then came back with a set of keys on a big brass ring. He used one to open the lock on the case.
