Scritch, scritch went the pen. As he wrote, Wilier made a sucking noise through his teeth.
'This Brother Ford a monk?'
'Novitiate.'
'What you go up there to see him about?'
'I wondered if he'd heard or seen anything related to the killing up in the Maze.' He felt terrible lying again. He began to realize that the others may have been right, that he never should have kept back the notebook. But there was that damn promise.
'And had he?'
'No.'
'Nothing at all?'
'Nothing at all. He didn't even know about it. He doesn't read the newspapers.' If the cops went to see Ford, Tom wondered if he would lie about the notebook. It seemed most unlikely-he was, after all, a monk.
Wilier rose. 'You going to stick around here for a while? Case we need to talk to you again?'
'I don't have any traveling plans at the present time.'
Wilier nodded again, glanced at Sally. 'Sorry, ma'am, for the interruption.'
'Don't ma'am me,' said Sally sharply.
'No offense intended, Mrs. Broadbent.' He turned to the M.E. 'Got what you needed?'
'Yes.'
Tom saw them to the door. As he was leaving, Wilier paused, his black eyes fixed on Tom. 'Lying to a police officer is obstruction of justice-a felony.'
'I'm aware of that.'
Wilier turned and left. Tom watched them drive out, then came back in and shut the door. Sally was standing in the living room, arms crossed. 'Tom-'
'Don't say it.'
'I am going to say it. You're sinking in quicksand. You've got to give them the notebook.'
'Too late now.'
'No it isn't. You can explain. They'll understand.'
'The hell they will. And how many times do I have to repeat it? / made a. promise'
She sighed, uncrossed her arms. 'Tom, why are you so stubborn?'
'And you're not?'
Sally flopped down on the sofa next to him. 'You're impossible.'
He put his arm around her. 'I'm sorry, but would you have me any other way?'
'I suppose not.' She sighed. 'On top of all this, when I came home this afternoon, I got the feeling that someone had been in the house.'
'How so?' Tom said, alarmed.
'I don't know. Nothing was stolen or moved. It was just a creepy feeling-like I could smell some stranger's B.O.'
'You sure?'
'No.'
'We should report it.'
'Tom, you report a break-in and Wilier will be all over you. Anyway, I'm not sure at all-it was just a feeling.'
Tom thought for a moment. 'Sally, this is serious. We already know the treasure is worth killing for. I'd feel better if you broke out that Smith & Wesson of yours and kept it handy.'
'I wouldn't go that far, Tom. I'd feel silly walking around with a gun.'
'Humor me. You're lethal with a gun-you proved that in Honduras.'
Sally rose, slid open a drawer under the phone, took out a key, and went to unlock a cabinet in the den. A moment later she came back with the gun and a box of .38 cartridges. She opened the cylinder, pushed five rounds into the chambers, snapped it shut, snugged it into the front pocket of her jeans. 'Satisfied?'
19
JIM MADDOX HANDED the car keys and a five-dollar bill to the pimply-faced attendant at the curb and walked into the lobby of the El Dorado Hotel, his new Lucchesi snakeskin boots making a pleasing creaking sound. He paused to look around, giving his jacket a little tug. On one side of the large room was a roaring fire, and on the other an old faggot sat at a grand piano, playing 'Misty.' At the far end stood a bar done up in blond wood.
He sauntered over to the bar, hung his laptop on the back of the chair, eased himself in.
'Coffee. Black.'
The bartender nodded, returned with a cup and a bowl of spicy peanuts.
He took a sip. 'Say, this is a bit stale, think you could manage a fresh pot?'
'Of course, sir. My apologies.' The bartender whisked away the cup, disappeared in the back.
Maddox dipped his fingers into the peanuts, tossed a few in his mouth, watched the people coming and going. They all looked like him, dressed in Polo shirts and sports jackets and nice corduroy or worsted slacks, people who lived their lives on the straight and narrow, two cars in the garage, two point four kids, living off corporate paychecks. He leaned back, tossed in a few more, and bit down. Funny how many attractive middle-aged women- like that one crossing the lobby with the tan slacks and sweater and pearls with her little black handbag-went all wobbly thinking about a tattooed, pumped-up, prison Jeff doing hard time for rape, murder, or assault. He had a lot of work to do tonight, at least twenty new cons to write up and post. Some of the letters were so illiterate he had to make it all up from scratch. No matter: the subscriptions were still
rolling in, the demand for cons growing steadily. It was the easiest money he'd ever made in his life, and what amazed him was that it was legal, all of it handled by credit card through an Internet billing company; they took their cut and the rest was wired to his bank account.
If he'd known how easy it was to make money honestly, he could've saved himself a shitload of grief.
He crunched up a few more peanuts and pushed away the dish, mindful of his waistline, as the bartender arrived with a fresh cup. 'Sorry it took so long, and my apologies again.'
'No problem.' He sipped the coffee-very fresh. 'Thanks.'
'You're welcome, sir.'
Weed Maddox turned his thoughts to the problem at hand. The notebook wasn't in the house. That meant that Broadbent either had it on him or had hidden it off-site, maybe in a safe-deposit box. Wherever it was, Maddox knew he wasn't going to get it now by theft. He felt a swelling of irritation. Broadbent was up to his ass in it in one way or another. Maybe as a rival-maybe even as Weathers's partner.
Maddox could almost hear Corvus's Brit voice ringing in his head-The note book. There was only one way: he had to force Broadbent to give it up. What he needed was leverage.
What he needed was her.
'First time in Santa Fe?' the bartender asked, breaking into his thoughts.
'Yeah.'
'Business?'
'What else?' Maddox grinned.
'Are you here for the laproscopic surgery conference?'
Christ, he probably did look like a doctor. A Connecticut doctor on a medical junket, all expenses paid by some pharmaceutical giant. If only the bartender could see the tattoo that covered his back from nape to butt. He'd shit his
pants
'No,' said Maddox pleasantly, 'I'm in human resources.'
20
THE E-MAIL TOM received the next morning went:
Tom,
I 'deciphered' the journal. You are not going to believe this. I repeat: you are not going to believe this. Come
