' The sarcasm returning as the submissive Bernstein began to fade; an asshole to the end. 'And what do I do if I find him? You going to come down and get him out?'
'I had to sign papers saying I wouldn't return to Masagua for two years, you know that. Company rules. Besides, you say Balserio's men are after me. That I don't understand at all. They have no reason.' Ford listened carefully, gauging Bernstein's tone.
'Ah, shit, I don't know. Maybe I said that cause I was mad at you; overreacting. They just keep asking, that's all. Maybe they think you can help them find whatever it was that was stolen.' A little too airy; Balserio wanted him, all right. Then: 'But why you need a visa, man? Just fly into Guatemala, sneak across the border. Get in touch with me. No one has to know you're here. Not even our own people.'
Ford thought, Right, so you can have me arrested, put me in some Masaguan prison for twenty years. He said, 'That's a good idea, Buck. Maybe the best idea. We can talk about it. But first you need to locate the boy.'
'And what about that other matter—my first two weeks here? Man, that really was some shitty thing to do, I hope you know.'
'What I'm going to do right now is type up a memo on my old stationery, in triplicate. I'll postdate it, make it a week before you arrived, and say I received word Rivera's people were considering plans to intercept you, give you a powerful narcotic, then photograph you in various compromising positions, all staged, all without your knowledge or cooperation—'
'Photos? You got fucking photos, too! You one sneaky . . . careful dude, man.'
'I'll keep the pink sheet for my files, send you the blue and the white. You should put the white copy in an envelope, address it to D.C., then shove it down behind the desk or a crack or something, make sure it stays there—'
'Behind the desk?'
'If the matter ever comes up, the people in Washington are going to want to know where their copy went. Things get rough, you can have them help you look for it. They'll find it right behind the desk, a piece of lost mail. '
'Yeah—sneaky, sneaky. But what about the prints and the negatives? I want those, too.'
'I'll send the memo tomorrow, and everything else I have as soon as I get it together. Things are kind of messy around my place.'
'How long?'
Ford said, 'About as long as it takes you to get that information I need.'
He hung up wondering what Bernstein had done during his first two weeks in Masagua that had him so worried.
More improper channels: Ford got the home number of Sally Field, not the actress; the one who worked for the Operations Data Board of National Security Affairs. Sally was thirtyish, lush in a deceptive, secretarial sort of way, a dedicated government employee who had only one passion outside of her work: the bedroom. The bedroom was to her what golf or skiing were to her co-workers. She liked men, all kinds of men, but she was selective and discreet. She told Ford she'd kept a record of every man she had ever been with—in code, of course, because her men often held public office. In the diary, each man was graded in a variety of categories (Ford hadn't asked what categories) so she could look back and have fun remembering when she was old and single. 'Because I'm always going to be single,' she had told him. 'No husband could put up with my hobby.' When Ford met her, there were forty-three entries in her book. By the time she confided in him, he was already number forty-four. He had always avoided promiscuous women and probably would have avoided Sally had he known in advance. But the woman was a devotee, and Ford admired dedication wherever he happened to find it.
Sally answered—sounding sleepy, he thought. But no, she wasn't busy; he wasn't interrupting. She hoped he was calling because he was either in D.C. or on his way. 'You are one of my favorites, Doc. One of my very, very favorites. I hope you know that.'
Ford knew that. He also knew that each of the other forty-three were favorites, too. 'I'm in Florida, Sally; calling to ask a favor. A professional favor.'
Her tone changed, from sleepy to slightly severe. 'Oh, Doc,
I hope you don't. I never mix business with pleasure. Never, ever. I'm very serious about my job, you know.'
'I know that. I wouldn't ask under any other circumstances. But this is important.' Ford told her about Hollins and the missing boy, adding 'All I need you to do, Sally, is run a computer check on a few names for me. I need some background information, that's all. Anything you can come up with.'
'That's all you need?' She was relaxed again; relieved. 'I can do that on my coffee break; make it as thorough as I can, and that's as thorough as you can get. How many names?'
Ford gave her the spellings of the names and what little other information he had.
She said, 'Okay, okay,' her voice changing; her dictation voice. 'Last name T-o-m-l-i-n-s-o-n; God, I can't even pronounce his first name.'
Ford said, 'Me neither.'
'Jessica M-c capital-C-l-u-r-e; my competition, I suppose?'
'Just a friend.'
'You know, Doc, sometimes you're just a little too calculating—running background checks on friends. I don't want to sound critical, but isn't that a little compulsive—'
'Didn't you run my name through the computer, Sal? When we first met?'
'Touche; you win. You're as careful as I am—which is why the files say you were so good at your job, I guess.' Then she said, 'The first man, Mario DeArmand, sounds familiar. Should he?'
'Maybe. He's from New Jersey. The eastern seaboard area. Now he's a county sheriff in south Florida.'
'And the other names?'
'I don't know much about them. That's why I'm calling. It's possible there's something that connects them all. If there is, I need to know what. I also need to know if any of them work for our government—work for it on any level. '
'You're getting into a pretty touchy area there, Doc.'
'But with the best of motives.'
'Well, I'll do what I can. Shall I call you tomorrow or send the printout Federal Express? No, wait. Tomorrow's Sunday. I won't be in the office until Monday.'
'The sooner the better. You can give me a summary on the phone, and then we can talk about anything else you want, Sally.'
She was laughing. 'I've already told you too much, Ford. After you left that night—what was it? four years ago?—I kept asking myself why I'd told you about my little diary. I've never told anyone else about it. My God, we hardly knew each other, and I trusted you with information that—'
'Diary? Don't know what you're talking about. As in dear diary?'
'See? My instincts were right. I knew I could trust you. And Ford? I check these names for you under one condition. You have to promise to take me to dinner within the next . . . three months. No excuses.'
'By September. I promise.'
'And you never break a promise, do you?'
'I've broken several.'
'An honest man, I knew that, too. I gave you a very high mark for honesty....'
Ford made six more calls, one to New York, the rest to Everglades County, Sandy Key. He tracked down the funeral home that was to take possession of Rafe's body and found out the body would be cremated, that there was to be no funeral, but there would be a private memorial service. Rafe's older brother, Harvey, had made the arrangements. He would be flying from West Virginia tomorrow, so the service would be Monday, 1 P.M. Flowers should be ordered from Sandy Key Floral Shop.
Unless the coroner worked weekends, it didn't make sense for them to release the body so soon, so Ford called the Everglades County Medical Examiner's office and got a man who said there was no one there right now. Ford said, 'You're there.' And the man said, 'But I'm not the one to talk to.'
'I need to know if the autopsy on Rafferty Hollins has been scheduled.'
The man said, 'Hollins? It's already been done. They did it this morning, right after they brought him in. At
