Blood Hunt

“Christ, I hope he doesn’t remember. He’s been to my apartment!”

“Don’t fret, Eddie. Has he been into the office?”

“No, and nothing from the bugs in Dulwater’s office either, except that whoever he shares the space with has a flatulence problem.”

“Allerdyce hasn’t tried contacting Dulwater?”

“Well, he’s made some calls and not gotten an answer; maybe he’s been trying to catch him.”

“And he hasn’t contacted the police?”

Duhart clucked. “No, sir, no cops.”

“Which tells you something.”

“Yeah, it tells me a man like Jeffrey Allerdyce doesn’t need cops. He knows someone broke into his house last night; it won’t be long before he gets a gang in to sweep for clues. They’ll find the bugs.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“How are you doing anyway?”

“Fine.”

“Where are you?”

“Best you don’t know. Remember, if… when the bugs are found, I want you to lie low, okay? That’s the point at which you drop the investigation.”

“Yeah, you said.”

“I mean it. Allerdyce will be cagier than ever. He’ll know he’s being watched. Just step back and leave it alone.”

“And then what?”

“Wait for me to get back to you. You’ve got other clients, right? Other cases you could be working on?”

“Sure, but I could work till I was a hundred and seventy, I’d never get another case like this. Hey, what if I need to contact you?”

“I’ll phone twice a day, morning and evening.”

“Yeah, but-”

Reeve broke the connection. He wasn’t sure he’d ever call Duhart again.

There was a low late-afternoon sun beaming in on downtown San Diego, casting shadows between the blocks and lighting the windows of the buildings. The streets were busy with shoppers on their way home, standing sag- shouldered at bus and trolley stops. No office workers-this was the weekend. Reeve had an espresso in a coffee shop right across the street from the Co-World Chemicals building. There was an office-supply store next door to the coffee shop. It sold computers and other machines, plus mobile communications equipment. A cheap sign in the window said that it rented, too.

Reeve had rented a cellular phone. It wasn’t much bigger than the palm of his hand. He’d put it on his credit card and handed over some cash as a deposit. The man in the store hadn’t been too bothered about Reeve’s lack of credentials. Maybe that was because he dealt with a lot of foreign business. Maybe it was because he knew he could always cancel Reeve’s personal cell phone number, negating the little black telephone altogether. Hookup to the system was immediate.

So Reeve sat in the coffee shop and punched in some numbers. He tried Eddie Cantona’s home first, but there was no answer. With the coffee shop’s phone book in front of him on the window-length counter, he tried a couple of the bars Cantona had said he used. At the second bar, whoever had answered the call growled Cantona’s name. Eddie Cantona picked up the telephone.

“Hello?” It sounded like he’d said “yellow.”

“So they let you out?”

Cantona sucked in breath, and his voice dropped to a mumble. “Soon as you left town. That nice detective said I could go, but not to go talking to strange men anymore.”

“This was Mike McCluskey?”

“The same. Where the fuck are you?”

“You think anyone’s keeping tabs on you?”

“Well, hell, it wouldn’t be hard. I only knew you a coupla days first time around, and how long did it take you to find me?”

“Three calls. This is the third.”

“There you go. I got to tell you, Gordon, I’ve been drinking steadily and seriously for some days now. My excuse is that it’s in memory of Jim-a one-man movable wake. But maybe it’s because I took a jolt myself.”

“I don’t want to get you mixed up in anything. I just want to hire you for a day or so.”

“Oh, is that all?” Cantona said, slipshop voice full of sarcasm. “Maybe you didn’t hear what I just said.”

“I heard.”

The voice dropped low again. “I was scared back there, Mr. Reeve.”

“I’m not asking you to do anything dangerous.” Reeve had his free hand cupped around his mouth and the mouthpiece. Nobody in the coffee shop seemed interested in him; they were buying takeout cups for the walk to the bus stop. Traffic rumbled past, and the air-conditioning rattled like teeth in a glass. Reeve was in no danger of being overheard. “I just want you to sit in a coffee shop for a while. I want you to keep watch. If you see a man answering the description I give you, call me. That’s it.”

“You want me to follow him?”

“Nope.”

“You just want to know when he leaves this building?” Cantona sounded far from convinced.

“Well, I’d rather know when he goes in. Come on, who else in this town can I trust? The only danger you’d be in is from caffeine poisoning, and they do a great decaf espresso here.”

“No liquor license?”

“No liquor license. Hey, I’d want you sober.”

“I don’t work drunk!”

“Okay, okay. Listen, what do you say?”

“Can we meet? Maybe talk about it over a beer?”

“You know that’s not a good idea.”

“In case they’re watching me, right?”

“Watching you or watching me. Safer if we don’t meet.”

“You’re right. Okay, let’s give it a stab.”

This would not have been Reeve’s favored choice of words.

He gave the details over the phone to Cantona-once Cantona had located some paper and a pen that worked. He told Cantona the address of the coffee shop, gave him its opening hours, and then described Kosigin, closing his eyes and picturing the photographs in Allerdyce’s file. On the off chance, he described Jay, too. Finally, he gave Cantona his mobile number, and checked for him-Cantona was sobering fast-not only that there was a public pay phone in the coffee shop, but that it was working, too.

“Oh-seven-thirty hours,” Cantona said. “I’ll be in position. Guess I’d better go home now and dry out.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, you’d do the same for me, right?”

Reeve wasn’t sure about that. His next call was to the San Diego Police Department. McCluskey wasn’t in the office, and they said they couldn’t patch any calls through to him.

“Well, can you get a message to him? He’ll want to hear it, believe me.”

“Go ahead, I’ll see what I can do.” The woman had a high, whining voice, utterly without personality.

“Tell him Gordon Reeve would like to speak to him.” He spelled his surname for her. It took three goes. “I’ll keep trying.”

“Sure.”

“Thank you very much.”

The young woman in charge of the coffee shop was relieved by the next shift. She seemed furious about something, maybe the fact that she’d been working on her own and they’d been really busy. Two people her own age-one male, one female-took her place, and soon had a rhythm going. One of them took the orders and the money, the other worked the machine. When the line had been served, the female walked over to Reeve with a