“Hell, Pudgy, they would have found that before he was released. Their inspections are...”
“Come on, Jack. He was
“You don’t think he wouldn’t have talked, being carved up like that?”
Pudgy said solemnly, “One of our medics said pain and fear could have distorted his memory functions. In other words, he went out of his noodle.”
“Cut to the chase, Pudgy.”
“The condom up his ass had a note in it, only the thing leaked... but one word was still decipherable. It said Credentials.”
“Shit.”
“So to speak. Also a number, Jack: 4428.”
“How did you connect Credentials to me, Pudge?”
“I had lunch with Davy Ross the other day and he mentioned you, and Credentials came up. Almost like an afterthought with him.”
“But not with you,” I said.
“You know old cops, Jack. That’s why I’m passing it on. Maybe you can add it up.”
“Some things are standing tall enough to leave a shadow, pal.”
“Got you.”
When I hung up I stared at the phone. There was no way I could get any information from a government agency, even if I knew which one to tap. They ran their own railroad and didn’t share the engineer’s seat with anybody else; but something big had gone down and now it was coming back up again.
Benny Orbach had stolen a shipment of atomic material. It had been offloaded before the truck was found.
The load had to be put in a specially adapted vehicle.
It would have to be stored somewhere safe. No radiation emissions.
Who would be the ultimate purchaser?
Credentials was not a storage area... What was
What did 4428 mean?
There was an ambiguous side to the death of Benny Orbach — most likely any investigators would assume that the word “Credentials” in Benny’s implant would refer to identification in a drug deal.
But cops have their own sources of information too. Mine was a library where a cheery-voiced young lady was happy to research the affair of the hijacked Army vehicle that was transporting atomic material.
It only took her a minute on the computer to run it down and she told me the value of the shipment was over five hundred million dollars.
The atomic material was never recovered and supposition was that the robbery never even happened.
Typical government subterfuge.
All this, now that my blind Bettie had dredged a deadly word from her fractured memory:
Bettie was letting her dog lick her ice cream cone when I crossed over to her porch.
I said, “That healthy, doll?”
“He won’t get sick,” she laughed.
Down the street I heard the bells from the ice cream truck. “I thought you didn’t like those fresh kids.”
“This one was new,” she told me. “Tacos didn’t even growl at him. Can I get you anything?”
“I’m fine. I came over to ask you something.”
“Oh?”
“When you were at Credentials...”
“Jack, I can’t remember those things. Sometimes I get a fuzzy picture, but I can’t make out what it is.”
“Okay. Does the number forty-four-twenty-eight mean anything to you?”
Her facial expression was blank and she shook her head. “Should it?”
“I don’t know. There’s no prefix, so it isn’t a phone number.” Then I gave it further thought and asked, “A file number?”
No use. She stared at me and shook her head.
“Listen, I have to check something out. Something out of town.”
“Kind of used to having you around, Jack.”
“Stay that way.”
And I kissed her. And she kissed me.
I don’t know if it helped her remember anything, but parts of me beside my memory bank were getting stimulated, all right.
“Why don’t we leave Tacos down here with the ice cream,” she said, “and go upstairs and... jog my memory.”
“Listen, doll — you’ve only known me since—”
“Forever.”
She took my hand and the blind led the blinded up the stairs into the bedroom. A shorts and halter top fell to the floor and she crawled up on the bed and onto her back and opened her arms and herself to me.
Forever, she’d said.
I wasn’t sure that would be long enough.
That evening I drove to the airport and left for New York. It was a direct flight and I got in early enough to go to the hospital where Ray Burnwald was being treated, identified myself to the uniformed officer at the door and he told me Burnwald was able to speak, but not for long.
When I went in Ray heard the door snick shut and opened his eyes. There was apprehension there for a moment, then the man in the hospital bed recognized me.
“I was shot,” he whispered.
He looked pale and drawn but wasn’t hooked up to an IV or any other life support. He was on the mend, all right.
I nodded. “I know.”
“I didn’t see who did it,” he added. “I don’t know why they did it, either.”
“The files that were disturbed — was there anything missing?”
“They were over twenty years old, Captain Stang. We couldn’t tell.”
“What was the nature of the files?”
He shook his head, bewildered and frustrated. “Just messages to and from our clients.”
“Standard language?”
“Sometimes coded, but that was just how they handled their business affairs. We had no knowledge of what it meant.” He smiled gently and said, “We are really just a transmission service.”
“I see. Has anyone asked for copies of those files?”
“They were over twenty years old,” Burnwald repeated.
I asked him, “Could you possibly remember who owned those files, or who had access to them?”
“Bettie... Bettie was the only one who might know... but she’s dead.”
I let the comment hang, but Burnwald didn’t notice.
Then, suddenly, he raised his hand and said, “Wait.”
I let him take his time. He was reaching back twenty years for something that had just come to him. When he finally had it in perspective he told me, “The client paid in advance. He wanted service for twenty-five years.”
“That’s a long time.”
“That’s why it made an impression. That’s why I remembered....”
“He pay by check?”
