skittish, looked like she was ready to jump out of her skin at any moment. Every once in a while she'd squint and shake her head a little, like she might have some kind of nervous disorder. The blonde did all the talking, asked all the questions, and every now and then she'd glance over at the one with the big eyes, and the kid would nod. Then the blonde would start asking questions again. It was kind of bizarre, and to tell you the truth, I was sorry I'd let them into my office without having my secretary first make some calls to check on the shrink's credentials. You had to have been there. They both made me nervous right off the bat. I'm kind of an easygoing guy, but I think I'm going to have to start being more careful about salesmen, or anybody else, I let just walk in here. Sometimes I forget what I'm worth, and one day I'm liable to find a gun in my face.'
'What kinds of questions did the blonde ask?'
'Well, she began by changing her story right off the bat. She showed me a capsule just like that one over on the table, and she asked me the same question you did-if I knew who'd made it. She said it came from a bad batch of drugs the manufacturer had supplied to some mental health clinic in the city. People were getting sick from the drug. Records had been misplaced, and nobody could identify the supplier, so she was working with one of the city's mental health agencies to track down the manufacturer. Well, the story was preposterous. The city keeps multiple records of all its pharmaceuticals suppliers, and if there really had been some kind of emergency involving a tainted drug, I would have been visited by somebody with a badge who wouldn't have had to lie his or her way into my office.'
'Did you tell her you didn't believe her story?'
'Nope. I wasn't about to confront two strange women who might turn out to be drug addicts or loonies. Besides, I could see she was afraid-both of them looked scared. And I did believe her when she said it was very important, at least to her, that she find the manufacturer. She said it was a matter of life and death, just like you did. She also said she didn't have much time. By now she was almost pleading, and she actually had tears in her eyes. She said she'd already made inquiries at a couple of dozen other companies, and nobody had been able to help her. Anyway, I'd never seen a capsule like that one, with no markings whatsoever, and I was kind of curious myself. I told her Lorminix didn't make the drug, whatever it was, which was the truth; or at least I thought so at the time. Then she asked-virtually begged-for my help, asked if I would make inquiries for her. She said she couldn't give me the capsule itself, but she'd made enlarged color photographs of it, and she wanted to leave one with me. By that time all I wanted was to get the two of them out of my office, so I took the photograph and told her I'd look into it.'
'How were you supposed to contact her if you found out anything?'
'I was supposed to call her. She wrote down a phone number on the back of the photograph.'
'Peter, I need to contact those women. Do you still have the photograph?'
'Sure,' he said, frowning slightly and looking around him. 'Let's see now, where did I put it?'
'Think hard, Peter. It would be most useful to me.'
He bent down out of sight behind his desk, and I heard him open a drawer and begin to rummage through it. Then I heard that drawer close, another open. I stood in front of the desk, a frozen smile on my face, fighting my impatience.
'I was so happy to see them leave, I wasn't really thinking when I put away the photo,' Peter said, his voice slightly muffled by the mass of oak between us. 'I know it's around here someplace. Just give me a minute.'
'When I asked you before what sons of bitches you were referring to, you said it was the pinstriped pricks in Switzerland.'
'That's right,' the muffled voice replied. 'Those arrogant bastards treat me like I was a piece of shit.'
'Your people in Berne know about this?'
Now he surfaced, empty-handed, looked around the cavernous office and scratched his head, absently tugged on his hoop earring. 'Yeah. Sure, I was glad to get rid of them. But I was still curious, and I'd been struck by how desperate they'd seemed. It occurred to me that some of the woman's story, the part about people being in danger from the drug, might be on the level. There are a number of pharmaceuticals companies in Europe who don't do a lot of business in the United States and don't have offices here, so I figured it couldn't hurt to check with the pricks in Berne to see if they recognized the capsule, could tell me what kind of medication it contained, and might know who made the stuff. I faxed them a message about my little meeting along with a copy of the photograph. Usually it takes them about a week to respond to anything I send them, but this time I got a return fax in under five minutes. I was ordered to destroy the photograph, and fax them the phone number I'd been given, along with any other information I had on the women. Then I was supposed to forget about the whole thing; I was ordered not to discuss the matter with anyone. Like I said, fuck them. If there are people in trouble because of this stuff, I want to help.'
'Peter,' I said, gripping the edge of the desk. 'I know you disobeyed the order to destroy the photograph, because you said it's still around the office someplace. Did you fax them the telephone number the woman gave you?'
There must have been considerable tension in my voice, because he looked at me with a puzzled, somewhat defensive expression on his face, then averted his gaze. 'Yeah. I've gotten kind of used to doing most of what I'm asked.'
I reached across the desk and snatched the telephone virtually from under his nose, picked up the receiver, and started to dial my office number. 'I need to use your phone, Peter. Just keep looking for the photograph. Take your time; concentrate on trying to remember where you might have put it.'
My secretary answered in the middle of the third ring. 'Frederickson and Frederickson.'
'Francisco,' I said, watching Peter Southworth as he suddenly snapped his fingers, rose from his desk, turned, and opened the top drawer of a metal filing cabinet that stood against the wall behind his desk, 'go into my office and get out my New York City reverse directories. They're in the bottom right-hand drawer of my desk.'
I waited, sighed with relief when Peter, with a satisfied look of triumph, pulled the photograph from the file drawer. He handed it to me just as Francisco came back on the line.
'I've got them, sir.'
'It's Manhattan. Give me an address on this.'
I read off the telephone number written on the back of the photograph, waited thirty seconds, and then Francisco gave me an address on Warren Street, downtown in the financial district. I thanked him, broke the connection, then quickly dialed the number. I got a busy signal. I waited a couple of minutes, tried again. It was still busy.
Right. I wasn't going to bother to ask an operator to cut in, because I was certain I'd only be told the receiver was off the hook.
'Thanks, Peter!' I called over my shoulder as I rushed for the door, snatching up the capsule off the coffee table. 'You've been a big help! Gotta run! I'll get back to you!'
I caught a cab down on the street, hopped in, gave the driver the address, and asked him to hurry because it was an emergency. The tall Rastafarian with shoulder-length dreadlocks merely looked at me as if I was crazy, then gradually eased his clunky taxi out into the clogged traffic.
As we slowly rumbled down Seventh Avenue, I absently patted first my left armpit, then my right ankle-futile, somewhat bittersweet gestures that only served to remind me that I was unarmed, my Beretta and trusty little Seecamp-constant companions in the bad old days, before Garth and I wound up spending most of our time working for Fortune 500 companies-back in the safe in my apartment, which is where they now remained most of the time, except for occasional outings for target practice or semiannual cleaning and oiling.
There was always the slim possibility that three hours wasn't enough time for the Lorminix executives in Berne to have contacted Punch and Judy, and for Punch and Judy to have found and gone to the address-but, of course, in an age of direct overseas dialing, faxes, cellular phones, and beepers, there had been plenty of time. If Punch and Judy, or some other assassins, weren't already there, they were certainly on the way. I could only hope there was some reason why Sharon Stephens and her frail charge wouldn't be summarily executed like Philip Mayepoles, who had ended up in the Carnegie Hall Dumpster.
We finally made it downtown. I paid the driver, got out, and looked up at the four-story building on Warren Street. There was a camera and electronics store on the ground floor, and another door next to the store entrance, presumably the one I wanted. I went into a deli down the block and bought myself a forty-ounce bottle of Colt.45 malt liquor as a beer-poor substitute for its namesake. Back out on the street I poured the beer into the gutter, then, gripping the empty bottle by the neck, I approached the door next to the camera-store entrance. It was open,
