She was sure it was no coincidence. McCarthy wouldn't be updating his story, not so soon. Oh, he wanted information, all right, but not for a newspaper story.
For a friend.
"Linda, is there a problem?" Powell asked. "We gave Jim a full list the first time around. Interviews, too. No one said there was a problem."
Linda smiled. "Oh, no problem. I was just curious." She thought her voice sounded tremulous.
Powell seemed not to notice. "It's really nothing," he said. "McCarthy just wanted to know how many Americans had died here over the last couple months. I gave him the names. No big deal."
"Sure," Linda said agreeably. No big deal. Jesus, if Powell only knew. "Is that all for today?"
In the hallway, she could scarcely keep from running toward her office. Now she knew everything. She knew that Stratton's plan was already in motion, and it spelled disaster for her.
In a bleak way, it was funny, she reflected. It all came back to the goddamn morgue-her job, too. An awful little job-late at night. A simple detail, really.
Or one would think. But Linda had botched that, too.
She would have to leave immediately for the United States. Sick leave, Linda would call it, or an illness in the family. There was no time to fight the bureaucracy.
Tom Stratton would have to be stopped.
Wang Bin would have to be caught.
She had to get to one of them before they got to each other. And she had to do it alone.
Wang Bin, Stratton-her responsibilities, both of them. That's what you're here for, the station chief had told her. That's what you're good at. Do what you have to, he had said-not warmly-but get them where we want them. Keep them there.
Gone was not where she wanted them.
Getting them back was the only thing that would save her career.
There was no time to worry about breaking a few laws.
A warm breeze from Tampa Bay ruffled Stratton's hair and stood him up as he walked across a broad, green lawn that seemed to ramble all the way to the water. Wheeling gulls bickered high above and a dour pelican plunged into a school of mullet. The splash startled the old man who had been pushing a lawn mower around the tombstones.
"Hello!" Stratton called.
The old man cocked his head. He glanced up to the sky, wondering if one of the noisy birds had actually shouted to him.
"Here! Hello!" Stratton yelled over the mower's engine.
The old man spotted Stratton and muttered a grumpy acknowledgment. He turned off the mower and pulled a handkerchief from the belt of his trousers.
"I'm looking for the grave of Sarah Steinway," Stratton said.
The old man noticed that Stratton carried a modest spray of flowers.
"Are you a relative?" he asked.
Stratton said he was a nephew. "I came all the way from New York."
"Jesus H. Christ," the old man said, shaking his head. "I'm sorry to hear that."
He led Stratton along the water to a footpath that took them up a gentle man-made hill. On the other side was a stand of young pine trees that formed the boundary of the cemetery's newest lot.
"If you'd have come tomorrow most of it would have been cleaned up," the old caretaker said apologetically.
"What are you talking about?"
"Come on."
Stratton followed him to the gravesite. Many of the plots were recently turned; others remained untouched, the gravestones bare-prepurchased, Florida-style.
They walked to the end of a long row before Stratton saw what the old man meant.
The caretaker stopped and pointed up and down the column of graves. "Look what they did!"
"They" had gone amok, toppling the headstones, shredding the flowers, trampling and thrashing the soil. On one grave sat a mound of rotting garbage, with bright blue flies buzzing obscenely. Another was peppered with broken whiskey bottles.
Still another grave had been defaced with bright crayons. Stratton bent over the granite slab and read:
There was an old geezer named Saul Who dropped dead in the Hillsborough Mall His wife called a cop Then went back to the shop So she wouldn't miss the sale, after all "Cute," Stratton muttered.
"It's sick," the old caretaker said. "Teenagers, that's all."
One double headstone read: "Eva and Bernard Melman." Beneath the names, smeared in burgundy, was a Nazi swastika. In dripping letters at the base of the tombstone, someone had painted the words more dead jews.
Stratton stepped closer to study the vandalism. After a few moments he turned to the caretaker and asked, "Did you call the police?"
"Of course. They sent a man. So what? What can they do?"
The old man moved forward and pointed with his foot to an area around the Melmans' granite slab. The dirt was dark and moist and loose, as if a shovel had been plunged into the ground and withdrawn.
"I figure they were interrupted by a car," the old man speculated.
"What about Aunt Sarah?" Stratton asked.
The caretaker pointed to the next headstone on the row:
Sarah Rose Steinway 1919-1983 The only mark of vandalism was another swastika, this one drawn in orange crayon between the "Sarah" and the "Rose."
"Look at that," Stratton said disgustedly.
"That'll come right off, mister. I can get it with some turpentine, or some real strong acetate. Won't harm the marble, either. I'll clean it off this afternoon."
Stratton set the flowers on the grave and stepped back to the footpath. The caretaker took a deep breath. "It's impossible to guard a place like this twenty-four hours a day. You understand, don't you? We're just a small cemetery-I mean, we've got a watchman, but he's old and he doesn't hear so well."
Stratton was only half listening. He concentrated on the Steinway grave. The sod around the marker was puckered in several places, and badly gashed near the headstone.
"When did all this happen?"
"Either last night or the night before. See, I don't get around to this side every day. I mow it three times a week, though, and if there's a visitor like yourself, or the men who came a couple of days ago, then I'll bring 'em here to show the way."
"What men?"
"They brought flowers for your Aunt Sarah there… " the caretaker began.
A lovely touch, Stratton thought.
"How many men?"
"Two. Said they were good friends of the deceased."
The old man dabbed at his neck with the handkerchief. "I'm trying to remember their names. One of them was a thin fellow, about forty-five, fifty maybe. Had black hair. Dressed kind of bright for the cemetery. The other guy looked Japanese. He didn't say much. Last time I saw them they were just sitting on the bench, talking quietly. I'm glad they weren't here to see what happened to their flowers."
Stratton found two motels within a half mile of the small cemetery. He went first to the Holiday Inn. The young junior-college student at the registration desk was helpful. He allowed Stratton to study the check-in cards going back for seven days; there were no Oriental names registered. Stratton asked the young desk clerk if he remembered an American and a Chinese staying there. The clerk shook his head no.
"And I probably would have noticed them," the clerk said. "This is the slow time of the year. A lot of our business is lunch hour." He winked.
Across the street at the Bay Vista Court Stratton was greeted by an attractive, middle-aged woman with frosted hair and a warm smile.
"Carl Jurgens," he said, holding out his hand. "Apex Car Rentals."
"I'm Mrs. Singer," the woman said. "How can I help you?"
"Well, a few days ago we rented a car to two fellows. A red Oldsmobile, brand-new. When they picked it up at Tampa Airport, they wrote on the rental agreement that they'd be staying here at your place. I've got a copy of the rental papers in the car."
Mrs. Singer nodded. Stratton could tell that she was curious.
"Anyway," he said, "they stiffed us. Dumped the car at a Grand Union over on Dale Mabrey."
"I still don't see how I can possibly help."
"Simple, Mrs. Singer. Just tell me if they were here, and maybe let me have a look at the registration cards-to see if they left an address, or a phone number. The ones they gave our people were phony, of course. Maybe they paid you with a credit card. Now that would be great."