I glanced at my watch. It was almost eleven. I doubted that Ned was going to show, and I didn't have anything else to do. It was a screwy bet, but my itch was still there so I accepted.
James' game suddenly improved dramatically. He stopped making silly mistakes. Nevertheless, I wasn't worried because backgammon is 75% luck, and luck seemed to be on my side. I was ahead in points 4-3 when we started what I hoped would be the deciding game.
The game started badly for me and got worse. James was able to set up blocks on all six points of his inner board while I had two pieces on the bar. As long as he maintained those blocks I couldn't get my pieces off the bar, and with pieces on the bar the rules said I couldn't move.
He played it perfectly and gammoned me, meaning that he bore all his pieces off before I bore off any. A gammon counts double so he won the match 5-4.
I offered half-hearted congratulations. James grinned and said, "You play a good game. Next time we'll use the doubling cube. But before you start serving your penance, why don't you call Ned's hotel and make sure he got back okay. He's very reliable-when he says he's going to do something he does it. I want to make sure he's okay."
I looked at James in surprise. He and Ned must be very good friends. Ned probably got held up at his business meeting until late and then went straight back to his hotel, but at least he could have called here. I looked at my watch again. It was after 11:30.
James rose from his chair and led me to the control room. When he walked fast he had a noticeable limp. The crowd had thinned out considerably. I suspected that most of them were working people. I followed James through the door to the control room where he handed me a cordless phone.
"I don't know the number of Ned's hotel," I said. In fact, the only reason I remembered the name of it was because we had passed it on the way to my hotel and Ned had pointed it out to me.
James asked me the name and turned to a nearby personal computer sitting on a shelf high enough so he could use it standing up. I looked over his shoulder and could see that he was accessing the Tartan website on the Internet. As he worked the keyboard I noticed for the first time that the tip of the fourth finger of his left hand was missing, making it difficult for him to key the letter "s." He found the hotel name on an index page and clicked on it. Ten seconds later he gave me the phone number.
I punched it in and after two rings a clerk answered. I asked her whether Ned Buchanan had checked in and was put on hold. In 30 seconds she came back on the line and told me that Mr. Buchanan had not checked in.
I disconnected the phone and relayed the information to James. His forehead creased in a frown.
"Stan, what restaurant was Ned Mackay's meeting at?" James asked the young man who had welcomed me. He was watching the monitors.
"The Golden Palace," Stan answered, without turning his head.
James did his trick with the Internet again and punched a number into the phone. He had a brief conversation. By the time he hung up, his frown had grown more intense.
"The meeting never took place," James said to no one in particular. "Ned was never at the restaurant."
Before I could express my surprise James punched in a new number. His side of the conversation went like this: "It's James. Has Ned been there tonight?" Pause. "No, I didn't. When was he there?" Pause. "Did he say where he was going when he left?" Pause "You're kidding!" Pause. "He did?" Fidgety pause. "No, I haven't seen him. I don't know what's going on. I'll call you when I find out." He jabbed the disconnect button.
James immediately had another go-round with his computer and again punched in a number. He swore under his breath until somebody answered the phone, and then said, "This is James Buchanan. I was expecting a visitor tonight, but he hasn't shown up. He's in San Francisco but he didn't check into his hotel. His name is Ned Mackay. Could you…?"
James listened and shock registered on his face. He appeared to struggle as he asked several brief questions, including "Where?" and "When?" and then said, "Yes. Yes, I'll be here."
He turned to me. He said, choking on his words, "That was the police. Ned was mugged…he's been shot."
"Shot?" I said, uncomprehending. Then, as it sank in, “Is he…?"
"He…he's dead."
Chapter 6 DETECTIVE WASHINGTON
"Hello."
I was surprised at how fast my father picked up the phone. He obviously wasn't asleep. I had expected he would be. I was still preparing what to say to him. "Oh…hi Dad."
"Karl? Where are you?"
"In San Francisco."
"I know that. Are you all right?"
"Of course. But Ned…"
"I know about Ned. The San Francisco Police called me over an hour ago. You weren't with him?"
"No. I was supposed to meet him at ten, but he never showed up."
"Thank God you're all right."
I had never heard my father so concerned about my safety. "I'm fine, Dad. But someone should call Mrs. Mackay."
"I did that, myself. She has friends with her now. The police didn't know anything about you so I called Arrow and she told me what hotel you were staying at. I called the hotel, but you weren't there."
A lot had taken place while I was out of the loop. I said, "The police are on their way here."
"Are you at your hotel now?"
"No. I'm at the home of James Buchanan." Looking out his picture window at a postcard view of a lit-up Golden Gate Bridge.
"James Buchanan? How do you know him?" He sounded incredulous.
"I didn't until tonight. Ned said to meet him here." Lights of cars moved in both directions over the bridge, like fireflies on parade.
There was silence at the other end of the line. The doorbell rang. I said, "I think the police are here now. I'd better go."
"When are you coming home?"
"Tomorrow morning." It occurred to me that it was already tomorrow.
"I'll talk to you when you get back."
"Dad? Is there anything I can do while I'm here?"
"No. Everything is taken care of."
"Dad, I'm…I'm sorry about Ned."
"So am I." His voice cracked.
There wasn't anything else to say. I said goodbye and hung up. Stan opened the front door and admitted a woman and a man, dressed in civilian clothes.
The woman said, "I'm Detective Washington and this is Detective Lawson, San Francisco Police Department." She showed him a badge. "I would like to speak to James Buchanan."
"I'll take you to Mr. Buchanan," Stan said. "You might also want to speak to Karl Patterson." He indicated where I was standing a few feet away in the living room. "He flew to San Francisco from Los Angeles with Mr. Mackay this afternoon."
"Yes, we do want to talk to Mr. Patterson," Detective Washington said. And then to her partner, "I'll talk to Mr. Patterson. You talk to Mr. Buchanan. You know what to ask him."
James had cleared the casino immediately after we had found out about Ned's death. He seemed very upset. Everybody had left, including all of the young men, except Stan and a couple of others who were closing things up downstairs.
Stan escorted Detective Lawson to James' office, where he had closeted himself after kicking everybody out. Detective Washington came into the living room and introduced herself to me. She had a strong voice and her demeanor and body language said she was in control of the situation; her black hair was cut short and her blue pantsuit was the color of power. She was tall, with graceful movements, and I suspected she could take care of herself in a fight as well as any man.
"I'm sorry about Mr. Mackay," she said, softening her voice a little.
"Thank you."
"I'm glad we found you. One of your father's people gave us the name of your hotel, but you weren't there."
"I was here." Obviously. Okay, Karl, get control.