Reeve sat down and put the cup on the floor, not daring to sully the surface of the desk. He reached into his pocket for a roll of dollars. “I’m assuming you don’t take credit cards,” he said.
“Your assumption is correct. Now, there’s no paperwork, okay? I don’t like that shit.” Dedman wrote something on a sheet of paper. “This is my name, the address here, and the telephone number. Anyone stops you, the cops or anybody, or if you’re in a crash, the story is you borrowed the car from me with my blessing.”
“Insurance?”
“It’s insured.”
“And if I break down?”
“Well”-Dedman sat back in his chair-“for another thirty, you get my twenty-four-hour call-out service.”
“Does it stretch as far as San Diego?”
Dedman looked at the roll of notes. “I guess that wouldn’t be a problem. That where you’re headed?”
“Yes. So how much do I owe you?”
Dedman appeared to consider this, then named a figure Reeve found comfortably low. Reeve counted out the bills and made to hand them over, but paused.
“The Dart isn’t hot, is it?”
Dedman shook his head vehemently. “No, sir, it’s aboveboard and legal.” He took the bills and counted them, finding the sum satisfactory. He looked at Reeve and smiled. “I never rent a hot car to a tourist.”
Dedman had warned Reeve that he might get lost a few times on his way out of Los Angeles, an accurate assessment of Reeve’s first hour and a half in his new car. He knew all he had to do was follow the coast, eventually picking up I-5, but finding the coast was the problem initially, and keeping to it proved a problem later. The freeway system around Los Angeles was like a joke God was playing on the human brain. The more Reeve focused his mind, the less sense things made. Eventually he let his eyes and mind drift into soft focus, and found himself miraculously on the right road, heading the right way. He wasn’t on the coast, he was inland on I-5, but that was fine. I-5 was fine.
He had both windows open and wished he had a radio. One of Dedman’s mechanics had offered him one, installation included, for fifty bucks, but it would’ve meant hanging around the breaking yard for another hour or so, and Reeve had been keen to get going. Now he wished he’d taken the teenager up on the offer. Everything about the Dart was fine except the axles. The steering wheel juddered in his hands at speeds above fifty, and it felt like the problem led directly from the axles, either front or back. He hoped a wheel didn’t spin off and roll away ahead of him.
Once on the interstate, it was a quick run to San Diego. He came off near the airport and took Kettner Boulevard into the downtown district. He wanted a different hotel from last visit, and something more central, something much closer to the CWC building. His first choice, the Marriott, had rooms. Reeve swallowed hard when told the price, but was too tired to go looking anywhere else-the previous night had been a long one, after all. He took his bag up to the room; pulled open the curtains, flooding the room with light and a spectacular view of the bay; and sat down on the bed.
Then he picked up the telephone and rang Eddie Duhart.
He didn’t identify himself. He just asked, “What’s happening?”
Duhart couldn’t wait to tell him. “Everything’s happening! Allerdyce is running around like there’s a cactus up his ass and all the proctologists are in Hawaii. He knows something happened to him last night, only he doesn’t know what.”
“He’s back to himself?”
“Seems to be. First thing he did was sack the bodyguards. Then he decided that was too lenient, so they’re back on the payroll till he can find a worse fate. Next he phoned for a vet and a van to take away the carcass.”
“But he doesn’t remember any details from last night?”
“Not a one. Man, I should get my hands on some of that stuff. He’s spent all day trying to put together the pieces. You should hear him. Man is he wild! He dropped into a private hospital, checked in as an emergency. He wanted them to run tests on him. He’s been doing everything. He thought maybe he’s been hypnotized, so he’s got a hypnotherapist coming over to the house to try to get him out of it.”
“Hmm, he may have stumbled onto something.”
“You think the hypnotist can help him remember?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never heard of anyone trying it before.”
“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?”