Again he paused, this time for even longer.
"I am intrigued by what you are proposing. I would like an opportunity to meet with you to discuss your ideas in more detail. Personal contact is important, I think. Don't you? I will make a decision at that time whether or not I feel it is proper to assist you in your new investigation. Unfortunately, I am unable to leave Vancouver at this time, so you will need to come to Canada. I can arrange to meet with you for two or three hours." I heard him pecking on a keyboard.
"There is a United flight into Vancouver from Denver that will have you arrive at twelve-thirty, Monday through Friday." More keyboard tunes.
"A return flight departs daily for Denver at four-ten. I will meet you in between the two flights in the Air Canada departure lounge. Pick a day next week and leave me a message as to your choice. Tuesday is inconvenient for me.
Is that acceptable, Dr. Gregory?"
"Tentatively, yes. But I am required to clear any travel plans through Locard.
In advance."
I thought I heard him scoff before he said, "I will be waiting to hear from you with your choice of dates."
I was off the phone in plenty of time to join Lauren for an early dinner at Antares, where my wife, true to her word, ordered trout and spinach salad. We spent the rest of the mild evening driving and then walking the trail that led to the Strawberry Park hot springs, the popular spot that Tami had told her brother was her likely destination the night she disappeared with Mariko.
The last time I'd been in Strawberry Park it was a hippie hangout. Now it was a tourist attraction with a gate and an admission fee. Despite the artificial accoutrements, I still would have been up for a soak in the natural springs, but hanging out in hundred-plus-degree water wasn't an option for either pregnant women or people with MS, so I was content to enjoy the sights and the air and the company.
"Have you decided? Are you going to go to Vancouver?" Lauren asked. During dinner, I'd filled her in on my conversation with Taro Hamamoto.
"If A. J. says yes, I'm going. I need to talk with him."
"And if A. J. says no?"
"I'll probably go to Vancouver anyway."
She said, "We can afford it"
"I know we can. That's not it. I'm beginning to feel some compulsion about all this. I don't know exactly what it is, or why it is, but I can't stop thinking about those two girls."
Lauren laughed gently.
"Me neither. This work really hooks you, doesn't it? I feel the same tug that you're feeling. I can't wait to talk to Mary Wright and find out what she wants. I'm ready to dive in headfirst. I think I'm beginning to understand why all these high-powered people donate time they don't really have to organizations like Locard and Vidocq." I said, "It won't feel so good if we don't figure it out, though."
"You mean who killed the girls?"
"Yes. I mean who killed the girls. I hope I can help, hope we both can help.
But my assumption is that Flynn Coe and russ Claven and the forensic types hold the key to this one. Not us." e decided to drive home to Boulder late Sunday morning on Highway 40 instead of Highway 9. The route would take us through Granby, past Winter Park, and over Berthoud Pass before it intersected with 1-70. For the first hour that we were on the road the traffic was minimal, the air outside was more warm than cool, and the midday sky above us a pale and soothing blue that was the color of glacier ice.
As we neared Silver Creek I asked Lauren, whose nose was buried in the Sunday newspaper, if she could guess what Mary Wright wanted.
She spent the next minute or so folding the newspaper down the spine, then over the fold, then once more in half. She rested the project on her lap, turned my way, and said, "Who knows? Statute of limitations, grand jury rules, trial protocols, special prosecutors. Could be just about anything."
"No guesses?"
"No. No guesses."
We arrived home by about 1:30. Adrienne and jonas were out somewhere and they'd left Emily in her dog run. I assumed that there had been a protracted argument between mother and son about why Emily couldn't go with them wherever they were going.
I emptied our things out of the car, played with the dog for a few minutes, opened some windows to ventilate the house, and started a load of laundry before I called Diane and told her I was back in town and back on my beeper. She said my patients had been good while I'd been gone. No emergencies. We talked about things friends talk about for a little while before I thanked her for covering, hung up, and checked messages on the home machine.
Our contractor for the renovation project that we'd done the previous year, Dresden Lamb, had returned my call about a leaking down spout and some disintegrating grout in the new shower. He promised that he'd take care of both problems the following week. My friend Sam Purdy had called inviting me to loiter-his word-with him at North Boulder Park during his son Simon's last soccer game of the season.
There were two hang-ups.
The last message was from a woman named Dorothy Levin. Her succinct message wasn't directed toward either Lauren or me. She said, "Hi. My name is Dorothy Levin. I'm with the Washington Post" She left a number with a 202 area code-which I knew from my recent Lo-card experience was indeed Washington, DC.-and concluded with, "Please return my call at your earliest convenience."
Lauren heard the message, too. She asked, "Is that for you or for me?"
"I think it must be for you."
"Bull. It's for you."
"I bet it's Locard business. Washington Post? It has to be."
"How would a reporter with the Washington Post know about us being involved with Locard?"
"How did they know about Monica Lewinsky?"
"I don't want to have that discussion again," Lauren admonished me, "Ken Starr has managed to do for prosecutors what O. J. did for Heisman Trophy winners.
Should we return Ms. Levins call?"
"No, I don't think so. Kimber's instructions were to 'no-comment' the press and to let him know about any contacts we receive. We should just let him or A. J. know she called and not worry about it." Lauren said, "Until we return her call, we don't actually know whether or not we've been contacted about Locard business, do we?"
Her argument was persuasive, as usual.
"Okay," I said, "then you go ahead and call her back."
She was already walking away from the general vicinity of the phone.
"No. I think you should. This may just be another Jonbenet cold call. I'm tired of them and I don't even want to think about taking another one. You promised you'd field them for me while I was pregnant."
"You haven't had one of those for months."
She leaned over and knocked on the pine table in front of her.
"Thank God for small favors."
I had promised I'd shield her fromjonbenet calls.
"Okay, on the unlikely premise that this might be yet another reporter writing a true-crime book about Jonbenet, I will return Dorothy Levin's call. But… it's only because you're pregnant and beautiful."
"Actually," she said, lowering her T-shirt off one shoulder, "I'm beautiful and I'm pregnant."
"Whatever you say. I'm not about to argue. Pretty soon you'll be bigger than me so I have to be careful." Two seconds later I successfully dodged a pillow that was whizzing past my head.
The number in D.C. was that of Dorothy Levin's home phone. She answered breathlessly after two rings. She said, "Hell-o." The emphasis was harsh and clearly on the "hell."
"Dorothy Levin, please."
"You got her."
"This is Alan Gregory returning your call from Colorado."
"Yeah? Good, good. Great. What a surprise. Hold on a second." I heard background noises as though she was fumbling around for something.