From his desk, he had done as the mysterious Lucas Stonecoat had requested, telephoning Renquist Labs hourly for an update on the progress of the testing they were doing for him-Detective James Pardee. He laid it on thick, saying it was possibly the most important case in Texas history since John F. Kennedy was gunned down in Dallas, certainly more important than the Sydney Fielding socialite killing in which her doctor husband had been indicted.
The technician he finally got through to ate it all up, and why not? They had said they would hustle on this one now that the paperwork had been forwarded, and they had.
“So, what're the results?” he asked. “Any usable, clean prints, Darlene?”
Darlene, the technician, her voice an octave lower than the last time Randy called, now replied, “I'm sorry, there was nothing.”
“Nothing? Whataya mean, nothing?”
“Detective Pardee,” she said in a tone that implied she might as well say,
What part of nothing don 7 you understand? 'There were no prints on either glass.”
“None?”
“Crystal is difficult anyway, the many surfaces, you know, but-”
“Sounds like you guys blew it.”
“No, no, sir, no one blew anything. There was not one trace of any human secretions whatever on the glass surfaces. Soap residue, wine residue in the bowls, some sleep-inducing drugs, but no prints whatever.”
“Whoa, hold up there. Sleep-inducing drugs?”
“A mild sedative, probably harmless, but in such trace elements, nothing could really be determined. Like the prints you apparently thought would be there.”
Yeah, I see… Thanks, Darlene. Didn't mean to get my back up. It's just… just… well, I don't admit to cop stress, but maybe this time I will.”
“A frustrating case, Detective?”
“Yeah, very.”
“It sounds like you are a very dedicated man.”
She sounded Oriental, he thought, but with a name like Darlene, he wondered. “You sound very hardworking and dedicated yourself, Darlene, and I want to thank you for being so”-he gulped as if it might help him find the word he wanted-”thorough and professional in getting this information for me in such a… a timely manner.”
“I only wish that it could be better news for you, but you know we can't… fabricate”-she had a little trouble pronouncing the word, and Randy thought it cute-”evidence, you know. We must be finding the truth only.”
“Yeah, sure… I understand that. Look, about the sleeping drug.”
“Yes?”
“Was it detected in both goblets or just one?”
“Just one.”
“Thanks, that may be of some help,” he replied. “Later on in the investigation, you know?”
She promised to send the results to him.
“Oh, tell you what. Have them sent directly to Detective Lucas Stonecoat, Thirty-first Precinct.”
“But I thought they go to you.”
“Detective Stonecoat is overseeing this part of the investigation after today, you see.”
“Lucas Stone Coat?” she repeated as if writing it down. “Very well.” She was saying good-bye now, about to hang up.
He wondered if he dared ask her for a date, but as who?
Randy Oglesby or Jim Pardee? Lucas Stonecoat, maybe? He let the phone go dead.
His thoughts and imaginations regarding Darlene and her exquisite voice quickly faded with the realization that Lucas Stonecoat had placed him, his computer, and Dr. Sanger in jeopardy for what? For absolutely nothing. Still, there were traces of sedatives in the bowl of one goblet.
However, as Darlene had said, it was most likely simply mild sleeping pills. Now he couldn't help but wonder at the costs involved in the useless testing of those goblets taken from the Mootry crime scene. He wondered about Stone-coat's legendary reputation, wondered if it hadn't gone by the wayside, along with a few other things about him since Dallas. He had seen the files on Dr. Sanger's desk, and while he had not read them word for word, he had gotten some feel for what was going on, and he had heard about Lucas Stonecoat through the police grapevine and the support services grapevine as well.
While Randy was no cop, unable to pass muster in the academy, he had determined to remain as close to police work as he could get and utilize his specialized knowledge as best he might for crime fighting. He hadn't planned on working in the Thirty-first Precinct alongside Dr. Meredyth Sanger, and at first he hadn't liked the idea of working so far from the action, for a police shrink instead of a police captain, perhaps. But Dr. Sanger, whose name ought rather be Dr. Danger, had changed his mind about police psychiatry. It was often quite dangerous. She had to deal not only with cops who walked into her office with their guns strapped to their hips, cops who might or might not be mentally unstable, but she had to go down to the jails and face the criminals, too; many of whom were of the criminally insane variety. She often had Randy come along to take dictation if the case warranted it.
Randy was fleet of finger, capable of typing and computing 130 words a minute. He was also an expert on the Net, and he'd proven his worth to Dr. Sanger with the “list,” the one she had used as leverage this morning with Captain Lawrence.
If Lawrence had any brains, he'd transfer Randy down to his division, but he wasn't that smart. Randy's sandwich and drink arrived at his table. He started to go for the food, his stomach growling for it, but on impulse, he rang Renquist once again and asked for Darlene.
She came right on, as if waiting for his call. “Yes, this is Darlene Muentes.”
“South American, maybe?” he asked.
“What?”
'This is-”
“I know it's you, Detective.”
“I was just guessing that maybe you were from South America? You have a lovely accent.”
“I work hard to be rid of my accent.”
“You shouldn't hide it. I like it. Everybody else talks the same; it gets boring. Your voice is not… boring.”
“Is there something else I can do for you, Detective?”
“Ahh, the bill.
Can you tell me how much?”
“Oh, well… with lab time and testing, let me see. I can give you a rough estimate, but the actual bill, it does not come from here, my lab, I mean.”
“How old are you?”
“What?”
“How much?”
“Ahh, maybe seven, seven-fifty.”
“Seven hundred dollars for nada?”
“Nada? It took a lot of work to find nada!” she replied.
He nodded into the phone. “Sorry, it's just my boss is not going to be terribly pleased.”
“I… sorry for that, and I am twenty-three.”
It was his first indication she was interested. “I'm twenty-two,” he replied. “Look, I'm having lunch at the grill on Elgin, not far from the university, and I know your lab's nearby, so what do you say? Are you hungry?”
“Where is this place?”
He gave her the name and location, and she recognized it. “I can be there in fifteen minutes. How will I know you?”
“Last booth on the left as you walk in. I'll order for us.”
“That sounds delightful. See you then, Detective.”
“James… call me Jim,” he lied. Returning the phone to the wall, he cursed his situation. But then again, Detective Jim might be a great deal more relaxed and in control than would be comp-nerd Randy, so maybe he had made the right choice after all. Besides, she could turn out to be anything but what he imagined.
Play it out. Play out the game. But this was no ordinary game. This was real life, with real consequences. A part of him didn't feel comfortable playing with people's feelings and emotions. It was anathema to all that was positive on the Internet, where such things didn't routinely exist. Sure, you heard of the occasional Net partners making a random date, falling in love in the real world and getting married, but you never heard of the statistics on the divorce rate for such Net surfers.