Time to start making some calls. Thomson looked like a good choice. The press secretary would be used to talking to people, if not actually to saying anything.
If he was going to talk to a pink, he'd better put some clothes on. He snorted. Clothes were a needless irritation that wouldn't have been necessary on a morey case. Getting dressed, just to make a phone call, was just plain silly.
He pulled a button-down shirt from a small pile in the corner of his bedroom. The storm had reduced the light in the apartment, so Nohar couldn't quite make
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out the color of the shirt. It was either a very light blue, or a very off white. Nohar put it on, claws catching on the buttons, and decided to forgo the pants. The comm was only going to show him from the waist up, as long as he didn't stand up.
He ducked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Pointless, really. What did a pink know about grooming anyway? Still, Nohar licked the back of his hand and ran it over his head a few times, smoothing things out.
After that, he sat on the couch, shooing Cat away. He set the comm to record and told it to call Desmond Thomson at Binder campaign headquarters. He routed the call through the comm at his office so his credentials would be shown up front.
Oddly enough, though it was only a little after five, no one at Binder headquarters seemed to be answering. After nearly a minute of displaying the Binder Senate campaign logo, the comm at Binder headquarters forwarded his call to Thomson's home. Nohar shrugged. It didn't matter as long as he got through to Thomson.
Thomson surprised the hell out of him by being black. In fact, Thomson had been the bearded pink that had tricked Nohar's eyes into seeing a morey in the crowd at the funeral. Thomson's hair and beard were shot with gray. He had the bearing of a pro wrestler and the voice of a vid anchorman. "Mister,"
Thomson's gaze flicked to the text on his monitor, "Rajasthan?" Thomson's voice had begun on a high note, indicating some surprise at Nohar's appearance. However, by the end of Nohar's name, the tone of Thomson's voice had become smooth, friendly, and utterly phony.
"Yes. Mr. Thomson?"
"I am. I see your call has been forwarded from our campaign headquarters. I presume you wish to talk to me in my capacity as Congressman Binder's press secretary?"
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53
The man talked like a press release, and Nohar couldn't get over the fact that Thomson was black. It made about as much sense as having a Jewish spokesman for the Islamic Axis. Nohar nodded.
"I would like to ask about your late campaign manager—"
"Of course. I'll help as much as possible. We've been quite free with what we know about the tragedy. However, things are quite chaotic in the organization with the loss of Mr. Johnson. WeVe had to give the whole campaign the week off so we can sort out the mess. So my time is limited. I'm sure what you need has already been told to the police or the press."
Nohar could smell a brush-off coming from a mile away. "I only have a few questions. They won't take long."
"Would you mind transmitting your credentials?"
Either Thomson didn't trust the label from Nohar's office comm, or he was politely looking for an excuse to hang up. Fortunately, Nohar's wallet with his PI licence was sitting on top of the comm and he didn't have to stand up to get it. He slid his license into the fax slot on his comm and hit the send button. Thomson nodded when he saw the results. "I can give you ten minutes." At the length this guy spoke, that wouldn't give Nohar much. "When did Johnson die?"
"I am given to understand the time of death was placed sometime in the middle of the week of the twentieth—"
"July twentieth?"
"Of course."
"When was the last official contact with Johnson?"
"As we have informed the police, he attended a political fund-raiser Saturday the nineteenth. He didn't come in to work the following week—"
"Didn't this strike anyone as odd?"
Thomson was undoubtedly irritated by Nohar's interruptions, but he hid it well. "No, it is an election
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year. It's common for executive officers to be pulled away from the desk for trips, speeches, press, and so on. Johnson was the chief executive under Binder, he often did such things on his own initiative—"
"Do you know what he was doing?"
"No. If it wasn't dealing with the media, it was not my department. Now, if you don't mind, the time—"
It didn't feel like ten minutes to Nohar. "One more thing."
Nohar thought he heard Thomson sigh. "What?"
"About the three million dollars the police believe was stolen from the campaign—"
Thomson interrupted this time. "I am sorry, but I do not have the authority to discuss the financial details of the campaign."
Ah, Nohar had finally run into the brick wall. "I am sorry to hear that. You see, I have conflicting information. I simply want to know if the three million was physically in Johnson's possession, in cash—"
"I said, I can't discuss it."
Try another tack. "Who has access to the campaign's financial records?"
Thomson was shaking his head. He even grinned a bit, showing a gold tooth that had to be decorative. "Me, the legal counsel, the campaign manager and his executive assistant, and the finance chairman, of course."
"Thank you."
Thomson chuckled. "I'm afraid they can't help you. No one but Binder has the authority to release confidential financial data. Except, of course, disclosures required by law."
"Or a subpoena," Nohar muttered.
"I would call that a disclosure required by law. Now, as I said before, my time is limited. I really must go."
"Thanks for your help," Nohar said, nearly choking on the insincerity.
"You're welcome. It's my job," Thomson replied, just as insincere, but much more professional.
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55
The line was cut and Nohar was left staring at a test pattern.
Nohar ran through the record of the conversation a few times. It irritated him that Thomson was right. Nothing was hi the conversation he wouldn't be able to get from the police record or the news. Reviewing the tape didn't tell Nohar anything more, other than the fact Thomson lived in a ritzy penthouse overlooking downtown—Thomson's home comm faced a window.
The comm told him it was fifteen after. It was time to call Manny down at the pathologist's office. Nohar wanted to set up a meeting for tonight. One he hoped would be more fruitful.
CHAPTER 5
During the night, the rain turned into a deluge. Nohar didn't feel half as uncomfortable under the sudden thunderstorm as he had in the misting drizzle in the cemetery. The dark violence of it suited him.
Coventry suited him.
The three block area was a ragged collection of bars close to the East Cleveland border. It was far enough away from the heart of Moreytown to see the occasional pink in the area. As always, there were two patrol cars, the riot watch, one on either end of the strip. Nohar passed one of them at the
intersection of Coventry and Mayfield, and, while it was too far for him to see it, he knew its twin was parked in the old school parking lot, three blocks away.
Like Nohar's neighborhood, Coventry was blocked off from car traffic by three-meter-tall concrete pylons left over from the riots. Graffiti wrapped around the rectangular blocks, as if the strip were trying to escape its arbitrary confines by oozing through the gaps.
The rain hadn't slowed things down. Ten-thirty at night and the street was packed with the backwash of Moreytown. The downpour couldn't remove the omnipresent smell of damp fur.