Mathew Wellman was eating chocolate ice cream. He would spoon it into his mouth with one hand, and with the other manipulate the mouse and keyboard of Westerley’s computer. With Westerley’s permission, and charge card, Mathew had added to the computer memory chips and apps and features that Westerley not only had never heard of but still didn’t understand.
Bobi had soon developed a liking for young Mathew and brought him snacks from time to time, even on days when she wasn’t working.
Westerley sat at his desk and observed Mathew, marveling at how his gooey fingers danced. The sheriff couldn’t see what was happening on the monitor because of reflection, with the sun angling in through the bamboo window treatments Bobi had bought. They softened the light somewhat but didn’t keep it out.
After a while, Westerley voiced what he’d been wondering. “Is all this tech wizardry-which I heartily admire, Mathew-actually getting us somewhere?”
Mathew didn’t answer until he’d swallowed the ice cream he’d skillfully transferred from bowl to mouth.
“’Es, sir,” he said, swallowing. On the return trip to the bowl, his spoon dribbled chocolate onto his blue Stephen Hawking T-shirt. Westerley had broken his rhythm.
“Where?” Westerley asked, somewhat surprised.
And Mathew Wellman proceeded to tell the sheriff everything that Jerry Lido had told Quinn and Associates.
When Mathew was finished talking, Westerley sat for a while thinking over what he’d heard.
He stood up and put on his Sam Browne belt, and the leather holster he wore on his right hip. Then he adjusted with movements of long habit the rest of the gear that was affixed to and dangled from the belt. The tools of his profession.
“Call Bobi and tell her I want her to come in,” he said. He smiled. “You’re doing a great job, Mathew.”
Mathew beamed.
Westerley got his Smokey hat from where it hung on a wall hook. “If anybody needs me, I’ll have my cell phone turned on. I’m gonna be at Mrs. Evans’s house.”
“I’ll tell Bobi, sir.”
Mathew watched Westerley go out the door and then observed through the window as the sheriff strode toward his SUV. He walked kind of neat, Mathew thought, with the uniform and thick belt across his back, and all that paraphernalia dangling from his belt. Holster, cell phone with GPS, key ring, leather notepad holder, telescoping billy club. Handcuffs, even.
Going to Mrs. Evans’s house.
Mrs. Evans, Mathew thought with a smile. Was that kind of formality supposed to fool anyone? Not that Mathew blamed Westerley. He’d seen Mrs. Evans and thought she was hot.
Mathew called Bobi Gregory and then viewed some porn from Sweden on the Internet. He could cover his tracks with a few clicks of the mouse when he saw Bobi coming. And what he was doing should be safe, considering he was using the sheriff’s department’s computer.
Sweden usually meant blondes. Mathew liked blondes.
81
New York, the present
Quinn and Pearl’s plane lifted off from LaGuardia at six o’clock that evening. The closest airport to Edmundsville was St. Louis’s Lambert International. From there they could rent a car, wend their way to Interstate 70, and drive west out of the St. Louis area.
In mid-Missouri, they could stay at a Hampton Inn just off 70, and in the morning drive less than an hour to reach the Evans house. If they left the motel about nine-thirty, they should easily arrive well before Link Evans. Evans’s flight touched down at ten o’clock, and his drive from the Kansas City airport to home was slightly farther than theirs, leaving them plenty of time to talk to Beth Evans before her husband got home.
The flight from LaGuardia to St. Louis seemed longer than it was, maybe because of the infant in the seat behind Quinn that somehow kept managing to touch cold and sticky miniature fingers to the back of his neck. While they were deplaning, the kid looked over at Quinn from his mother’s arms and grinned, as if they shared a secret: There were people, and then there were people who plagued them, and that was that.
Quinn and Pearl traveled with only rolling carry-ons. As they made their way through the crowded terminal to where they could rent a car, Quinn said, “That kid behind us was driving me nuts.”
“She was great,” Pearl said. “She didn’t utter a peep.”
“How do you know it was a she?”
“Could have been the pink dress.”
As they rounded a corner to leave the secure area, Pearl’s rolling suitcase bounced over Quinn’s toe. He was pretty sure she’d done it on purpose.
The drive toward Edmundsville was better than the flight to St. Louis. Their room was reserved at the motel, so there was no hurry. The sky was cloudless and tinted a deep purple. Though the day had been warm, it was so pleasant now that Quinn felt like putting down the Ford Taurus’s windows. He didn’t, though, knowing Pearl would complain about her hair blowing all over the place. She had no idea that he thought she was sexy with her hair all tousled by the wind. Or maybe she did know that, and she figured he was the one who’d made it clear that this was a business trip, so let him yearn. There were people…
The motel was so well kept it looked as if it had been built yesterday, even though the architecture was a couple thousand years old. It had tall fluted columns that looked like the entrance to a Greek temple, with cars parked outside instead of chariots.
They checked into a room with a king-sized bed-Quinn’s idea-then rolled their suitcases along a long hall toward an elevator to the second floor.
“I noticed they serve breakfast,” Quinn said. “Means we can stay in bed pretty late tomorrow in case we don’t get much sleep.”
“Why would we not get much sleep?”
“We might be busy in a carnal way.”
“You would think that,” Pearl said.
“You’d be surprised what I might think,” Quinn told her, as he used the key card to unlock and open the door on only the fourth try.
The phone was ringing as they entered the room and deposited their suitcases on the bed. Quinn cursed inwardly. This didn’t bode well. Not that Pearl seemed to be getting in the mood. But then you never could tell about Pearl.
Quinn snatched up the receiver, thinking he’d hear the voice of the desk clerk downstairs checking to make sure everything was to their satisfaction.
Instead he heard Fedderman: “Things have changed, Quinn. Lincoln Evans’s flight tomorrow was canceled, so he booked another for this evening. He’s in the air now. He’ll change planes in Pittsburgh and will arrive in Kansas City at nine-thirty tonight.”
“Which means he’ll get home about ten-thirty.”
“Roughly,” Fedderman said.
Quinn glanced at the multifunctional alarm clock nightlight sleep timer radio on the dresser. “It’s almost nine o’clock now.”
“That nine-thirty is central time,” Fedderman said, from far away in the eastern time zone. “Just so there’s no mistake.”
“We’re in sync,” Quinn said.
He felt a stirring deep in his hunter’s heart. It was all coming at them fast now, the way it sometimes did. Any damned thing could happen, and they had to be ready.
“One other thing,” Fedderman said. “Tom Stopp really does have a brother, and his name is Marvin and he’s in California, writing for TV and the movies. Or struggling to, anyway. He’s got a sister Terri, too. Beautician, unmarried, likes the ladies.”
“Thanks for the confirmation, Feds.” So much for that TS possibility-if Tanya Moody actually did scrawl those two letters in blood. “Call me on my cell if anything else happens. We’re gonna be on the move.”
“Good luck, and whatever else you can use.”
Quinn placed the phone’s receiver back in its cradle. Pearl was standing by the window, staring at him now instead of at the swimming pool below, knowing the game had unexpectedly changed. There was a special intensity in her dark eyes. He doubted it had anything to do with motel sex.
“We’re checking out,” Quinn said. “We’ve got more driving ahead of us tonight.”