I opened my desk drawer to put the two manuscripts away. In there I saw the handwritten notes I’d made Sunday morning, the copy of all the appointments in Dorrie’s calendar and the entries from her electronic address book. I pulled the pages out, thumbed through them, looking for anything that might help. Some of the names I recognized, many I didn’t. Some entries had detailed information—address, phone numbers, e-mail—while others just had bits and pieces: just a cell phone number, just an e-mail address. I thought about this as I scanned the list. Just a cell phone number I could understand—that happened, you met someone and the only number they gave you was their cell phone. But it suddenly occurred to me that it was a bit strange to have no way to contact someone other than an e-mail address. Wouldn’t you generally at least have a phone number for anyone you also had an e-mail address for?
Maybe not. Anything was possible these days. Maybe some of these were people she’d met online and didn’t know other than through the Internet, or boho types who didn’t stay any one place long enough to keep a steady phone number, or god only knows what else. But another possibility came to mind, too. Maybe some of them were people she dealt with exclusively through e-mail because she wanted to keep her identity secret—or because they did. Maybe, in other words, some of them were her clients. And if so, I had to figure the ones that had warranted an entry in her address book would be the regulars.
I looked at the calendar entries. My handwriting was a scrawl—I’d been writing rapidly, not carefully. But the information was there: APPT—CA...APPT—RL... APPT—JS. I looked under ‘A’ in the address book, and there was one e-mail-only entry: Adams, Charles. Under ‘L’: Lee, Robert. Under ‘S,’ god help me, it suddenly shone out like a beacon: Smith, James. Sure, there were people named “James Smith” in the world—lots of them, and that’s why this entry hadn’t caught my eye when I’d copied it down in the first place. But sometimes a cigar is more than a cigar, and sometimes a James Smith is a john.
I circled the three entries, hunted through the calendar for more. There was one: APPT—BV, which corresponded to a Vincent, Brian, though he broke the pattern by having a phone number as well as an e-mail address. Which may have meant that our boy Brian was careless, or cocky, or that he was single and blackmail-proof and didn’t give a damn who knew he bought himself a handjob every Thursday night at eight. Or, of course, it might mean that he was the wrong “BV.” I circled him. I could call him, e-mail the other three, see if I could get one or more of them to talk to me.
It was tricky—one of them could easily be the man I was looking for. I’d have to think about the right approach. But at least these were leads I could follow up on, loose threads I could start pulling. They were something.
And if these leads didn’t pan out, well, there was Spellbound on 51st Street to look into, not to mention people here at Columbia who might know something; hell, maybe even people from her time at Hunter, or back in Philadelphia. If I was going to do this right, there was no telling how far back I’d have to go.
It was a little overwhelming. I felt the weight of all the things I might have to do pressing on me like a physical burden. If I hadn’t been so tired, so drained, I don’t think it would have affected me like this; but I was and it did. I took a few deep breaths, tried to organize my thoughts. First things first. Julie. My fingers were working again, and I used them to dial Kurland’s cell phone number.
This time there were no street noises in the background when he picked up, just the sound of a distant P.A. system making an announcement I couldn’t understand. “Hello? Kurland? It’s John. You there?”
After a moment, he said, “Oh, I’m here.”
“Is everything okay? Did anything happen last night?”
Kurland didn’t answer.
“Did anyone show up at the hospital, Kurland? Did anyone try to get into Julie’s room?”
“Tell me something, John. Who, exactly, were you thinking might have shown up?”
It was a good question. Someone had sicced Ramos on Julie, but if you believed Ardo, it hadn’t been him. I gave the only answer I could. “I don’t know,” I said.
“Now that’s just not true, John. You do know, and Julie knows, and now I know—but only because she told me.” In the background I heard a loud mechanical beeping, then some footsteps and the beeping stopped. “When were you going to tell me, John?”
“Kurland, listen to me. I know what Julie told you, because she told me the same thing. But she’s wrong. Ardo’s not the one who came after her, not this time.”
“And what makes you say that?”
“Because I saw him,” I said. “Last night. I talked to him. He told me.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
“Kurland, please,” I said, “just tell me, did anyone show up at the hospital?”
The answer came reluctantly: “No.”
“Have they released Julie yet?”
“Tomorrow,” he said. “The doctors want to keep her one more day.”
“Okay,” I said. “She’s probably safer there than at home.”
“No probably about it,” he said. “She’s definitely safer here.” The ‘here’ took a moment to sink in. Then I realized what the background noises were.
“You’re still at the hospital?”
“That’s right.”
“I appreciate it, Kurland, but I can’t ask you to—”
“Yeah, well. You don’t have to,” he said. “She did.”
“She did,” I said.
“I’ve got to go,” he said. “She’s waking up.” And the call was disconnected.
I put the phone down. I pictured Julie waking up this morning to find Kurland Wessels at the foot of the bed. Her first reaction must have been plain terror, not knowing who had sent him. And when he’d said that I’d sent him, would she have believed it? Well, apparently she had. Apparently he’d won her over, and apparently vice versa. I remembered Stu Kennedy’s comment about steak to a Doberman. Well, a Doberman can attack you or it can protect you; and if there was anyone who needed a Doberman on her side right now, it was Julie.
“John?”
I looked up. Lane was at his office door. He was looking at me with concern.
“Are you okay? Is that blood on your shirt?”
“No,” I said. “It’s—it’s—” I realized I was stammering. “It’s nothing. I’m fine, Lane. Really. I’m okay.”
He didn’t look like he believed me. Which was to his credit. I wouldn’t have believed me either. But he took me at my word, which was more than I would have done.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been in,” I said.
“That’s okay, John,” he said. “I understand. This has got to be very hard for you.”
I nodded. Let him think it was all a matter of mourning. He wasn’t entirely wrong.
I asked him, “Do we need anything for tonight? Wine or...?”
“Actually, yes,” he said, in an apologetic tone. “We could use a little food, something for people to drink. I figured maybe we could put up some photos. Are you sure you’re up to it, though? I can ask...”
But there wasn’t anyone else he could ask. It was my job, and I’d neglected it enough over the past two days. I flexed my fingers. My hands felt human again, or nearly so. I was tired as hell and worn down and on edge, and I wasn’t sure I had enough energy to get out of the chair; but what I said to Lane was, “I’ll do it.” It felt like doing penance, like something I owed Dorrie.