I had to believe that one among the million was a blonde woman who could give me some answers I needed.
I’d never seen her. I had no description of her. I didn’t know if she was alive or dead, where she had come from, or what her name might be.
I was out early. A brief call to police headquarters got me names of a few of Ichiro’s friends. From these I learned the identity of other people he’d known. I talked to thirty or forty people that day. Among them were blonde women, but not the right one. Not a blonde who’d been careful never to be seen openly with Ichiro.
He’d had a few friends in Sarasota, the ritzy coastal playground a few miles south of Tampa.
I’d try Sarasota tomorrow.
I drove the rented car to my apartment building and parked on the street. The agency hires its cars on an annual rate from a nationwide auto-rental firm. That way we have a new car every year, no worries with gas, oil, tires, upkeep. What with taxes and the simplicity of the setup, we come out all right, with no additional details to clutter our operations.
It was late afternoon, the sun a fiery red ball poised for its plunge into the Gulf.
A gang of kids chattering in Spanish came racing down the sidewalk. They were ragged, unkempt, as brown as seasoned walnut, and as healthy as stringy mongrel pups that have had to learn a little savagery.
I lumbered up to the apartment, started cold water in the tub, and opened a pint can of beer.
I sat at the kitchenette table with the beer for a few moments to let some of the hard, steady pumping go out of my feet. I looked from the window at the dirty rooftops jammed together. On south, away from the jamming and ugliness, lay Sarasota.
Nick’s last chance?
It could well be.
If I found her there, I knew what I would say. I wouldn’t take long in saying it. She’d better not take long in giving some straight answers, if she valued her health.
And then suddenly the doubt became overpowering, building itself into a certainty that she wouldn’t be found in Sarasota. There was no reason for her to be. Ichiro had few friends there. Those had formerly resided in Tampa. He had gone to Sarasota very infrequently and his stays had never been long. His interests and just about every hour of his life had been centered in Tampa. The chance that he had met the blonde in Sarasota was too slim to build hope on.
Where then?
In Tampa, his center post.
How? Not at a party. I’d have got some kind of hint of that from someone among thirty or forty people interviewed. Not at a night spot; they hadn’t been seen together in night spots.
Without breaking my chain of thought, I wandered to the bathroom and turned off the cold tap.
There was a click in my mental gears, and I was shaken because I’d overlooked the obvious. The odds were not a million to one. They were a million to two.
There had to be a second person. The person who had introduced Ichiro and the blonde, who’d brought them together. Unless you wanted to believe that Ichiro and the woman had met entirely by accident, introducing themselves, forming a friendship, with no one else present.
Think about the second person for a moment. Man or woman? No way of knowing yet. Friend of Ichiro’s? Unlikely, unless they were all good liars.
If not a friend, what would motivate the second person to introduce the blonde to Ichiro?
And what would springboard Ichiro? He was a sensualist, seeker after pleasure, partaker of the erotic, searcher for thrills.
I wheeled into the bedroom. There was a black notebook in the drawer of the telephone table. I thumbed it open, flipped a page, found a name and phone number.
Sweat gathered in a heavy drop on the end of my nose. I brushed it off, picked up the phone, and dialed. It rang about six times. I’d about decided she was out when Tillie Rollo answered. She had a pleasant, smooth voice softened with culture.
“Ed Rivers, Tillie.”
“How are you?”
“Busy.”
“Yes, I noticed your name in the newspapers.”
“Any of the other names mean anything to you?”
“Do you have a particular name in mind?” she asked.
“Ichiro Yamashita.”
There was a pause. “Perhaps,” she said.
“Fine. I’ve got a question—”
“My hairdresser is here, Ed. I’m very busy. Why don’t you drop out a little later and we’ll have a glass of sherry.”
“What time?”
“In an hour or so.”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
I dunked my bulk, put on some fresh clothes, went to the corner restaurant and ate some chicken and yellow rice.
Then I picked up the rented heap and drove out to see Tillie.
She lived in a good section of town in a very comfortable home made of adobe bricks and rustic siding. The lawn and shrubbery had been meticulously tended. A foreign-built sport car stood in the driveway near the carport.
There was no red light over Tillie’s front door.
The chimes sounded softly, and she opened the door immediately. She was a very good-looking young woman. She wore her copper-red hair in an upsweep. Her eyes were green and cool, her complexion like ivory-colored satin. Her dress was a quiet blue in excellent taste.
“You’re very prompt,” she said, as she stepped aside for me to enter.
The interior of the house was airy and cool, furnished simply and comfortably. There was nothing crude or blatant about Tillie. The only tool of her trade on the premises was the pastel-blue telephone in a small alcove off the living room. No girl ever came here — she was required to keep her own apartment or cottage, buy her own clothes — and govern her life by instructions given over the pale-blue telephone. If she failed in any of these requirements, she found life exceptionally difficult for her in Tampa.
“Have you had dinner, Ed?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Would you care for a drink?”
“No, thanks.”
Tillie crossed the room and sat in a tapestry-covered wing chair. She sat midway in the seat, her back very straight, her knees neatly together, her hands folded in her lap. She looked like a member of the Junior League on her best behavior.
“Shall we quit sparring around, Ed?”
“Let’s.”
“You know about the girl Ichiro Yamashita saw the day of his death, of course.”
“That’s why I called,” I said.
“Yes, I’m not exactly stupid, Ed. You’re wrong, however. The girl had nothing to do with what happened on Caloosa Point. The affair has been cleared up to the satisfaction of the police. The guilty man is in jail.”
I’d taken the chair she’d indicated. Now I leaned forward slightly. “Tillie, in the dictates of your own code, you’ve always walked carefully, never indulging in double-dealing.”
“My honesty and fairness have never been questioned. I don’t feel I’ve done anything wrong. I deal in a commodity. I find there are growing numbers of sellers and buyers, a factor over which I have no control. The market is active, but I didn’t create it. I’m not responsible for the tenor of the times, Ed.”
Looking at the calm, poised beauty of Tillie Rollo, I shuddered inside. I hoped it didn’t show.
“What is it you’re driving at, Ed?”
“I want a favor.”
“Why should I do you a favor?”
“Because I’m going to do you one,” I said. “The police are not completely satisfied. Steve Ivey still has one man assigned to the case.”
The emerald of her eyes darkened. “It hasn’t been in the papers.”